' '89' He grinned. 'Summer of love. These guys had been kicking the shit out of each other for Christ knows how long, then suddenly they're blowing kisses and dancing together in the nightclubs and we're wondering what the fuck's going on.'
'What was going on?'
'Ecstasy. They were bringing it in by the truckload, scoring from the rival firms in London. Some of the raves they organised that summer were awesome. Thousands of kids, out of their skulls. Law and order-wise, we never had a prayer. Made you proud, though, just being there. The girl he married was right. Blokes like Bazza, completely fucking reckless, really put the city on the map.'
'Nice.'
'Yeah. Didn't last, though. They took to cocaine after that and it all got ugly again.'
'He stuck to cocaine? No smack?'
'Cocaine and rave drugs, plus amphetamine if you fancied it. Bazza had the odd dabble with heroin but much less than we thought at the time.
Wrong image. Smack's for losers.'
Suttle was still watching the mirror. He touched Winter lightly on the arm.
'Tall bloke? Skinny?'
Winter glanced over his shoulder, then nodded.
'Let him get to the front door,' he murmured, 'then we'll say hello.'
But Pullen didn't go to the front door. Instead, he walked straight past the car and began to climb the first flight of steps on the fire escape. Winter watched him for a moment or two, wondering about the limp, then got out of the car. By the time Pullen realised he was being followed, he was nearly at the top.
'Dave. Long time.' Winter was out of breath. 'This is DC Suttle.
We'd appreciate a word.'
'Sure. Why not?' Pullen tried to head down again. Winter blocked his way.
'Upstairs,' he said. 'In your place.'
'Why not here? Or down there?'
'Because I'd prefer a bit of privacy. And because I'm bloody knackered.'
Pullen looked suddenly haunted. He had a narrow, bony face, thinning hair that badly needed a trim, yellowing teeth. His sunken eyes were bloodshot and when he made a big show of checking his watch he had trouble keeping his hand steady. If this guy was an advert for the drugs biz, thought Suttle, then there must be better ways of earning a living. Give him a year or two, and a can of Special Brew, and he'd be just another item of street furniture.
'Well, old son…?' Winter was still playing the jovial cop.
'No way.' Pullen shook his head. 'You ain't got the right.'
'No? You'd prefer I popped round the corner for a warrant? Left Jimmy here to keep an eye on you?'
'You can't do that.'
'Try me.'
'What do you want to know?'
'I want to know about Trudy Gallagher. And about what happened last night. Dave, you know the score. Easiest says we get it over with.'
He nodded up towards Pullen's peeling front door. 'Half an hour max and we're gone.'
Pullen was doing his best to figure something out. A late night and untold helpings of unlawful substances clearly didn't help. At length, another shake of the head. Winter reached forward, brushing the dandruff off the shoulders of his jacket. Humiliation always talked louder than threats.
'Nice leather, Dave.' He nodded towards the door again. 'After you?'
The flat was three rooms with a tiny kitchen jigsawed into the back of the lounge. Potentially, the place had a lot of potential south-facing, a hint of a view but Dave Pullen clearly preferred living in the dark.
Winter wanted to pull the curtains back and throw open the windows. He wanted to invest a bob or two in a nice air freshener and a bunch of flowers. Instead, he sank into the only armchair, wondering how many roll-ups it took to recreate the authentic stink of prison life. Maybe this flat was an exercise in nostalgia. Maybe Pullen couldn't survive without the memory of B Wing.
'So where is she? That nice Trudy?'
'Ain't got a clue.'
'You're lying, Dave. She was in that doss house of yours, well fucking kippered. You'd have known about that. They'd have told you.'
'Who says?'
'Me. These Scouse kids are in the wind-up business. They send little messages. That's what she was, Dave: a message.'
Avoiding Winter's gaze, Pullen limped across to the kitchen and opened a drawer. Two fat tablets needed half a glass of water from the tap.
'Headache?'
'Migraine.'
'Same thing.' Winter paused while Pullen swallowed the tablets. 'So tell me about the Scousers. They weren't gentle, you know. Or has she told you that already?'
Pullen didn't answer. Suttle was over in the shadows, inspecting a headline Sellotaped to the wall. The back page had been ripped from The News, the city's daily paper.
'Super Blues?' Suttle queried.
Pullen turned on him, a spectral presence in the gloom.
'You got a problem with that?'
'Yeah.'
'Like what?'
'Like Pompey are shit. Half the fucking team are on a bus pass.'
Watching from the armchair, Winter started to laugh. He loved this boy, loved him. There was a kind of madness in so much of what he did.
Like Winter himself, he pushed and pushed until something snapped.
'Shit?' Pullen was outraged. 'Top of the Nationwide? Top all fucking season? How does that work, then?'
'You'll find out, mate. If you ever get to the Premiership.'
'So what are you, then?'
'Saints.'
'Scummer?' Pullen started to laugh. 'Well, fuck me. No wonder you end up in the Filth.'
Winter struggled to his feet. There was a pile of twenty-four-can slabs of Stella wedged against the open door, doubtless trophies from a Cherbourg booze run. Stepping carefully round the tinnies, he disappeared for a moment or two. Seconds later, he was back with something black and boxy in his hand. When he switched on the overhead light, Suttle recognised it as a car radio.
'State of the art, Dave.' Winter examined the back. 'And security marked.'
'It's legit.'
'I'm sure it is. What about the rest?' Winter caught Suttle's eye and nodded towards the door. 'Only we've been having this problem with vehicle breaks. Figures have gone through the roof. You wouldn't believe the grief it's giving our Performance Manager.'
Suttle was back with a cardboard box. After the first five car radios, he gave up counting.
'Worth a bit, eh Dave?' It was Winter again. 'No wonder you never invited us in.'
'She hasn't been here.'
'I don't believe you.'
'It's true. Not since a couple of days back.'
'Then where is she?'
'Fuck knows.'
'You've got a mobile number?'
'She never answers.'
'You had a row or something? Bit of a tiff?'
