Cut to Black

Chapter twelve

THURSDAY 20 MARCH 2003, 17.30

The last place DC Jimmy Suttle would have chosen for a discreet meet was the top floor of the Southsea branch of Debenhams. The Debs cafeteria was for bored housewives with oodles of kids or OAPs in search of a cheap snack. What on earth was a vision like Trudy Gallagher doing in a place like this?

"It's Blue Cross Day. They're giving stuff away. What makes you so choosy? Are you rich, or something? Look…" She reached down for her bag and produced a collection of boxed underwear. Two pairs of black lace knickers. A scarlet bikini for the summer. Three silk thongs in case she ever met the man of her dreams. "Under forty quid the lot. Happy now?"

"Very." Suttle was thinking of the body they'd found in the upstairs room at Bystock Road. Black lace would be perfect. "What about blokes' stuff?"

"Take your choice. 501s. Maine. Adidas. Stuff they rip you off on any other place."

"You think I should take a stroll, then? While you finish that lot?"

He nodded at her bowl: three scoops of ice cream with a dressing of maple syrup.

"No." She shook her head. "Stay here."

She ducked her head to hide her smile and loaded her spoon with melting ice cream. She'd phoned Suttle on the mobile number he'd given her at Gunwharf, the first time they'd met. She wanted to talk to him about something but it had to be private, one on one. If he turned up with that tosser Paul Winter, there was no way they'd even start a conversation.

Suttle, amused by her dismissal of Winter, had invented a pressing appointment at his dentist and left Winter pursuing house-to-house inquiries in Portsea. He'd heard him on the phone to the Crime Squad DS, telling him there was no way anyone with half a brain in Portsea would ever testify against one of Bazza's lieutenants, but it seemed that DI Lamb was under the cosh for a result and was insisting on giving the house-to-house a punt. Winter, he knew, hadn't been fooled by his line about the dentist but was evidently happy to cut his young oppo a little slack. "Whoever she is," he'd grunted, 'give her one from me."

Trudy had abandoned the ice cream. The smoking tables were on the other side of the cafeteria, beside the loo. Suttle pulled out a chair for Trudy, catching a swirl of perfume as she sat down. His last girlfriend had also been mad about Ralph Lauren, though a 36 atomiser for Christmas had done nothing to rescue the relationship.

"Where did you learn stuff like that?" Trudy shook out two Marlboro Lites and laid one beside his half-drained glass of 7 UP.

"Stuff like what?"

"Manners."

"Comes naturally. I was born polite."

"Naturally bollocks. How come you're in a job like this, nice bloke like you?"

"The money's good. Plus you get to meet interesting people."

"Like who?"

"Like you, for starters."

"I didn't come here to be chatted up."

"Yes you did. Light?" He cupped a match in his hand, keeping it close, and felt the soft brush of her hair as she leant forward over the table. Moments later, behind a cloud of blue smoke, she started to laugh.

"You know something? You're really nice. I mean it. Most blokes in this city haven't got a clue. They treat you like you're something out of a zoo. Give your cage a rattle. Give you a poke to see if you're still breathing. Bet you're really gentle, aren't you?"

"Yeah." Suttle nodded. "I am."

"I like that in a man, I really do. Not enough of it around."

"What?"

"Gentle." She paused while a middle-aged woman in an ankle-length coat swept past en route to the loo.

Suttle caught a gust of air freshener as she pushed at the door, then Trudy was beckoning him closer.

"It's about Dave Pullen," she muttered. "I've done something really daft and I'm scared shitless about what's going to happen. There are ten million people I could talk to about it but they're all pretty fucking clueless."

"So why me?"

"I just told you. You're nice. Plus you've probably got a brain."

"I'm also a cop."

"Yeah, but that's not your fault."

"Thanks."

"I'm serious. If I wanted a cop I could talk to Uncle Paul. I know he's a twat sometimes but he knows what he's about when it comes to doing the business."

"Who says?"

"My mum. And she should know."

Suttle nodded. There were snares here, he knew it, traps of his own baiting. Just looking at this girl, he sensed she was genuine. Not only did she fancy him but she wanted his advice. Was that asking too much? He thought not.

"Tell me about Dave Pullen," he said quietly. "Pretend I don't know."

"Know what?"

"That he was the guy who hurt you the other night."

"How the fuck did you know that?"

"I listened when we were down at Gunwharf. And I watched you."

"Listened? Well, there's a first. Not too many girls get listened to in this town." She frowned at him. "What made you think it was them Scouse kids, then?"

"Guesswork. You sort out what you know, find a pattern, then try and make everything else fit. Sometimes it works." He shrugged.

"Sometimes it doesn't."

"Too right. The Scouse kids were OK."

"Wrong, my love. The Scouse kids are shit."

"So what does that make Dave Pullen?"

"He's shit as well. And ugly with it. So what does that make you?"

"You want the truth? It makes me a pathetic little slapper who's completely fucking lost it. You know what I've done about Dave? You really want to find out just how fucking stupid I am?"

"Tell me."

"There's a guy called Bazza Mackenzie." She paused. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"OK. So Bazza and my mum go back years. He's been screwing her since I can remember. He's like family, looked after me and my mum really well. Lately they've been having a bit of a problem but that doesn't make any difference to me. If I need someone to talk to, really talk to, then I know he'll always be there for me."

"So you told him about Dave?"

"I did, yeah."

"And you're worried what'll happen next?"

"I know what'll happen next. Bazza will kill him. And that's if he's lucky."

"Does that bother you?"

"Of course it does. Dave's got his bad side, just like all of us. If I never see him again there won't be a happier girl in the world, but you can't be with a bloke for a couple of months and not feel something for him. He's a dickhead. He can be really horrible sometimes. But I shouldn't have gone shouting my mouth off the way I did. Because it's going to be my fault, isn't it? When Bazza breaks his legs?"

The loo door opened. Another blast of air freshener. Suttle waited until the woman had gone, then leant forward across the table.

"One thing I don't understand."

"What's that?"

"Why Dave Pullen in the first place?"

Trudy gave the question some thought. Then she glanced at her watch and crushed the remains of her cigarette in the ashtray.

"Do you really live in Petersfield?"

"Near there, yes."

"Own place?"

"Rented cottage. Shared with another guy."

"Cool." She reached down for her bag. "I know some great pubs out that way."

By the time Eadie Sykes got to Guildhall Square, the demo had already begun. She was no judge of crowds but the briefest headcount in the area closest to the Guildhall steps suggested a grand total of maybe a thousand. From his perch halfway up the steps, a thin, intense-looking man in jeans and T-shirt was using a portable megaphone to offer his thoughts on stopping the war. He himself, it seemed, had volunteered to go to Baghdad as a human shield, prepared to hazard his own flesh and blood against the fury of the fascist warlords. Reference to Bush's billion-dollar killing machine sparked yells of approval from the small army of school kids at the front of the crowd, and the human shield volunteer drew a wider round of applause as he ended his speech with a call for solidarity.

Eadie watched as the megaphone passed to a huge, bear-like man with a full beard. He beamed down at the mass of protestors, battling with the rising swell of chants, trying to impose some kind of order on the chaos below. The demo was to form up behind the wall of placards. The route would take them past the railway station and through the Commercial Road shopping precinct. With luck, he said, they'd stop the rush-hour traffic at the other end. The plan was to rally at the gates of HMS Excellent on Whale Island, but with so many police around there were no guarantees they'd make it that far.

Eadie knew what he meant. She'd been in touch with the demo organisers earlier, a mobile number handed out by the Stop The War Coalition, and her offer to tape the proceedings had been snapped up.

There were plans to pool video footage from all over the country, to edit maybe a half-hour documentary interweaving the people's protest with news footage from the opening hours of the war itself. That way, the voice at the other end had explained, there might be a chance of shaming the government into pulling back from this madness. Even now, he had said, with British troops pouring into Iraq, there had to be someone left in government with just a shred of conscience.

Eadie herself rather doubted it. For whatever reason, it had become clear that this was Tony Blair's war, the consequence of a deal struck months ago with the neo-cons in Washington. Quite why a centre-left Prime Minister should ally himself with a bunch of ultra-rich fascists was beyond her, but it was already clear that the forces of law and order were preparing themselves for a spot of serious containment. The man with the loudspeaker was right. The milling crowd of demonstrators was already boxed in by a line of yellow-clad policemen and there were rumours of dozens of police vans lying in wait outside the square.

Eadie raised the little Sony and began to hunt for images. A wide shot from the top of the Guildhall steps established the scale of the demo.

A brief interview with the man nursing the loudspeaker provoked an eloquent if despairing tirade against New Labour's latest sell-out.

Then, down amongst the crowd itself, she concentrated on the shots she knew would make an impact: a child in a Capitalism Sucks T-shirt, two gays with a placard reading Screw Boy George, a pensioner in a wheelchair trying to coax some sense from his hearing aid.

Surfing these faces, storing them away on tape, gave her an almost physical buzz, a sense of kinship at once intimate and detached. Using her skills this way, she told herself, was as practical a contribution as she could ever hope to make. The next hour or so, as events developed, might yield pictures that would make a real difference. It was, in a way, a grander, more public version of what she was trying to achieve with the drugs project. Attitudes had to be changed. People deserved the truth. It was time for the nation to wake up.

Working her way towards the front of the demo, she felt the column of protesters begin to shuffle forward. At the exit from the square, she ducked out of the crowd and stationed herself beside one of the council buildings, letting the river of faces flow through her viewfinder.

Then, spotting a gap, she rejoined the march, picking up the chant,

"Hell no, we won't go! We won't fight for Texaco!" looking for cutaways that would put the event in its proper context. The police were everywhere. She filmed them in twos, threes, arms crossed, watchful, waiting, tiny earpieces feeding them the bigger picture.

Then, quite suddenly, came something new on the tiny fold-out screen. A police cameraman. Taping her.

Nick Hayder's bed was curtained off when Faraday finally made it to Critical Care. He'd driven to the hospital after a detour to take J-J home. The ride to the Bargemaster's House had been tense. J-J was white-faced, utterly beyond reach, and by the time he dropped the boy off Faraday had the feeling that he, rather than his son, was somehow the accused. Trying to break the ice, he asked J-J what he'd really meant to do with the petrol, and the matter-of-factness of his reply had chilled him to the bone.

"I was going to burn their house down," he signed. "The guys with the drugs."

Had he been joking? Was this simply a gesture, a piece of wishful thinking in the face of events which had clearly overwhelmed him? Or was there something more profound brewing inside his deaf son, a violence that he'd never detected before? In truth, Faraday hadn't got a clue. All he knew for sure was that these same events, plus everything else, were beginning to swamp his own little boat.

The manager in charge of the Critical Care unit told him that Mr.

Hayder had been stabilised. Fully conscious, he was now breathing for himself and there were no indications of post-ventilator chest infection. It would be a while before he began to recover any kind of reliable memory of recent events, and there was a chance that Tuesday night had gone forever, but thankfully there was no sign of lasting neurological damage.

When Faraday enquired about the pelvic injury, the prognosis was less cheerful. Within a day or so, Nick would be transferred to an orthopaedic ward. An external metal frame would be surgically attached to stabilise the wreckage of his pelvis, and the bones would take at least three months to knit. The process, she said, was extremely painful, and it would be a while before Mr. Hayder was on his feet again.

With the care team still busy around Nick's bed, Faraday wandered down the corridor. A windowless, rather depressing room at the end had been specially set aside for relatives, and he slipped inside. Chairs faced each other across a low table. The table was littered with empty plastic cups, and there was a nest of panda bears heaped in a far corner. Faraday studied the bears for a moment or two, his mind quite blank, then turned his attention to one of the Edward Hopper prints on the wall.

"Joe?"

A slim, blonde woman was standing at the open door. It was Maggie, Nick Hayder's partner.

Faraday stepped across and gave her a hug. The last time he'd seen her was at least a month back, and even then the strain of the relationship had been beginning to show. There were worse things in life than getting involved with a serving DI, he thought. But not many.

"How is he?"

"Pretty well, considering. I've been amazed."

"All that running."

"You're right. That what the doctors say."

He gazed at her a moment. She had a round, dimpled face, a lightly freckled complexion, and eyes the colour of cornflowers. He'd once seen her at aCID midsummer ball just weeks after she'd first met Nick, and she'd turned every head in the room.

She mumbled something about a heavy day at school and sank into one of the chairs. Faraday offered to fetch her a coffee from the machine outside but she shook her head.

"You think he's up to reading?" Faraday nodded at the Tesco bag she'd left beside the chair. Amongst the grapes and a bunch of bananas, was a Scott Turow thriller.

"He says he is, but you know Nick. He'd tell me anything if he thought it would make me happy." She was gazing up at Faraday and something in her face told him she wanted to talk. He closed the door and sat down beside her.

"So how's it been?"

"You want the truth? It's been a bit of a relief. That sounds terrible, doesn't it, but at least I know where he is."

"Meaning you didn't before?"

"Oh no." She shook her head. "I always knew where to find him, that dreadful place he had, and most nights when he had any time he'd come round anyway, but that wasn't the point. He just wasn't there. He just wasn't the bloke I thought I knew. Something had gone, Joe. It was like meeting a stranger. Even Euan noticed."

Euan was Maggie's boy, a studious, bespectacled fourteen-year-old whose flirtation with soft drugs had helped drive a wedge between Nick and his mum.

"How is he?"

"Glad to get his house back. Nick couldn't cope with him." She offered Faraday a weary smile. "As you probably know."

"It must be tough."

"It was."

"But for Nick, too."

"Yeah?"

The question hung in the air between them. For the first time, Faraday realised she was no longer wearing the ring Nick had bought her, a big opal mounted on a simple silver band they'd found in a back street jeweller's on Corfu.

Faraday got to his feet and began to clear up the mess on the table. He wanted to enter a plea in Nick's defence, tell her just a little about the kind of pressures the job had brought to bear, somehow convince her that there were reasons for the gap that had opened between them, but another glance at her face told him there'd be no point. In a sense, Maggie was right. If you were after a decent relationship then you'd be better off finding someone who'd know where to draw the line when it came to monsters like Tumbril. She wanted someone warm and funny in her life, the old Nick she'd met on a blind date, not the haunted ten-miler who ended every impossible day by chasing his own demons.

The door opened. It was the unit manager Faraday had met earlier. The doctors had finished with Mr. Hayder and they were welcome to come down to the ward.

Faraday looked at Maggie. She shook her head.

"You go, Joe. I'm sure he's seen enough of me."

Hayder spotted Faraday the moment he appeared at the end of the ward.

Lacerations down his cheek and jaw had scabbed, giving his smile an awkward, lopsided look. He lifted an arm in salute and tried to struggle upright in bed. Faraday eased him back onto the pillow, then took the proffered hand and gave it a squeeze. For a long moment, Hayder wouldn't let go.

"Geoff Willard, isn't it?" He was frowning in concentration. "How's life at the top?"

For a moment, Faraday thought the worst. Then he realised Hayder was spoofing.

"Very funny," he said. "How are you?"

"How am I?" Hayder gestured vaguely at the cardiac monitors attached to his chest and the loops of plastic tubing dripping fluids into both arms. Damage to his jaw had slowed his speech to a mumble but he was still game for a conversation. "I'm trussed up like a bloody turkey."

He paused for breath. "Apart from that, I've never been better.

You?"

Faraday was grinning. It said a great deal about a copper's day, he thought, when only a visit to Critical Care could put a smile on your face.

"I'm fine," he said. "Maggie's outside."

"Ask her in. Make it a party."

"She's being discreet. Thinks we need time alone. She's brought you some grapes, too, which makes me a bit of a sad bugger."

"No flowers?"

"Afraid not."

"Thank Christ for that. When I first came round, I thought I'd had it.

This place looks like a funeral parlour, all those bouquets."

The thought provoked a wince. Laughing evidently hurt. Faraday took his hand again.

"You look better than I expected," he said.

"Bollocks, Joe. I look shit."

"Do you feel shit? Seriously?"

"Seriously…?" His face screwed up again, another spasm of pain.

Nick Hayder had never carried an ounce of spare flesh but now he looked thinner than ever. At length, he managed to catch his breath. "You know what I do to pass the time in this place?"

"Tell me."

"I go for runs in my head. They all think I'm having a little doze.

This morning I did a six-miler, out to the Hayling ferry."

Faraday gave his hand another squeeze. He could feel the bones between his fingers.

"Willard sends his best. He wanted to be here but something came up."

He paused. "Does Tumbril mean anything to you?"

"Tumbril}'

"Yes."

"How the fuck…?"

Hayder was staring at him, appalled. For a moment Faraday thought it was another wind-up, then realised that the reaction was genuine.

Whatever else had happened to his brain, he was still as paranoid as ever.

"I've taken Tumbril over," Faraday said quietly. "Thought you might like to know."

"Really? No kidding?"

"Really. As of yesterday morning."

"Poor you." He closed his eyes and winced again. "It's a bastard."

Faraday waited for the pain to pass. A nurse was eyeing Hayder from the other side of the ward. At length Hayder signalled Faraday to carry on.

"No way." Faraday shook his head. "You need rest, mate. Not all this nonsense."

"Tell me." He meant it.

Faraday hesitated, then shrugged.

"OK." He said, "I've got a desk on Whale Island and half a million documents to read by the weekend. Listen to Willard and you'd think it's a breeze."

"Willard's an ally, big time." The mumble had sunk to a whisper. "He's protection. Without him, you're fucked."

Faraday nodded, wondering quite how far to take this conversation.

Hayder was struggling again. At last, he settled down.

"You know what the real problem's been?" His voice seemed suddenly stronger. "Other people."

"In the job, you mean?"

"Yeah. Compared to our lot, Mackenzie's a doddle. Criminals I can cope with. Coppers I can't."

"Bent coppers?"

"Coppers with gripes. Coppers not getting enough at home. Coppers who think they should be running the bloody force. Something like Tumbril gives them the chance to have a grizzle." He nodded. "Big time."

"So how come I never knew about it?"

"Because you were too busy doing a proper job." He squeezed his eyes shut a moment. "Pass me that drinks thing?"

There was a plastic cup with a straw on the bedside cabinet. Faraday held it while Hayder took a sip. Then his head was back on the pillow again, a thin film of sweat across his forehead.

"TCU are really pissed off." Come what may, Hayder was going to complete this conversation. "They think we've stolen their baby, and you know what? They're fucking right."

"TCU? You mean Harry Wayte's lot?"

"Yeah."

"You want to give me names?"

"I haven't got names. It's a team thing. They're good blokes really but they hate competition."

"And you think that's — ' Faraday hunted for the word 'unhelpful?"

"I think it's a pain in the arse." He paused for breath, turning his head on the pillow. "You see that pretty one over there?" His eyes led Faraday to the nurse he'd noticed earlier. She was closer now, dispensing tablets from the nearby drugs trolley. "She's the one who normally sorts me out. Her name's Julie. She can't wait to put me in bloody nappies. Eh, Jules?"

Faraday watched the nurse return his smile. Already, he was aware that he'd pushed Nick Hayder way too far. Another ten minutes of Tumbril, and he'd be back on the critical list.

"Listen, Nick." He bent down towards the pillow. "Just one more thing."

"Go on."

"What happened to put you in here?"

Hayder gazed up at him.

"Haven't a clue, mate," he whispered at last.

"You can't remember anything? No incident? No details? No recall at all?"

"Nothing." A tiny, painful shake of the head. "I thought you might know."

Suttle took Trudy Gallagher to a pub in Buriton, a picturesque commuter village tucked beneath the northern folds of the South Downs. Thursday night in early spring, the pub was nearly empty. Suttle and Trudy settled themselves in a corner next to the blazing log fire. A couple of pints and four Bacardi Breezers developed into a meal, and Trudy insisted on buying a bottle of champagne to go with it. By now, to Suttle's delight, she was well pissed.

"We celebrating?" Suttle poured her a second glass. "Or what?"

"Yeah." Trudy eyed him over the candle. "Or at least I am."

"Why's that, then?"

"You don't want to know…" She ducked her head and started to giggle.

"Try me."

"No way. You'll think I'm completely dumb. Real wuss. Let's talk about you. Winter said you're married."

"He lies."

"Have been married?"

"No way. Who'd want a wife at my age?"

"What about your mum and dad?"

Suttle blinked. Trudy was drunker than he'd thought.

"What about them?"

"They still married?"

"Yeah. My dad's dotty about her. Always has been. He's like a kid when she's around. Can't keep his hands to himself."

"Must be nice. Having parents like that."

"I never really thought about it." Suttle speared a chip. "You?"

"It's just been me and Mum."

"Always?"

"Since I can remember, yeah."

"What about your dad?"

"I never knew him. Mum's had loads of blokes but no one who'd own up.".

"To what?"

"Me." She pulled a face and reached for her glass. "Here's to us."

The barmaid collected the empty plates and handed Suttle the menu.

Instead of dessert, Trudy settled for a rum and Coke, insisting on another pint for Suttle. Steak and kidney pudding seemed to have soaked up a little of the alcohol, and when Suttle asked about who she was seeing just now she took the question seriously.

"It's been mad." She put her head on one side and began to twist a curl of hair around her finger. "Last year or so, I've been like living with this older guy. His name's Mike. I've known him for years, friend of my mum's. My mum and I have never really, you know, got on, and there came a point where I had to move out, just had to.

Mike knew about all that. He was round our place all the time. Then he just phoned up one day and said come and live with me."

"Just like that?

"Yeah. I didn't know what to say, not at first. He was married once, years ago, but he's been divorced for ages and he's got a really nice place up in Waterlooville Jacuzzi, double garage, big garden, the lot.

So…" She shrugged. "I said yes."

Suttle had heard this story from Winter, not in such detail but enough to suggest that Mike Valentine wasn't just lucky in the motor trade.

"You moved in with him? Like… properly?"

"You mean did I shag him?" She shook her head. "No."

"Did that upset him?"

"Not at all. In fact, the one who was upset was me. After a time I really got to like him. More than that, actually. I fancied the pants off him. He had real style, know what I mean? And he was funny, too.

Not only that but he was really kind. Looked after me. I liked that."

"Did you-' Suttle shrugged 'make any moves?"

"Loads. I was so uncool about it. He could have helped himself any time, night or day. I was the only girl in Waterlooville sunbathing naked in April. Anything. Anything to turn him on."

"But it didn't happen?"

"Not once. Then I decided he was gay because it made me feel better, only that wasn't true either because it turned out he was shagging my mum."

"When did that happen?"

"Fuck knows. I only found out a couple of months ago. I called round home to pick up a CD and they were at it in the bedroom. I couldn't believe it, just couldn't believe it. That's why I went crying my eyes out to Dave Pullen. The older man again, see? Thought he might be able to help, give me advice. Fat fucking chance."

Suttle nodded, remembering Trudy with Winter in the Gumbo Parlour at Gunwharf. No wonder she'd been so lippy about her mother.

"So where are you living now?"

"Back home."

"With your mum} After all that?"

"Yeah."

"How come?"

"Can't say." Her face had suddenly brightened again. "Except that it's fine now."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah." She snapped her fingers. "Just like that. You get yourself in a state, get really worked up, then you realise you'd got it all completely wrong. Me? Total wuss."

The drinks arrived. Trudy diluted the rum with a splash of Coke and held the glass under her nose. Then she looked up.

"You know how people talk about life? How it can be so funny sometimes? Only I'm just learning." She tipped the glass to her lips and took a tiny sip. "Something else, too."

"What's that?"

"You're really, really nice." She paused, then looked at her watch.

"Amount you've drunk, there's no way you're driving me home."

"You want a cab?"

"No." She reached for his hand across the table. "I want you. Where's this place of yours?"

"Across the green. Last cottage on the left."

"And your mate?"

"In London all week. Training course."

"Cool." She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. "Think you can manage to fuck me?"

By eight o'clock, the demo was beginning to break up. The column of protesters had surged through the shopping precinct in Commercial Road, picking up support en route and finally emerging at the roundabout that funnelled rush-hour traffic onto the motorway. Keen to keep the demonstration on the move, the police had stopped three lanes of cars, hurrying the column on towards Whale Island. To the delight of the veterans at the head of the march, the forest of placards had stirred the odd toot of support from waiting drivers, but Eadie — hunting for pictures amongst the blank-faced commuters was only too aware that the bulk of these people simply wanted to get home. Portsmouth, after all, was a naval city martial by instinct and once the fighting had started, a protest like this smacked of treason. Our boys and girls were in harm's way. Now was the time to get behind them.

Whale Island was a mile north, beyond the continental Ferry Port. The protesters swung along, bellowing slogans, punching the air. George Bush was a madman. Blair was a poodle. The Americans had blood on their hands. By now, Eadie knew she'd done the event justice. She had maybe half an hour of recorded material, more if you included the handful of snatched interviews, but the moment the column rounded the final bend before the causeway that fed naval traffic onto Whale Island, her heart leapt. A line of helmeted police blocked the path forward. Behind them, half a dozen waiting Transit vans, mesh over the windows, heavy metal visors to protect the windscreens. Overhead, the steady drone of the police spotter plane, wing dipped, flying a wide circle as the demonstration came to a halt.

Eadie hurried along the flank of the column, incurring the wrath of a uniformed sergeant who warned her to stay in line. At the front, police and protesters eyed each other over ten metres of tyre-blackened asphalt. The man with the beard was locked in negotiation with the senior officer in charge. Eadie did her best to get close enough to pick up the dialogue but another officer waved her away. Behind her, the chanting was beginning to flag. Finally, the man with the beard turned to the press of bodies and switched on the loudspeaker. There were to be a couple of brief speeches. Then, in what he called a display of solidarity for the Iraqi people, they'd return to the Guildhall Square.

There were murmurs from the crowd. One student yelled an obscenity.

Eadie caught a smirk on the face of a watching PC. Elsewhere in the world a situation like this would be seconds away from kicking off.

Instead, as the first of the speeches got under way, Eadie knew it was all over. There'd be more rants against the evils of American imperialism, more calls for Blair's head, but in essence the demonstration this column of good intentions had hit the buffers. The police, in the shape of a couple of hundred men, had flung down the gauntlet, knowing full well that they'd won.

Won? Half an hour later, as the police chivvied the last of the stragglers back towards the city centre, Eadie fumbled for her mobile.

A couple of hundred metres away, she could still see the security barrier and gatehouse that barred the entry to Whale Island and HMS Excellent. Bathed in a pool of orange light, it seemed to symbolise everything that the Brits in their very orderliness refused to confront.

She paused for a moment, ignoring the attentions of a police Alsatian.

When she dialled Faraday's mobile, she got no further than the answering service. When she tried again, knowing he'd check the caller's number, she heard the same recorded voice. Finally, knowing she had to get the last couple of hours off her chest, she sent a text to J-J: Please tell your dad to call me. Luv. E. XXX. She waited a moment, wondering if they were both at home. Then, when nothing happened, she took a final look at the gatehouse. On the evening breeze, very faint, came the sound of laughter.

Paul Winter was half an hour into his DVD of The Dambusters when his mobile began to ring. The lone figure of Barnes Wallis was wandering away over the Reculver mud flats trying to work out why his bomb wouldn't bounce properly. Winter propped the tumbler of Laphroaig on his lap and reached for his mobile.

"Paul Winter."

A voice he didn't immediately recognise asked him what he was doing. It was a light voice, Pompey accent. Winter studied the caller number. No clues there.

"Who is this?"

"Bazza Mackenzie. Just wondered whether you fancied a chat."

"Now?"

"Whenever. Tonight would be good for me. You know Craneswater at all?

Sandown Road. Green floodlights. Number thirteen. Can't miss it."

The line went dead and Winter was left staring at the television.

Barnes Wallis was back at his drawing board, designing a bigger bomb.