Cut to Black

Chapter nineteen

SATURDAY, 22 MARCH 2003, 16.30

Winter was surprised to find Cathy Lamb at her desk on a Saturday. The DI's hideaway lay next door to the bigger squad office, and Winter glimpsed her through the open door as he walked past.

"Paul." She called him back. "What are you doing in?"

Winter tried to fend her off with a grouch about paperwork. Unless he caught up on the backlog he'd be chained to his desk for most of next week. She didn't buy it for a second.

"The day you bin a Saturday for paperwork is the day pigs fly." She snorted. "What's going on?"

Winter, playing willing, took a seat in front of her desk. Cathy Lamb was a sturdy, big-boned woman with a slightly butch attitude to fashion and make-up. Winter had known her for years and had always taken a lively interest in her career. As his skipper on division at Southsea, she'd been tough but shrewd, allowing him the benefit of the doubt as long as the scalps he took outweighed his transgressions. As DI, shackled to a desk, she was less forgiving.

"You know a bloke called Barry?" Winter said lightly. "Rat-faced? Mid thirties? Qualified motor mechanic?"

"Can't say I do. Does he have a surname?"

"Yeah. That's why I asked. I've seen this bloke somewhere before but I can't place him."

"Why the interest?"

"He's working for Mike Valentine."

"The car dealer? Bazza's mate?"

"Yeah. Except that Valentine's selling up, getting out."

"Who said?"

"Me. I was up there this morning."

"Why?"

Winter had seen this question coming since he launched the conversation.

"Why is he getting out?" he queried. "Or why was I up there?"

"The latter."

"I need a car, Cath, something half decent. The Subaru's been great but you know how it is…" He made a gesture of resignation.

"Nothing lasts forever."

"But why Valentine?"

"Because he's cheap. In fact he's giving the bloody things away. Fire sale."

"But no fire."

"Exactly."

He held Cathy's gaze. He knew she didn't believe the story about the car for a moment but there was something else going on in there.

"There's street talk about a big cocaine shipment," she said at last.

"Have you picked that up at all?"

"No." Winter's interest began to quicken. "How big?"

"Couple of kilos, minimum."

Winter was impressed. Two kilos of cocaine, cut and bagged, could net you 120,000.

"When was this?"

"No one knows, not for sure."

"But recently?"

"This week."

"And we don't know whose name's on the label?" "No… but it has to be something to do with Mackenzie. Not hands-on, of course, but I bet he's staking it, that kind of weight." She leaned forward. "If you were overrun with Scousers and Jamaicans and God knows who else, and everything else had failed, what would you do?"

Winter thought about the question for a moment or two, then grinned.

"Flood the market," he said. "Bring the price down."

"Exactly. Couple of kilos of cocaine? It's Blue Cross Day." She nodded. "Has to be linked to Mackenzie. Has to be."

Winter was thinking about the workshop behind the showroom, the guy Barry gob bing into the gloom, clearly pissed off.

"Bazza's gear's supposed to come down in Valentine's cars." Winter was beginning to enjoy himself. "Did you hear that?"

"That's what everyone says. You're telling me it's true?"

"I've no idea. Except you'd need a mechanic to get at it at this end."

Winter got to his feet. "You here for a bit, Cath?"

"Why's that?"

"I just need to make a phone call. Back in a jiff."

Winter called the CID room at Highland Road, catching Dawn Ellis as she put the finishing touches to a CPS file on a serial shoplifter. As duty DC on lates all week, she'd come in early to keep herself out of the shops.

"My Visa statement arrived this morning," she told Winter. "Overdrawn just doesn't do me justice."

"Have you still got that cork board over the kettle? The one with the mug shots?"

"Yeah." She sounded bemused. "Why?"

"There's a bloke called Barry. Looks like a child molester. Thin hair. Scary eyes." He paused. "Do us a favour?"

"Barry Leggat." She didn't need to go across to the board. "Came out a couple of months ago. Did two years for ringing bent motors."

"Local?"

"Leigh Park. Supposed to be shacked up with a woman called Jackie something or other. She's scary, too. You want the address?"

Winter grunted a yes and waited while she thumbed through a couple of files. Oakmount Road. House with a whole family of gnomes in the front garden.

"Anything else I can do you for?" Dawn laughed. "Cappuccino? Carrot cake? Nut cutlet?"

She rang off, leaving Winter gazing at the address. Moments later, he was back in Cathy Lamb's office.

"Just an idea, Cath. Are you up for this?"

"Go on." She was looking wary again.

Winter explained about the workshop at the back of Valentine's showroom. Barry Leggat, he suspected, might be the guy to unpack the goodies once the cars had driven down from London. He'd undoubtedly earn a drink or two in the process and, with Valentine bailing out, that source of income would suddenly dry up. If that was the case, and the last consignment had been as huge as street talk suggested, then what would be the harm in helping himself to an ounce or two on the side?

"What are you suggesting?"

"We get a warrant on his house. Do it ASAP. If we find any gear, he might be up for a longer conversation."

"A warrant on what grounds?"

"Good point." Winter gazed at the ceiling a moment. He needed an informant, someone with credible information. "Dave Pullen." He smiled. "I saved his arse this morning, and he knows it. Plus he's not best mates with Valentine."

"He'll stand the intelligence up?"

"Enough for the magistrate, no problem."

Cathy still wasn't convinced.

"What about this Leggat?" she said. "You think he'd be silly enough to stash the cocaine at home? Assuming you've got this right?"

"He's just done two years, Cath." Winter was looking wounded. "Bright guys in this world never get caught."

Faraday was happy to accept Nigel Phillimore's offer of afternoon tea.

Mortified by his conduct in the cathedral but still cocooned by three hours of drinking, he accompanied Phillimore up the High Street to the narrow little house that came with the post of Canon.

He and Phillimore had met a couple of years back. Faraday was investigating the death of a fourteen-year-old from Old Portsmouth, and had been surprised to unearth a relationship between the dead girl's mother and this man of the cloth. The inquiry had led to a couple of lengthy conversations in Phillimore's house, both of which had stuck in Faraday's mind not simply because they'd been evidentially so vital but because he'd rarely met anyone so open and sympathetic. This man, he'd thought at the time, offers something extraordinary: the gift of immediate and unconditional friendship. For a detective used to a culture built on instinctive suspicion, he was a very rare bird indeed.

Phillimore's house, when he pushed the door open and stood aside, even smelled the same: a certain brand of joss stick, exotic, pungent, that brought the memory of their previous encounters flooding back. Faraday made his way along the narrow hall, reaching for support when the drink threatened to get the better of him, recognising the framed colour photos of Angola hanging on the wall. Phillimore had taken them himself, years ago during a Fair Trade visit, and Faraday remembered him talking about the country with a quiet intensity that was all the more arresting for being so unforced.

Upstairs, too, little seemed to have changed. The cosy sitting room warmed by bookshelves and a threadbare oriental carpet looked out onto the High Street, and Faraday recognised the Chinese bowl of potpourri on the window sill. He settled himself in a battered armchair beside the window as Phillimore enquired about his taste in tea. He had Earl Grey, Lapsang, or a new discovery he'd made only last week, Munnar Premium. Faraday beamed at him, telling him it didn't matter. Medium height, with a slight stoop, Phillimore had put on a little weight since they'd last met but the smile on his face was just the same. It was a face made for kinship and laughter. Just sitting here, Faraday felt immediately brighter.

"Your cat?" he asked.

"On loan. I've been away for a while. Only got back last night."

He disappeared into the kitchen while Faraday inspected the postcards pinned to corners of the bookshelves. On this evidence, Phillimore had friends in Salzburg, Bombay, Paris, and a cityscape that looked like Rio. Someone in Pompey who dared to look outwards.

Minutes later, he was back with a tray of tea. Another journey yielded a lemon cake and a plate of macaroons.

"This one turned up at lunchtime from a woman in the choir." His knife was hovering over the cake. "Go away for a couple of weeks and you forget how spoiled we are."

He cut two generous slices and passed one to Faraday. He'd been off on a three-week jaunt to Kerala. That part of India had always fascinated him, the idea of the place, and he'd been glad to discover that communism could indeed go hand in hand with equality and a certain levelling of outcomes.

"Communism?" Faraday was lost.

"The provincial government is communist, and I have to say that it shows. Superb education. Terrific command of English. And the nicest people in the world." He paused, slipping effortlessly from one theme to another. "Do you mind me saying something?"

"Not at all."

"You look exhausted."

"Drunk, I'm afraid."

"No," Phillimore was stirring his tea. "It's more than that." He glanced up. "What did you think of the choir?"

"I thought they were superb."

"They're Estonian. They come from Tallinn. They're singing tomorrow night, half past seven. You should come. And I mean that."

"I will."

"Good. Last time I seem to remember it was you asking all the questions." He smiled. "So how's it been?"

Faraday gazed at him for a long moment. It was an innocent enough enquiry, a near-stranger expressing a passing interest in his well-being, but there was something in his tone of voice, in the tilt of his head, that spoke of genuine concern. This man really cares, Faraday thought.

"It's been bloody," he said quietly. "If you really want to know."

"Bloody… how?"

"Bloody awful. Just' he spread his hands hopelessly 'bloody."

He told Phillimore a little about the last two years, the wash-up after the fourteen-year-old's death, his subsequent transfer into Major Crimes, the caseload he'd been dealing with since.

"Was it a promotion, Major Crimes?"

"They put it that way, yes."

"And you? What do you think?"

"I think they're right. In my business we talk about the quality of a crime. You get to concentrate on one thing at a time a rape, a murder, sometimes both. After divisional CID, believe me, that's a relief."

"You felt spoiled?" Phillimore was smiling again.

"Definitely. But it's a compliment, too. It means they trust you.

Some of this stuff is tough, high profile. You can't afford to let them down."

"The relatives?"

"Of course. And your bosses, too."

"Which matters most?"

It was a good question and Faraday conceded as much by ducking his head and reaching for a slice of cake. Eadie Sykes, he knew, would say Daniel Kelly. What did Faraday himself think?

"Each case is different," he said at last. "Just now I have to tell you I don't know."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm afraid I can't. Operationally' he shot Phillimore a bleak smile 'it's impossible."

"Are you sure that's the problem?"

"I'm not with you."

"This operation… inquiry… investigation… whatever it is. We all hide behind our jobs. Are you sure it's not something else?"

Faraday looked startled. This man's judgement was faultless. But how could he begin to disentangle J-J, and Eadie Sykes, and the wreckage of his private life from the monster that was Tumbril?

"Policemen have a knack of taking their work home," he began lamely.

"So do we. And it's not always helpful, is it?"

"No, not at all. But what do you do about it?"

"You find a relationship, and then stick to it. In my case, it happens to be God. Whether that makes me lucky is for other people to judge.

Most of us have to make do with each other."

"I've tried that."

"And?"

"It's falling apart."

"Because of the job?"

"Partly, yes. There's — ' he shrugged '- a conflict of interest.

Interests plural, if you want the truth. My partner thinks she can change the world. My son thinks the same. I admire them for trying but I know they'll fail."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a policeman. I know what people are like. Criminals.

Bosses. Colleagues. I see it every day. On the other hand…" He frowned, trying to concentrate, trying to tease out the essence of what he wanted to say. "I'm the first to get behind my partner, my son.

It's vital someone has a go. Even if they fail."

Briefly, he explained about Eadie's commitment to Ambrym, the trust she'd vested in J-J, the drugs video they were making tough, uncompromising, brutally realistic.

"Has it occurred to you they may not fail?"

"They will. I know they will. Drugs are like rain, like gravity.

Whatever we do, they'll still be there. That's the way of the world.

Blood and treasure. Greed. Power. Taking advantage. That's why people like me have a job to go to every morning."

"You should be glad, thankful."

"I know. And most of the time I am."

"So where's the problem?"

"The problem is I'm piggy in the middle." Faraday laughed, suddenly struck by the phrase.

"And that's uncomfortable?"

"Impossible sometimes. It turns you into someone you're not. You can feel it happening, feel it inside you. Next thing you know, you're sitting in the Dolphin, ordering that second pint, losing your grip."

"And grip's important?"

"Grip's essential. From where I sit, grip's everything. No grip, no job."

"OK." Phillimore conceded the point. "And if it comes to no job?"

"No nothing." Faraday blinked, astonished by this small truth. Did the job matter to him that much? Was it true what people said about coppers? Once a policeman, always a policeman?

"No nothing," he repeated. "Maybe it's that simple."

Winter was in his car outside the duty magistrate's Old Portsmouth flat when he finally got hold of Jimmy Suttle. Getting the search warrant had been harder than he'd anticipated. Even with the intelligence from Dave Pullen, the magistrate had pointed out the lack of hard evidence against Barry Leggat, and it was only Winter's insistence that a search of these premises might have a significant impact on the current explosion of drug abuse that had finally won the woman's grudging approval. Anything, she'd said, to stem the flood of increasingly young druggies through her courtroom.

Now, Winter wanted Suttle's full attention.

"The address is 17 Oakmount Road," he said. "I've got to organise a dog. There's a lay-by round the corner. Meet you there for seven."

"Can't do it."

"What?" Winter was staring at the mobile.

"I promised Trude I'd meet her for nine. We're going to Forty Below.

Why don't you tap up one of the married blokes? They'll jump at the overtime."

Winter was about to give Suttle an earful about the wisdom of appearing with Trudy Gallagher on Bazza's turf, then paused, struck by another thought.

"You going to be there for long?"

"Where?"

"Forty Below."

"Haven't a clue. Depends on Trude. Couple of hours at least. Why?"

Winter didn't answer. The warrant lay beside him on the passenger seat. A decent search might take a couple of hours, with a good dog maybe less. If they scored a result, he'd have to haul Leggat down to the Bridewell and book him in. The paperwork would take another half-hour, max, and if they'd lifted a decent quantity of gear he wouldn't need to start interviewing until the following day. Misty Gallagher was in London. That left him plenty of time to get down to Forty Below and have a word or two with young Jimmy before the lad dragged Trudy off to bed.

"You still there?" It was Suttle.

"Yeah." Winter nodded. "Forget the search."

Faraday was up in the se afront apartment, watching television, by the time Eadie made it back from London. She'd taken a cab from the station and now, exhausted, she bent over him on the long sofa. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, then pulled back.

"You've been drinking," she said.

"That's right."

"You're pissed." She was looking at the bottle of South African red on the floor by his foot.

"Right again."

"Why?" The smile of amusement on her face made Faraday reach up for her. She sank briefly down beside him.

"Come to apologise." His smile widened into a grin.

"Who has?"

"Me."

"Why?"

"I'll tell you about it." He nodded towards the screen. "How was the demo?"

"Average. You eaten at all? Only I'm starving."

Faraday nodded, watching her as she left the sofa and headed for the kitchen. He turned back to the TV, watching the now nightly bombardment of Baghdad. A minute or two later, Eadie was back standing beside the sofa, an enormous sandwich in her hand. She wolfed it down, telling Faraday about the Al Jazeera footage between mouthfuls. J-J was lashed to the PC at Ambrym, knocking the stuff together. He should be proud of the boy. Natural eye for the telling cut.

"Al Jazeera?"

Eadie looked down at him, then began to laugh. Events had moved so fast these last couple of days, she'd forgotten to tell him about the invitation from the Stop the War people. She and J-J were putting together a video to bring the world to its senses. Knock-out stuff.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"And your drugs thing?"

"Rough cut ready by tomorrow. I'll tell you the rest when you're sober." She glanced at her watch, then nodded down at the bottle. "I wouldn't stay up if I were you. It's going to be a late one."

Faraday gazed up at her, lost again.

"You're off? Already?"

"Fraid so." She bent to the sofa and kissed him briefly on the cheek.

"Paracetamol's in the bathroom cabinet. See you in the morning."

It was dusk by the time Winter was ready to launch the search of Leggat's house. Cathy Lamb had detailed one of the older of the squad's DCs, Danny French, to make the rendezvous in Leigh Park, and a dog handler had turned up in a white Escort van. The dog's name, he said was Pepys, a German shepherd. He was new to the game and occasionally overeager.

They drove in convoy to Leggat's address. Number 17 was an ex-council house that had been given the full makeover. The double-glazing units looked brand new and the front door was protected by a gleaming porch in white UPVC. Dawn, to Winter's amusement, hadn't been kidding about the gnomes. He stood outside the house, counting them, while the dog handler readied Pepys for the search.

"All right?"

The porch was a couple of steps from the front gate. Winter rang twice and waited. From a corner of the tiny front garden came the trickle of a water feature. The most distant of the gnomes, according to French, was incontinent. At length the door opened.

"Mrs. Leggat?" Winter showed her his warrant card.

"What's this about?" She was staring at the panting dog.

Winter produced the search warrant and began to explain but she cut him short.

"I'm not having that thing in here. Not with Treacle around."

Treacle was her cat, an enormous tom which was standing in the hall, its back arched, hissing. Winter suggested Treacle take a walk in the garden. Cat or no cat, they were coming in.

The woman looked at him a moment, then turned and shooed the cat towards a door at the back. She was a big woman who didn't suit jeans.

Winter and French stepped inside. They'd call the dog in later.

"Barry around?"

"He's in the bath."

"Get him out of there, will you? Tell him not to flush the loo or empty the bath. Second thoughts, I'll do it."

The expression on the woman's face sent Winter up the narrow stairs.

The house was spotless. Winter's taste didn't run to Regency wallpaper or Tiffany lamps but the place was plainly cherished. The bathroom door was at the end of the upstairs landing. Winter could hear the splash of water and the blare of a radio with the volume turned up.

Guests on some phone-in programme were discussing the Portsmouth game.

Preston had been rubbish, the caller was saying. Pompey should have hammered them.

Winter pushed inside and plucked a towel from the rail behind the door.

Leggat was sitting in the bath, washing his hair.

"Out." Winter threw the towel at him and nodded at the open door.

"Now."

"Who the fuck are you?" Leggat had shampoo in his eyes. It was several seconds before he recognised the face looking down at him.

"DC Winter. We met this morning."

"You're Filth?" Leggat looked astonished, then outraged. "How come '

Winter hauled him upright in the bath.

"We'll start upstairs," he said briskly. "Best if you're there too."

Back on the landing, the woman barred the way to the bedroom at the front. She was even bigger than Winter had thought.

"Mrs…?" Winter smiled at her.

"Comfort. And it's Ms." She was looking at Leggat. "If this is what I think it is…" The warning was all the more effective for being unspoken. Leggat, dripping suds onto the carpet, wound the towel round his waist and began to protest.

"We've got a warrant." Winter cut him short. "I showed your missus."

"Missus?" It was the woman again. "Since when have I been your missus?"

"Don't fucking ask me. I was just having a bath."

Winter took him by the elbow and steered him round the woman as she stepped back, trying to avoid physical contact.

"It's the one at the end," she said, 'if you're looking for his room."

Leggat's bedroom must have recently belonged to a teenage girl. There were luminous stars on the ceiling and no one had bothered to remove the torn-out photos of Robbie Williams and Jude Law Blu-tacked to the wallpaper. After the rest of the house, thought Winter, this room was a doss.

"Do you want to help us out here?" Winter was looking at Leggat. "Only it'd be nice to leave the floorboards in one piece."

"You bloody dare." The woman was standing in the open doorway.

"Try me." Winter nodded beyond her. French had appeared on the landing. He was a tall man, an ex-para, and he carried the crowbar with a certain authority.

Leggat had found himself a pullover and a pair of tracksuit bottoms. He sat down on the bed, refusing to say another word. After the spasm of anger in the bathroom, he looked defeated.

"Try the wardrobe." The woman had folded her enormous arms. "He's always poking around in there."

Winter stepped across to the MFI wardrobe in the corner. Various bits of clothing were stacked on the shelves down one side. A velvet suit hanging at the front of the rack had suffered at the hands of the dry cleaners.

"Drawer at the bottom. Where he keeps his toys." The woman again.

Winter knelt on the carpet. The drawer was a tight fit and the whole wardrobe rocked as he wrestled it open. Inside, to his surprise, he found half a dozen model railway engines, die-cast self-assemblies in metal, nestled on a carefully fitted oblong of green baize. Each of the steam engines was mounted on a single length of track. OO gauge, thought Winter, lifting one out.

"You make these?"

Leggat nodded. He'd found a spent match from somewhere and was cleaning the dirt from under his nails.

"Merchant Navy class." Winter turned the model over. "Beautifully painted, really nice. They got motors inside?"

"No."

"Just for show, then?"

"Yeah."

French had joined Winter in front of the wardrobe.

"Look." He'd found a set of jeweller's tools in a plastic wallet.

Winter glanced at the proffered screwdriver then turned the engine over. Underneath, a line of four tiny screws held the body to the chassis. Look hard, and you could see the tiny scratch marks around the head of each of the screws. Winter held the engine to his ear and then gave it a shake. Nothing.

He glanced across at Leggat again.

"Must have packed it really tight." Winter held out the screwdriver.

"Best if you do the honours."

At nine o'clock, Faraday rang for a cab. Half a pint of coffee and a couple of minutes under the cold shower in Eadie's bathroom had restored more than his balance. When the cab arrived, he left the TV and lights on, pulled the door shut, and made his way downstairs. On the journey across to the Bargemaster's House he sat in silence in the back, nodding along to the cabbie's choice of music. Neil Young, he thought. Nice.

Home at last, he closed the front door behind him and checked the phone for messages, then shortened the response time to three rings. In the kitchen, with a comforting briskness, he cleared up the last of J-J's debris, binning the remains of a bacon sandwich before preparing himself a cheese omelette. Realising how hungry he was, he cut four thick slices of bread and dropped two into the toaster. There was a jar of lime pickle in the fridge, a tin of baked beans in the cupboard over the sink, and half a bagful of wilting rocket in the vegetable rack. Sitting in the lounge with the curtains back, he demolished the meal in minutes. Out on the blackness of the harbour, he watched the lights of a fishing boat, or perhaps a yacht, pushing slowly out towards the harbour narrows and the open sea.

When the phone went, he ignored it. He made himself a pot of tea and added an extra spoonful of sugar to the waiting mug. Full now, and surprisingly content, he switched on the radio and surfed the presets until he found a concert. Berlioz. Romeo and Juliet. He laughed at the irony, genuinely amused, and wrestled his favourite chair closer to the view. Settling back, he kicked off his shoes and rested his feet on the low table where he normally kept his birding magazines.

Already, the events of the day seemed to have happened to someone else.

Too much introspection, he thought. Too much time wasted demanding more from life than anyone could reasonably expect. Truth was, blokes like him coppers, detectives couldn't afford the luxury of thinking too hard, worrying too much, not if they wanted to get through in one piece. The little insight that Nigel Phillimore had unearthed was spot on. Grip was more important than anything else.

He raised his second mug of tea in a private tribute to the cleric, recognising how skilfully he'd handled their teatime encounter. The best counsellors, like the best detectives, never bullied you with too many questions. Instead, like a good helmsman, they supplied a thought here and there, tiny adjustments on the tiller, until you suddenly found yourself voicing a truth you'd failed to notice under all the other crap. Grip, he thought again.

Later, the concert over, he checked the phone. It was Willard. He wanted to know that they were set for tomorrow. "No surprises' was one of his trademark expressions.

With a glance at his watch, Faraday called him back, glad he'd never made it to Willard's Old Portsmouth house. Bothering him with today's nonsense would have been a real imposition.

"That you, Joe?" Willard had evidently been asleep.

"Just returning your call, sir."

"Anything happened?"

"Nothing."

"We're OK, then? Tomorrow at twelve?"

"I'll be there."

"Anything else?"

"No, sir."

"Thank Christ for that."

Willard rang off, leaving Faraday at the foot of the stairs. He stood motionless for a full minute, listening to the house breathing around him. The wind had got up again, and he could hear the slap-slap of halyards from the nearby dinghy park. At length, from out on the harbour, came the peeping of a flock of oystercatchers squabbling over a late supper. Birds with attitude, Faraday told himself, and a certain sense of purpose. He smiled at the thought, then began to climb the stairs.

Forty Below was bursting by the time Winter made it to Gunwharf.

Booking Leggat into the Bridewell had taken longer than he'd anticipated. The queue for the Custody Sergeant was already five deep by half past eight, and even the discovery of a sizeable stash of uncut Colombian the contents of four Merchant Navy-class engines, each sealed in its plastic evidence bag failed to shift the backlog.

Winter had mopped up the time with a second call to Cathy Lamb. She was mystified by his request that she talk to P amp;O in the morning, but wrote down the name he mentioned. Thanks to her husband Pete, she had a direct line to a woman called Penny who ran the ferry company's PR department. She and Pete both sailed Lasers from the Lee-on-the Solent club and if anyone could confirm the number of a pre-booked outside cabin in the name of Valentine then it would be her.

"What next?" Cathy had enquired.

"Going home, boss. Long day."

Now, eyeing the mass of clubbers queuing for Forty Below, Winter calculated his chances of talking himself in on a freebie. Entry was 15, an outrageous sum, but the last thing he wanted to use was his warrant card. A portly middle-aged gent in an MS suit was clue enough.

Why should he make it really easy for the bastards?

At the door, he found himself suddenly engulfed by a party of middle-aged swingers fresh from a birthday celebration in a nearby restaurant. They'd pre-booked entry to the club's V.I.P suite and, for the second time that night, Winter knew that his luck was in.

"Cheers, mate." Winter patted the doorman on the shoulder, briefly pretending he was as pissed as the rest of them. "Happy days, eh?"

Inside, the noise was deafening. Winter stuck with his new friends until he was well clear of the door, then peeled off. The club was cavernous, the size of an aircraft hangar. Bodies whirled around each other, a blur of arms and legs, and Winter found himself raked by regular bursts of strobe lighting, a splatter of mauves and greens.

Half an hour of this, he thought, and you'd be begging for mercy.

A dispute over a spilled drink brought the music to a brief halt.

Security waded in, sorting out a drunken youth with a gelled Mohican and marching him towards the door. Then the DJ bent to his decks again, announcing something even louder, with a pumping bass that brought whoops of approval.

By now, Winter was methodically searching the room, a dozen dancers at a time, hunting for Suttle. He found Trudy first. She was over towards the long brushed-metal crescent of the bar, dancing with a girl her own age, arms up, fingers splayed, eyes closed. Winter edged slowly round her, eyes scanning left and right, at last recognising the slender figure of Suttle as he threaded a path through the dancers towards Trudy.

Winter intercepted him. Suttle, for a second, hadn't a clue who he was.

"My shout." Winter was easing him towards the bar. "What do you want?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Favour."

"What?"

"Favour!" Winter yelled.

He abandoned the bar and indicated the nearby lavatories. Suttle shot him a look but came just the same. It was quieter here, with a mill of youths gel ling-up at the mirrors over the line of hand basins. Beside the contraceptive machine at the door, Winter broke the bad news.

"Young Trudy," he said. "I need her key."

"What key?"

"The key to that flat across the road, Misty's place."

Suttle stared at him, bemused.

"So why ask me?"

"I want you to nick it out of her bag."

"You're mad. You must be off your head. Why would I do that?"

"Because I just asked you."

It began to dawn on Suttle that Winter was serious.

"Why do you need it?"

"Can't tell you. Not yet." Winter breathed in to let an enormous youth in a Liverpool shirt through. "Let's say it's for Trudy's sake.

And yours."

"Mine? How's that, then?"

"Just get the key, son." Winter checked his watch. "Give me forty-five minutes. Then I'll have it back here. OK?"

"No, it's not fucking OK. In fact it's well out of order. You can't just '

Winter caught his arm and squeezed hard.

"I nicked a guy with twelve grands' worth of charlie an hour ago," he murmured. "Just do what I ask, OK?"

Mention of the cocaine seizure confused Suttle still further. Was he at work or was this really Saturday night?

"All right," he said at last. "Stay here."

He was back within minutes. Trudy's bunch of keys was attached to a small fluffy teddy bear, candy pink. Winter slipped them in his pocket, then checked his watch again.

"Half eleven, OK?"

Outside the club, Winter made for the bridge that led to the residential part of the development. In front of Arethusa House, he paused for a second to peer up at Misty's flat. The curtains were pulled back on the big picture windows and there was no sign of lights inside.

At the main door to the block, he stopped to examine Trudy's keys. The third one he tried released the lock. On the other side of the lobby, the lift was waiting, the door already open. Better and better, Winter thought.

On the top floor, the lift whispered to a halt and Winter found himself stepping into Misty's apartment. This time, he recognised the lingering scent of cigars. Valentine had been here.

Winter crossed the darkened lounge, body-checking around the piles of cardboard boxes, and pulled the curtains across the window. With a knife from a kitchen drawer, he returned to the lift and wedged the door open. Anyone coming up would have to use the stairs.

Back in the apartment, he put the lights on, adjusted the dimmer switch, then hesitated a moment, uncertain where to start. He knew what he wanted but he couldn't see himself finding it in any of these cardboard boxes. Where, he wondered, would Misty keep her documentation, the paper trail that would flag her path out of Pompey?

He went through to the bedroom, dropped the ruched curtains, and turned on another set of lights. The huge bed was unmade: dark blue sheets, an abandoned silk nightgown, a packet of Marlboro Lites, and a Barbara Taylor Bradford paperback open on the pillow.

Winter began to search, starting with the dressing table beneath the window. The first drawer he opened was full of cosmetics and a playful selection of sex toys. The next one down was brimming with tights and thongs. No sign of anything on paper.

Winter turned away and started on the wardrobe, a huge French-looking antique with a full-length mirror facing the bed. He opened the door and began to rummage amongst the jumble of shoes at the bottom, inserting his hand into a pair of thigh-length boots, getting down on his hands to inspect the void beneath. Again, nothing.

Dozens of dresses hung from the rail at the top of the wardrobe. A leather jacket at the back looked briefly promising but all Winter could find in the pockets was a twenty-pence piece, a ticket stub for a Pompey game, and a wafer of spearmint chewing gum. Finally, he circled the bed, feeling under the mattress, just in case.

On the point of abandoning the bedroom and starting on the lounge, he paused. The stool in front of the dressing table looked sturdy enough and he carried it across to the wardrobe before steadying it with one hand and clambering up. The wardrobe was topped with a scroll-like flourish of decorative oak, a wooden pediment that took the wardrobe within inches of the ceiling. Behind the pediment, invisible from below, might be some kind of hidey-hole.

Winter reached up, feeling around, fighting to keep his balance. His fingers snagged a shape. It felt like leather. He tried to get a purchase on the object, inch it towards him. Finally, he found a handle. He knew now that it was some kind of briefcase. With an effort, his forearm wedged against the ceiling, he managed to lift it clear of the pediment. It looked new, ox-blood red, and it felt heavy.

Good sign.

The phone began to ring in the lounge. Winter, still on the stool, froze. The answering machine kicked in, then came a voice, Pompey accent, male, light, distinctive. "Mist," the voice said. "Mate just told me Trude's letting herself down. Silly girl. Keeping company like that." The phone went abruptly dead. Winter gazed towards the open door. No doubt about it. Bazza.

Winter stepped carefully off the stool and went across to the window.

Easing back the curtain, he could see the Gunwharf waterfront. One of the white public order Transits from Central had just driven onto the plaza, the winking blue light mirrored in a thousand panes of glass.

Uniforms were piling out of the back, mob handed, trying to contain the clubbers spilling out of Forty Below. Moments later, another blue light, an ambulance this time.

Winter watched as the drama unfolded. The blokes from the Transit dealt with a couple of fights. Youths milled around, watching, drinking, laughing, giving anything in uniform the finger. Then the paramedics returned to the ambulance, pushing a body on a trolley. The youths crowded round, calling to their mates. Opening the back of the ambulance, the paramedics hoisted the trolley and slipped it in. Winter was too far away to be sure of a positive ID but experience told him never to discount coincidence. Bazza's mates had spotted Trudy. And Suttle had paid the price.

Winter retreated from the window, laid the briefcase on the bed and opened it. Inside, on top of a mass of brown A4 envelopes, were two passports, a driving licence, an E1 11 form, and a copy of the Rough Guide to Croatia. Beside it, in a Thomas Cook wallet, a thick wad of foreign currency. Winter began to sort through the envelopes. Bank details. Money transfer forms. Car documentation. Towards the bottom of the pile, he found a brand new envelope labelled with a big T circled in red. He felt inside and extracted four copies of an official-looking document. At the top, thickly embossed, it read "Confirmation of Paternity'. Beneath, typed, the results of the test Misty had described. Trudy Gallagher was indeed Mike Valentine's daughter, and here was the proof.

Winter read the certificate again. Then he removed one of the copies, folded it carefully, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. The remaining three he returned to the envelope. With the briefcase back on top of the wardrobe, he replaced the stool, turned off the light and pulled open the curtains. He did the same next door, then made for the lift. Back outside on the waterfront, he looked across towards the plaza. The ambulance had gone and the uniforms were doing their best to shepherd everyone back inside the nightclub.

Winter turned and gazed up at the darkened apartment a moment, then stepped across to the rail. The black waters of the harbour lapped at the pilings below and Trudy's bunch of keys made the softest plop as he dropped them into the darkness. The kitchen knife he'd used to wedge the lift door followed, but he made no move to leave.

After a while, he looked up at the apartment for a second time. Why Croatia?