Cut to Black

Chapter five

WEDNESDAY, 19 MARCH 2003, 14.00

Faraday's third meeting with Willard took place in mid afternoon. One of the management assistants from the Major Crimes Team had raised Faraday on his mobile, telling him that the Det Supt would be parked in Grand Parade for a brief get-together at 3.15. There didn't seem much room for negotiation.

Grand Parade was a recently refurbished square in Old Portsmouth and once the bustling centre of garrison life. Lottery money had paid for stylish seating and a brand new ramp, quickly adopted by local skateboarders. The ramp led up to the Saluting Base, an area on top of the fortification walls that overlooked the harbour narrows.

Faraday arrived early, his anorak zipped up against a bitter wind, and spent a minute or two gazing down at the churning tide. A lone cormorant sped past, barely feet above the water, and he watched it until the tiny black speck was swallowed up by the enveloping greyness.

Cormorants had always been one of J-J's favourite birds. He'd drawn them since he was a kid, page after page of weird, prehistoric shapes, and he'd often pestered his dad for expeditions to watch the real thing. The way the birds bobbed around on the ocean, abruptly submerging in search of food, had always fascinated the boy, and one of the first times Faraday had recognised J-J's strange cackle as a laugh was when the hungry cormorant resurfaced, seventy metres down-current, with an impatient little shake of its head. He doesn't understand, J-J would sign. He's down there in the dark and he can't see a thing. Too right, thought Faraday, pulling up the hood of his anorak against the first chill drops of rain.

Willard took him by surprise, arriving in a brand new Jaguar S-type.

Faraday got in beside him, curious to know why they were meeting here.

There was a perfectly good suite of offices at Kingston Crescent. What was so wrong with central heating and a constant supply of coffee?

Willard ignored the question. He'd spent most of lunchtime with Dave Michaels out at Fort Cumberland. The DS had got his house-to-house team working through the neighbouring estate and the preliminary reports were beginning to inch the Nick Hayder inquiry forward. Several households especially young mums with kids had talked of after-dark comings and goings on the single road that led towards the Hayling ferry. Some of the cars that pulled off the tarmac and onto the scrubland that stretched out towards the beach were there for sex. You knew they were at it because afterwards they chucked their debris out of the car window, littering the place with used condoms, but recently there'd been other visitors, even less welcome.

According to the mums, some of the older kids on the estate were talking openly about scoring cheap drugs off dealers who'd driven in from elsewhere in the city. For less than a tenner, you could evidently take your pick anything from ecstasy to smack and the trade had become so brazen that the kids had taken to calling one of the dealers Mr. Whippy. All he needed, said one harassed single mother, was one of those recorded chimes and a nice little fridge for the younger kids who might fancy a choc ice with their 10 wrap.

Faraday was watching the bridge and funnel of a passing warship, visible above the nearby battlements. No point resisting the obvious.

"You're thinking Mackenzie?"

"No way. Mackenzie uses dealers, of course he does, always has, but they're mostly local. More to the point, he doesn't deal smack any more."

"And this lot?"

"Out of town. Definitely. And they'll sell you anything."

"Who says?"

"It's what the kids tell their mums. One said he'd bought a snowball, smack and crack cocaine. Another thought they all sounded like Steve Gerrard. That says Merseyside to me. Scousers."

One night last week, enraged by what was going on under their noses, a couple of the mums had decided to intervene. They'd marched into the darkness, determined to have it out with the intruders, but the dealers had had a dog in the car, big bastard, really vicious, because the next thing they knew they were trying to fend the bloody animal off. Only a prompt retreat had saved them from a serious mauling, and when the dealers had called the dog off and driven away, they'd made a point of winding down the car window and laughing in their faces.

"They get a number at all?" Faraday could picture the scene.

"M reg. XB something. And maybe a seven."

"Make?"

"Cavalier."

"They report it?"

"Yeah. Highland Road sent a couple of DCs round next morning. Took statements and left a number to ring. Last night one of the same women swears blind the same car was back again, couple of young blokes inside."

"She get a good look at them?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't she phone in, then? After it all kicked off?"

"She won't say but Dave's guess is her own boy's been at it, maybe last night."

"Buying?"

"Yeah. Dave's got a list of repeat visits for when the kids come out of school. That's the ones who can be arsed to turn up, of course."

"At home?"

"At school."

Willard produced a toothpick and began to stab at something lodged between one of his back molars. Nearly a decade of policing the city had left him with a limited faith in secondary education.

"Highland Road ran a check on the plate number. We've got twenty-six possibilities, including four from Liverpool, two from Birkenhead, and one from Runcorn. Dave's organising a trawl through last night's tapes."

"All of them?"

"Every single one."

There were more than a hundred CCTV cameras in Portsmouth, each one of them generating hours of videotape. If anyone needed a clue to just how seriously Willard was taking last night's assault, then here it was.

"So you're thinking out of town?"

"I'm thinking we have to find the car. If it ties up with the Scousers, then we pull Cathy Lamb into the loop. Give her a chance to put the record straight."

Briefly, he told Faraday about last night's abortive bust in Penning-ton Road. As the senior CID officer for the city, he'd received a full report, agreeing with Secretan that the new Crime Squad needed to shake down in a very big hurry. Any more disasters like that, and the city would become open house for any passing scumbag.

"So what did you make of Tumbril} Imber give you the tour?"

The abrupt change of subject took Faraday by surprise. He began to frame a reply but thought better of it. In a situation like this, it was wiser to check your bearings.

"Brian Imber seems to think you've rattled a few cages," he said carefully.

"He's right. We have." Willard was close to smiling.

"Like who?"

"Like Harry Wayte, for starters. Seems to think he owns the bloody drugs issue in this force."

"I thought that was down to Brian?"

"It is. It always has been. Harry was late to the party. In fact I can remember a time he was telling everyone Imber was off his head.

It's only now the penny's dropped that he's started to see the full potential."

Until a recent reorganisation, Harry Wayte had been Imber's boss, the DI in charge of the Tactical Crime Unit, a dozen or so detectives working out of secured premises in Fareham, an old market town engulfed by the mainland conurbation that sprawls towards Southampton. The TCU had won its battle honours in the early nineties, tackling an explosion in drug-related crime, and had since become the fiefdom for a succession of hard-driving DIs who made the most of its reach and independence. Harry Wayte was the longest-serving of these DIs, an abrasive, plain-spoken ex-Chief Petty Officer, barely a year off retirement.

"You don't think he'd be in with a shout?" Faraday enquired.

"Never. And what's more, he knows it. The only way he's going to get promotion at his age is by lifting something really tasty off Imber and then claiming it for himself. He's doing his best, I'll give him that."

"But Imber's out of the TCU now."

"Sure, but that never stopped Harry."

"You're telling me he knows about Tumbril}"

"I'm telling you he's been busting a gut to find out. And I'm telling you something else, too. It's guys like Harry who put the word round.

This job's hard enough as it is. What we don't need is half the force behaving like bloody kids, thinking we've stolen some kind of march on them."

"We?"

"Nick Hayder, Imber, now you."

He broke off, and Faraday found himself nodding. Most policemen were cursed with an acute sense of territory and Harry Wayte was clearly no exception. In his rare moments of leisure, the DI indulged his passion for naval history by building exquisitely crafted model warships.

Faraday had come across him several times, crouched on the edge of Craneswater boating lake, launching his latest radio-controlled frigate into the thick of battle. Faraday had envied his peace of mind, alone in his private bubble.

"What are you up to this evening?" Willard was checking his watch.

"Any plans?"

"None that I can think of."

"Good. There's someone I want you meet. You know the jetty alongside Warrior}'

HMS Warrior had been the navy's first steam-driven ironclad. Fully restored, she dominated the view from the harbour station. The neighbouring jetty lay within the historic dockyard. Faraday was to be there for six o'clock. With luck, they'd be back by nine.

"Back from where?"

"Tell you later. Bring something warm." Willard nodded across the row of parked cars towards the High Street. "For now I want you round to the Sally Port Hotel. Room six. There's a guy waiting for you,

name of Graham Wallace. He's u/c. I've authorised him to brief you. OK?"

Faraday turned to stare at Willard. Operations like this were trademarked by what the Force Media Unit termed 'a variety of specialist investigative techniques'. Imber had already tallied covert surveillance, phone intercepts, and forensic accounting. So why hadn't anyone mentioned undercover officers?

"Is that a direct question?" Willard was fingering the leather steering wheel.

"Yes, sir. It is."

"Then here's the answer. Imber doesn't know."

"Doesn't know} Why on earth not?"

"Because Hayder wanted to keep it tight." The smile was back on Willard's face. "A decision with which I totally agreed."

The taxi dropped J-J off in the heart of Fratton. He stooped to the window, waiting for his change. When the driver glanced again at the address on his dashboard computer and told him to watch his back, J-J pretended not to understand. All he was doing, he told himself, was running an errand for a friend.

He set off down Pennington Road, his heart lumping away beneath the thin cotton of his Madness T-shirt. Like it or not, he'd suddenly found himself skewered on what Eadie Sykes liked to call the sharp end.

The statistics he'd memorised from a thousand magazine articles, the transcripts he'd read from other peoples' research projects, the confessional truths he'd tried to wring from interviewee after potential interviewee, all this carefully filed information had finally boiled down to a single address, 30 Pennington Road. If you wanted to mess with your life, if you wanted to end up in Daniel's state, then this was where you started.

Parked cars lined both sides of the road. Walking beside them, J-J counted the houses until he got to number 30. Someone, he thought, must have given the front door a good kicking. The splintered panels had been crudely battened and there was a sheet of old plywood nailed over what must have been a square of glass. There was no number on the door and he had to pause a moment, rechecking the houses on either side, before he ventured a knock.

Being deaf, he never knew how loud a knock he was making. Normally, this wouldn't matter. When it came to handicap people were amazingly forgiving but on this occasion his nerve ends told him he needed to get it right. Too soft, and no one would hear. Too loud, too aggressive, and God knows what might happen.

J-J closed his eyes a moment, swallowing hard, wondering whether it wasn't too late to beat a retreat. Daniel, back in Old Portsmouth, had warned him about the guys in number 30. The word he'd used was rough.

Rough, he'd said, but OK. OK meant they delivered. Rough, as the taxi driver had pointed out, meant watch your step.

Nothing happened after the first knock. Shivering now, J-J reached out again then froze as someone pulled the door open. A face appeared.

Unshaven. Pierced eyebrows. Nose stud. And young, younger even than J-J himself.

"Yeah?"

J-J stood rooted to the pavement, suddenly oblivious to the rain. For the first time in his life he didn't know what to do, what signal to send, what expression to adopt. Then he saw the dog. It was a black pit bull, lunging out of the gloom inside. A length of rope tied it to one of the bannisters at the foot of the stairs and every time it threw itself towards the open door the bannister bowed.

J-J was terrified of dogs, the legacy of a long-ago encounter with a neighbour's alsatian, and he knew that this one couldn't wait to tear him apart. His instinct told him to turn and leg it. No video, no name on the credits, was worth this.

"Fucking say something, then, yeah?"

J-J couldn't take his eyes off the dog. He could smell it now, the rich sour smell of fear. The alsatian had put him in hospital for the night. This one would probably kill him.

"Fucking deaf are you? Lost yer tongue?"

At last, J-J managed to summon a response. He'd made Daniel write down his own name and address. Now he unfolded the scrap of paper. A hand shot out and grabbed it. Bitten nails. Heavy rings. A tattoo of some kind, blue dots across the knuckles. The head came up, eyes scanning the street beyond J-J's shoulder.

"If this is a fucking stitch-up…"

J-J shook his head with a violence that took him by surprise. No stitching-up. Promise.

"You know what I'm saying?"

J-J nodded at the scrap of paper. Trust me. Please.

"He told you where to find us?"

Yes.

"You some kind of friend of his?"

Yes.

"He gave you money?"

Yes.

The door opened wider and J-J stepped inside. The smell of the dog was overwhelming, the animal more frenzied than ever at this sudden intrusion, and J-J kept his distance, his back against the wall, praying that the bannister would hold.

Someone else appeared from a room at the back, boxer shorts, tattoo on his neck, and a red number 9 football shirt with Carling scrolled across the front. There was a brief conversation, an exchange of grins, a nod. The face at the door gave the dog a kick, then turned back to J-J, his hand extended, palm up. Gimme. J-J produced the 50 note. The face wanted more. Out came the two twenties. More still.

J-J shook his head, gestured helplessly, nothing left, then he felt a sharp crack as his head hit the wall. Hands dived into the pockets of his jeans, searching for the rest, and he shut his eyes, forcing himself to submit, to go limp, praying that this nightmare would end.

Finally, a handful of coins richer, they left him alone. He backed towards the front door, away from the dog, uncertain what was supposed to happen next. Street prices in Portsmouth had never been cheaper.

Everyone was telling him so. 90 should keep Daniel going for a couple of days, nine wraps at least. So where were they?

The face stepped past him and pulled the front door open. For a second or two, J-J was tempted to resist, to protest, to demand their end of the deal, but then he felt the sweet chillness of the street, and he was out in the rain again, gladder than he could imagine. The face was back inside, the mouth framing a message for his rich friend. Later, he was saying. Tell him we'll be round later.

Parked three cars up the street, DC Paul Winter was trying to work out how many shots they'd taken.

"Six." Jimmy Suttle was studying the panel on the back of the camera.

"Four when he first turned up. Two just now."

"Full face?"

"A couple at least. We should pull him now. He has to be carrying.

Has to be."

"Leave it." Winter was watching the tall, awkward figure hurrying away down the street. Last time he'd seen Faraday's son, the boy had got himself mixed up with a bunch of young lunatics from Somers-town. A couple of years later, he'd evidently graduated to Class A narcotics.

"No?" Suttle had started to open the car door. "The guy's on a nicking. That wasn't a social call."

"You're right, son. Give me the camera."

"Why?"

"Because one of us has to stay here."

"And me?"

"I'd move sharpish if I were you." Winter nodded towards the end of the street. "Follow him and bell me."

"Follow him? I thought we were into bodies? Scalps?"

"We are." Winter was examining the camera. "Do you know who that boy belongs to?"

Faraday made his way to the Sally Port Hotel, resisting the temptation to enquire about Graham Wallace at the tiny reception desk. Had this latest rabbit from Willard's hat been in residence long? Did Tumbril have a permanent booking on room 6?

Climbing the carpeted stairs to the first floor, Faraday couldn't rid himself of the image of Nick Hayder, unconscious in his hospital bed, helpless in a cat's cradle of monitor leads and transfusion lines.

Managing an investigation this complex, trying to remember who was supposed to know what, would have been enough to drive any detective to the edge. No wonder he'd felt under siege.

A soft knock at room 6 drew an instant response. Faraday found himself looking at a tall, well-built man in his late twenties. He was wearing an expensive shirt tucked loosely into a pair of well-cut dark trousers. The silk tie, loosened at the collar, was a swirl of reds laced with a vivid turquoise. Despite the laugh lines around his eyes and the tiny gold ring in one ear, he looked tense.

"You are?"

"Joe Faraday."

"Come in. Graham Wallace." He had the briefest handshake.

Faraday stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The desk beneath the window was spread with paperwork and a linen jacket hung on the back of the chair. Beside the bed, a pair of Gucci loafers.

"Tea? There's one bag left."

"No thanks." Faraday eyed the empty packet of biscuits beside the kettle. "I could use a sandwich, though."

"Ring down. They'll bring something up." Wallace stepped across to the phone and dialled a number, then handed it to Faraday. Faraday ordered two tuna salad sandwiches, adding he'd pay for them on the way out.

When he'd put the phone down, Wallace gestured towards the empty chair.

"I'm sorry about Nick." He had a flat London accent. "Your guvnor said you were mates."

"That's right." Faraday nodded. "And we still are."

There was a moment of silence while the men eyed each other, then Faraday sank into the chair. u/c officers were notoriously wary, often more paranoid than the targets they were tasked to sting. Their very survival frequently depended on the lowest possible exposure to fellow officers.

"How tight did Nick keep all this?" Faraday gestured towards the desk.

"Only it would be helpful to know."

"Very tight. The only guys I ever deal with are Nick and a handler from Special Ops, Terry McNaughton."

"What about Willard?"

"Your govnor?" Wallace glanced up towards the door. "Never met him till just now. He says he's filling in for Nick."

"I thought that was my job?"

"It is. That's what he came to tell me."

"Why didn't Special Ops pass the message?"

"Good question."

"Did you ask him? Willard?"

"Of course I did."

"And?"

"He said he was SIO on the job so there was no way he wouldn't know about me. Thought face-to-face was better than a phone call from Special Ops."

"And you?"

"Me?" He offered Faraday a thin smile. "A phone call from Special Ops would have done just fine."

Faraday nodded. Special Ops was a tiny department of the Hantspol intelligence empire that supervised the deployment of u/c officers.

Terry McNaughton would be the handler charged with running Wallace, sharing the debrief with Nick Hayder after each new instalment of the Tumbril story.

"You could help me here," Faraday said slowly.

"How?"

"By telling me exactly the way it's gone so far. There's no point me trying to snow you. Twenty-four hours ago I was looking at a pretty much empty desk. Now this."

"No one's briefed you?"

"Willard's handed me the file. I've talked to the team. This isn't a three-day event."

"You're right." Wallace appeared to be on the verge of saying something else, then shrugged and lit a small, thin cheroot before settling himself full-length on the bed. "Where do you want me to start?"

Faraday hesitated. In cases like these, Nick Hayder and Terry McNaughton would deliberately limit the background knowledge shared with the u/c. The last thing they wanted was Wallace in conversation with the target unintentionally revealing more than he should have known.

"Nick and your handler would have sorted a first meeting."

"That's right. We met in London."

"When was that?"

"Before Christmas. Second week in December."

"What did they tell you?"

"They said they were mounting a long-term op against a drugs target, major dealer. Full flag, level three. Bloke called Mackenzie. The way Nick told it, this Mackenzie was into some serious business. Nick said he'd been pouring washed drugs money into all kinds of local investments bars, restaurants, property, hotels, all the usual blinds.

Everything was sweet, ticking away, lots of nice little earners, but there was something missing. Nick called it profile."

Faraday nodded. He'd heard Imber use the same word. Mackenzie, he'd explained drily, wasn't just interested in owning half of Pompey. He wanted more than that. He wanted to be Mr. Portsmouth, to have his name up there in lights. King of the City.

"So?"

"So my job was to make it hard for him to get that profile. Nick said he was after a particular property, really hot for it, a place that would give him everything he'd ever wanted. According to Nick, he was already halfway there. I'm the bloke that comes in with a counter-bid."

"And the property?"

"No one's told you?"

"No. That's why I'm asking."

"Right." Wallace was studying the end of his cheroot. "It's Spit Bank Fort."

"You're serious?"

"Absolutely."

"It's inhabited?"

"Yes. I've been out there. There's a German woman in charge, Gisela Mendel. She's running some kind of language school."

"And she's in on this? Or is the place really for sale?"

"I've no idea."

"That means no."

"That means I've no idea."

There was a knock on the door. Faraday got to his feet. A woman gave him a plate of thick-cut tuna sandwiches and told him she'd left the bill at reception. Back in his chair, attacking the sandwiches, Faraday tried to puzzle his way through this latest development.

Spit Bank was one of three Victorian sea forts guarding the approaches to Portsmouth Harbour. Half a mile out to sea from Southsea beach, it had been built to keep the French at arm's length. If Nick was serious about Mackenzie's thirst for profile, it was the perfect choice: a stubby granite thumb the size of a modest castle. Take a walk along the se afront and you couldn't miss it.

"So you've come in as a rival bidder?"

"That's right. As far as I can gather, Mackenzie opened negotiations after Christmas."

"At what price?"

"I haven't a clue. The asking price is one and a quarter mil and she's definitely been negotiating him up, but I don't know where the bidding stands right now."

"And you?"

"I came in about a fortnight ago. 900,000 contingent on a full survey." He smiled. "Mackenzie can't believe it."

"How does he know?"

"Gisela told him."

"And you've talked to Mackenzie?"

"Twice. Both times on the phone."

"He called you?"

"For sure, straight after he hassled Gisela for my number." Wallace rolled off the bed a moment, reaching for an ashtray, then lay back again. "He thought he'd squared the woman away, nice clear run.

Believe me, I'm the last guy he needs around. Nine hundred grand? You must be off your fucking head?

Wallace's take on Mackenzie's Pompey accent was faultless, and Faraday found himself grinning. The dim outlines of Nick Hayder's sting were at last beginning to emerge.

"You think he'll try and take care of you?"

"One way or another." He nodded. "Yeah."

"How?"

"No idea. The perfect end game has him bunging me a kilo or two of charlie but don't hold your breath."

"How would that work?"

"No one's explained the legend?"

"No." Once again, Faraday shook his head.

Every undercover officer has a legend, an assumed identity which must take him over. The best of them, Faraday knew, were indivisible from their new personalities. They lived, ate and slept what they'd become.

Graham Wallace was playing a twenty-nine-year-old property developer.

He'd made his fortune with a hefty commission on a 98 million shopping plaza in Oman and was back in the UK to enjoy the spoils. He had an office in Putney, a flat overlooking the river, and a Porsche Carrera for his expeditions out of town. A couple of investments had already caught his eye. One of them was a Tudor manor house in Gloucestershire he planned to turn into a health spa. Spit Bank Fort was another.

"As far as Mackenzie's concerned, I'm thinking five-star hotel — gourmet cooking, de luxe accommodation, helicopter platform on the roof for transfers from Heathrow, the works."

"That's huge money."

"You're right. But that's the point. I told him about the Cotswold place, too. It's got fifteen acres. They're asking three mil five."

"Why the detail?"

"Nick wanted him to check me out. The Cotswold place is part of the legend. The bloke that owns it is on side Nick warned him to expect a call from Mackenzie."

"And?"

"Mackenzie phoned him a couple of days ago. They had a long conversation and the bloke finally admitted he'd turned my offer down.

Said he'd made calls of his own and the Oman story didn't check out.

Said he thought the money was dodgy."

"Drugs money?"

"Has to be. He didn't say it in those terms but Mackenzie will draw his own conclusions."

"He thinks you're in the same game?"

"With luck." He nodded. "Yes."

Faraday was eyeing the last of the sandwiches. A legend within a legend. Neat.

"So Mackenzie really does need you off the plot?"

"Exactly. For one thing, I'm after his precious fort. And for another, I'm potential competition. The way I understand it, he's got this city pretty tied up. Me, he doesn't need."

"And you're thinking he'll compromise himself?"

"That was Nick's bid, sure. I just play along."

Faraday reached for the sandwich, impressed by the lengths to which Nick Hayder had gone. Set up a sting operation like this the false ID, the credit cards, the Porsche, the London office, the flat to go with it — and you were looking at a six-figure bill. Putting Mackenzie away and confiscating all his assets would dwarf that sum but there was absolutely no guarantee that this would ever happen. No wonder Nick hadn't been sleeping at night.

"Has this survey of yours happened yet?"

"No."

"But it's kosher? You've got it organised?"

"Oh yes. Structural engineer, architect the lot. Last time I talked to Mackenzie he told me I should forget it. Why piss away all that money, mate?" The Pompey accent again. "Why give yourself the grief?"

"And you?"

"I just laughed."

"So when's the survey due?"

"End of next week." Up on one elbow, Wallace nodded at the phone and flashed Faraday a smile. "Which is why our friend will now be wanting a meet."

It took three attempts on the mobile before DC Jimmy Suttle managed to get through to Paul Winter.

"Where are you?" The older man sounded half asleep.

"Hampshire Terrace."

"What's happening?"

"It's pouring with bloody rain." Suttle was doing his best to find shelter beneath a dripping lime tree across the road. Rush hour traffic was beginning to back up from the nearby roundabout, blocking his view of the terrace. "The lad went into an office. Number 68.

There's a solicitors' on the first two floors and something called Ambrym Productions at the top. Haven't seen him since."

"Ambrym belongs to a woman called Eadie Sykes." Winter smothered a yawn. "She makes videos."

"Should I know her?"

"Only if you're a mate of Faraday's."

"The DIOn Major Crimes?"

"Yeah. She's his shag. Big woman. Australian."

"And the lad?"

"Faraday's son You could try for an interview but don't hold your breath."

"Why not?"

"He's deaf and dumb. Only speaks sign."

Suttle was still trying to work out why a DI's son, Major Crimes for God's sake, should be keeping such bad company. Winter beat him to it.

"Kid's got a reputation for getting himself in the shit. You should have been around a couple of years back." "So what do I do now? Any suggestions?"

"Stay there. Cathy's sending a relief on this job. I'll pick you up."

"Like when?" "Like soon." Suttle heard Winter laughing. "Looks evil out there."

J-J had waited nearly half an hour for Eadie to finish her phone call.

She'd signed that one of the video's backers, the Portsmouth Pathways Partnership, were demanding an update on what was going on. It was taxpayers' money they were handing out and Ambrym were a month late sending in the quarterly progress report. Without the right ticks in the right boxes, there'd be problems releasing the next tranche of funding. And if that happened, according to the Ambrym spreadsheet she'd been obliged to share with the agency, her cash flow would turn to rat shit.

Eadie went through the agreed project milestones for the second time.

Yes, they'd completed the initial research. Yes, they'd touched base with each of the city's drug abuse organisations. Yes, they'd circulated full details of the project to a thousand and one other interested parties including every school in the city, every further education college, every youth group, every neighbourhood forum. And yes, she'd even managed to comply with the positive discrimination requirements by hiring someone with a registered disability.

"That's you," she signed, at last putting the phone down. "How did you get on?"

J-J had spent most of the last half-hour wondering just how much to tell her about Pennington Road. In the end, he decided there was no point even mentioning it. He'd come away empty-handed. With luck, he'd never see the guys with the dog ever again.

"Daniel's sick," he signed.

"What do you mean, sick?"

"Strung out. Hurting."

"Strung out enough not to do the interview?"

J-J hesitated. 90 worth of heroin was the price of the interview. He wasn't at all sure what would happen if they turned up without the accompanying wraps.

"I don't know. He looks really bad to me." He shrugged lamely, then mimed a state of imminent collapse.

Eadie watched him, scenting an opportunity.

"A real mess, you mean? The shakes? The sweats? Clucking?"

J-J nodded, an emphatic yes.

"You think he's got anything stashed away? Emergency supplies?"

A shake of the head.

"And this was when?" She glanced at her watch. "An hour ago?" With the greatest reluctance, a nod.

"Excellent." Eadie was on her feet. "I'll give you a hand with the lights and tripod. The car's out the back."