WEDNESDAY, 19 MARCH 2OO3, 11.50
Winter left his Subaru in the underground car park at Gunwharf Quays and led Suttle up the escalator towards the shopping plaza. It had taken two conversations on the mobile to coax a meet from Trudy Gallagher and, hearing the squawk of seagulls in the background, it gave Winter no comfort at all to realise the obvious. Misty Gallagher lived in one of the Gunwharf apartments overlooking the waterfront.
Trudy had gone back to mum.
The Gumbo Parlour had only just opened. A harassed-looking waitress was at the back of the restaurant, polishing glasses. Winter selected a table by the window and took the seat with the best view.
Beyond the walkway, on the very edge of the harbour, contractors were working on the first stages of the Spinnaker Tower, a 500-foot extravaganza that would, hoped the council, put Pompey on the national map. Winter watched as another bucket of concrete was winched slowly into place, wondering what kind of difference a structure like this would really make. Fans of the tower banged on about the boldness of the gesture, how it spoke of confidence and a new start for the city, but Winter was rather fond of the other Portsmouth, scruffy, blunt, and perfectly happy to muddle through.
Suttle was already browsing the lunchtime choices. Moules a I'Americaine, he thought, sounded nice.
"We're having coffee," Winter told him, 'unless you're paying."
He settled back in his chair, watching a sailing dinghy on the harbour fighting to get out of the way of a huge inbound ferry. Trudy had promised to meet them at noon, and she still had ten minutes in hand.
"You should meet her mum," he told Suttle. "In fact you probably will."
"That's a promise?"
"Health warning. Anything in trousers under thirty, you're talking serious risk assessement."
Misty Gallagher, over the years, had become a legend. Winter had been to parties where she'd taken three men to bed, two of them CID, one a convicted bank robber, and left all of them the best of friends. Bazza Mackenzie, impressed by her contacts as well as her looks, had been shagging her since the mid nineties, setting her up in a series of properties he'd bought for development. More recently, he'd installed her in a third-floor apartment in one of the Gunwharf blocks beyond the shopping complex, a 600,000 gesture to say she still mattered. Lately, though, explained Winter, the relationship appeared to have come under some strain.
"How?" Suttle was still eyeing the menu.
"Italian bird, much younger than Mist. Bit of style, bit of class, doesn't need a bag over her head."
"Misty's a dog?"
"Far from it, body to die for even now, but the woman's got a real mouth on her, never knows when to shut up. Pompey girl…" Winter beckoned the waitress. "Comes with the territory."
The waitress took the order. Two cappuccinos. Suttle watched her making her way back towards the coffee machine.
"So where's the father?"
"Trudy's dad? Christ knows. His name's Gallagher but I can't remember ever meeting him. Mist's real name is Marlene, by the way, and there are blokes in the job still call her that. Drives her mad."
"So why Misty?"
"You don't want to know."
"Go on."
Winter shook his head, telling him it didn't matter, but Suttle was insistent and Winter finally gave in, recounting another party trick Misty used to pull. The story revolved around Misty's chest, of which she was extremely proud, and Winter had got to the bit where Misty removed her top when he became aware of a tall, striking figure in a tight red skirt and high leather boots.
"You're really fucking sad, Paul Winter." She sank into the spare chair. "You know that?"
Trudy was unrecognisable. Last time Suttle had seen her, stumbling into the back of an ambulance in the middle of the night, she'd stepped out of a Salvation Army poster. Now, barely half a day later, she might have graced the cover of a fashion magazine. Suttle couldn't take his eyes off her.
"Coffee? Something to eat?" He was already on his feet.
"Latte. With tons of sugar. And one of them Danish pastries. No' she was fumbling in her bag for a cigarette 'make that two."
With Suttle gone, Winter leaned forward across the table. Trudy catching him in mid story hadn't embarrassed him in the slightest.
Quite the reverse.
"How is she, then, that mum of yours?"
"Off her trolley. As usual."
"Seeing lots of her, are you?"
"Not if I can help it. She's pissed me off, if you want the truth.
Seriously pissed me off."
"Why's that?"
Trudy didn't answer. She lit the cigarette, and Winter watched her as she tipped her head back, expelling a long plume of blue smoke.
Trudy's eyes had followed Suttle to the counter.
"What's his name, then? Your mate?"
"Jimmy." Winter was looking at her right hand. "What happened to your nails?"
"What?"
"Your nails? There and there?" He reached across. The nails on her index and ring fingers had been savagely trimmed. "Your new Scouse friends, was it? Fighting them off?"
"What are you on about?" Trudy rolled her eyes. She'd come here as a favour. Any more of this shit, and she'd be out the door.
"I'm trying to find out what happened, love. We're on your side."
"Yeah?" She was watching Suttle again, weaving his way back through the tables with a coffee and a plate of pastries. "Is he local then, your mate?"
Winter ignored the question. He wanted to know what had happened last night. Trudy had been the subject of an assault. It was Winter's job to find out how and why. Doing it over coffee was one way. There were others.
"That's a threat." She moved her bag to make a space for the pastries.
"I don't do threats."
"It's not a threat. I'm just telling you the way it is."
"That's my business, ain't it?"
"Wrong, love. Last night made it ours."
Trudy ignored him. The smile was for Suttle.
"Mr. Grumpy here says you're local. That right?"
"Yeah." Suttle nodded. "Sugar?"
"Three." She pushed the cup towards him. "Where d'you live then?
Somewhere nice?"
"Petersfield," Winter grunted. "And he's married."
"Bollocks am I." Suttle grinned at her. "Has he asked you about last night yet?"
"Yeah, and I told him to fuck off so don't you start."
"Can't have been nice, though, can it? Dr. Dre's crap enough with your clothes on. Naked, trussed up like a fucking turkey, you wouldn't have a brain left."
In spite of herself, Trudy began to laugh.
"That kind of shit's for white kids wishing they were black. That's even sadder than him."
"Who?"
"Him. Uncle Paul." She nodded at Winter. "He used to come sniffing round my mum. Still does when he's desperate."
"You never said, boss." Suttle raised an eyebrow.
"You never asked." Winter had developed an intense interest in the Gosport ferry. "And don't jump to conclusions, either. Mist and I? We were never more than ' "Good friends?" Trudy started to laugh again. "That's Chinese for disappointment, ain't it? That's what my mum says. No time for all that good friends shit, not her…"
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning she'll shag anything if she thinks there's money in it. And, believe me, I should fucking know."
There was an abrupt silence while Trudy took a bite of pastry. Suttle glanced at Winter, then offered her a paper napkin from the sheaf in the middle of the table.
"Listen," he began. "About last night…"
Trudy shook her head, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"There's no way you're gonna get me to talk about it," she muttered.
"So don't even try."
Winter ignored the warning.
"What about Dave Pullen, then?"
"Dave Pullen's a wanker."
"He says he hasn't seen you for a couple of days."
"No, and he won't either. Not if I have anything to do with it."
"Why's that?"
"None of your business."
Winter studied her a moment, then leaned forward and helped himself to the second pastry. When Trudy tried to get it back, he told her to behave herself.
"Listen, Trude, we're trying to help you. Maybe you met the Scouse kids here, Gunwharf, Forty Below. Maybe it was Southsea, Guildhall Walk, some club or other. Tell you the truth, it doesn't matter. All you need to know is it wasn't you they were after, not the lovely Trudy. But then you've probably worked that out yourself."
"Yeah?" For the first time she sounded uncertain.
Winter leaned forward again. The pastry was still intact.
"What you have to understand, Trude, is this. There's a war on out there. The Scousers started it. They were the ones who ' "But they were really nice. Really funny."
"I'm sure they were. And then they tied you up and left you. You're not telling me you've forgotten all that?" He paused, letting the question sink in. He had her attention now, he knew it.
"No," she said at length. "I ain't forgotten that."
"And the other stuff?"
"What other stuff?"
"The bruises." Winter touched his lower body. "Here and here. Where they whacked you. We had a torch, remember. You want to tell us how it happened?"
"No."
"Not even if there's a chance they'll be back for more?"
"They won't be."
"How do you know?"
"I just do."
"Hundred per cent certain?"
"Yeah." She nodded bitterly. "One hundred fucking per cent."
Winter looked at her for a long moment. Then he returned the second pastry to her plate.
"Here." He tried to cheer her up with a smile. "Compliments of the house."
"No, thanks." She shook her head and began to get up. "You have it."
Faraday found Eadie Sykes wolfing a sandwich in her office. She worked out of three small rooms above a solicitor's practice in Hampshire Terrace. Faraday's phone call from Whale Island had produced an invitation to share her take-out lunch but it was obvious at first glance that Faraday had arrived too late.
He was looking at the debris on the desk beside the PC, suddenly realising how hungry he was. Two pots of beans. A salad. Something with rice and little chunks of chorizo. All gone.
"Your boy," Eadie said through a mouthful of cheese and sun-dried tomato. "You ought to feed him in the mornings."
"I would if he was ever around."
Faraday found a perch for himself on a corner of the desk. J-J had been working part-time for Eadie for more than a year, first as a stills photographer on a Dunkirk anniversary film, and now as a researcher and cameraman on her latest production. Some weeks, he saw more of J-J's boss than his son.
"So where is he?"
"Out." She glanced at her watch. "Gone to look for more junkies."
"He was doing that last week. And the week before."
"Yeah, and the week before that. Finding them's one thing, trying to do anything half sensible is quite another. They're hopeless, all of them. Never out of bed. Never turn up. Never do what they've promised. Still, if it wasn't a problem, we wouldn't be doing a video about it, so I guess there's an upside."
She was a tall, big-boned woman with the grace and ease of a natural athlete. Too much Australian sun had wrecked her complexion but she cared as little for make-up as she bothered with fashion. Most days, she wore jeans and a sweatshirt. This morning's was a souvenir from a cheap week in Fuerteventura.
Faraday swopped the desk for a chair in the corner, waiting for her to finish sweeping J-J's debris into a black plastic sack. After Marta, he'd promised himself never again to make any assumptions about a woman, yet here he was, back in a relationship that felt all too real.
Part of it, he'd concluded, was simple admiration. Never had he met anyone, male or female, so single-minded, so gutsy, so undaunted by whatever odds life stacked against her. Even Nick Hayder was a pale imitation of Eadie Sykes.
"So how's it going?" Faraday nodded towards the PC but Eadie's attention had been caught by a tiny television on the other side of the office.
"The UN have abandoned the border and Reuters are reporting explosions in Basra." She shook her head, disgusted. "It's definitely going to happen, Joe. Tomorrow morning at the latest."
"I meant your video."
"Ah…" Eadie looked briefly confused. "In that case I'd have to say slowly."
"Because of the junkies?"
"Because of the absence of junkies." She finally abandoned the television and turned to face him. "This is a beautiful city, my love.
Smack, cocaine, whatever you fancy, it's all there. Show me a junkie, one I can trust, I'll write you a cheque."
Faraday felt as if he'd been sharing this battle for an entire year.
Eadie was determined to make the definitive video about hard-core drug abuse. She wanted to explore, in the bluntest possible terms, what narcotics actually did to young people. No gimmicks. No fancy camera angles. No homilies. Just a candid account, passed on to a generation who in Eadie's opinion deserved a glimpse or two of the unvarnished truth.
To this end, with infinite patience, she'd stitched together a series of grants to fund the project. She'd twisted arms and bent ears. She'd knocked on doors and refused to take no for an answer. And slowly, cheque by cheque, the sheer force of her conviction had begun to bring in the cash.
Contributions had come in from prominent Portsmouth businesses. The Hampshire Police Authority had made a grant. The city council's Crime and Disorder Partnership had offered support. Other monies had turned up from God knows where until finally it fell to a govenment body the Portsmouth Pathways Partnership to match-fund the rest. With nearly 30,000 in the bank, Eadie Sykes was ready to shoot the documentary that would make her name. All she needed now was junkies.
"So where's the boy?"
"Down in Old Portsmouth. He came across someone at the Students' Union who thinks they've got the perfect answer. Happens every day. All you can do is say yes."
"And J-J's hopeful?"
"J-J's always hopeful. Christ, you should know that. It's your fault."
This was as close as Eadie ever got to offering a compliment, and Faraday took it as such. J-J's deafness had been with him since birth, and Faraday had spent most of the last two decades trying to reassure his son that it didn't really matter. Blind, he'd have been in some difficulty. Lame, he'd be dependent on someone else to push him around. Deaf, he simply had to figure out other ways of hearing.
Having a mother around would have helped but sadly that had never been possible.
"When's he due back?"
"When he turns up. You know J-J. Give him half a chance, he'll talk the guy to death."
They both laughed. J-J had loaded standard British Sign Language with a repertoire all of his own and Faraday, on occasions too numerous to count, had watched him transform potentially embarrassing encounters into wild flurries of body language and laughter. For reasons he didn't fully understand, his son had the gift of getting through, of using his smile and his eyes and those extraordinarily gawky limbs to do the work of his poor mute tongue. Had he not been handicapped, the boy would probably be earning a fortune selling real estate or double glazing. Thank God, Faraday often thought, for deafness.
"So who was this contact?"
"Her name's Sarah. She knows a guy called Daniel Kelly. Heavily into smack." Eadie was back in front of the television.
"Who?"
"Daniel Kelly. J-J thinks he's a student, too."
Daniel Kelly? Faraday tried hard to place the name but drew a blank.
Eadie was still peering at the tiny screen.
"Blair's banging on about a just war again." She shook her head. "Can you believe that?"
J-J had the address written down. Chantry Court was a sought-after block of flats within sight of the cathedral. The parking space beneath the building was visible from the street and few of the residents had settled for less than a BMW. After weeks of nosing round squats, bed sits and chaotic student lets, J-J found it difficult to believe that his contact at the university had sent him here.
The speakerphone beside the locked front door controlled access to the flats. J-J checked his piece of paper again and pressed number 8. He counted to five, then held his tiny Sony cassette player to the microphone beneath the row of buttons. The tape played a prerecorded message from Eadie Sykes establishing the fact that the young man outside was deaf and dumb, and that he'd appreciate getting inside to meet the tenant. This message, repeated four times, was Eadie's idea, one of the many bridges she'd thrown up between J-J and the realities of video pre-production.
J-J had his hand on the door. A tiny tremor told him he'd won access.
Number 8 was on the first floor. A door at the end of the corridor was already open, a stooped figure silhouetted against the light from inside. He looked older than the usual student, mid twenties, maybe more.
"Sarah said you'd be round." He stepped back. "Come in."
The flat, though smaller than J-J had expected, was expensively furnished with chintzy covers on the plump armchairs, a big wide screen TV, and piles of books everywhere, many of them brand new. J-J stood before a water colour on the back wall. A livid sunset hung over a skyline he recognised: the tiny squat church steeple, the pitch of the neighbouring roofs, the gleam of the enveloping creek, the memory of curlews stalking the mud flats at low tide.
J-J glanced over his shoulder. Daniel was wearing stained corduroy trousers and a pink button-down shirt that hadn't seen an iron for weeks. His head was unusually large, a cartoon head too big for its body, and there was a strange puffiness about his face. Discount the absence of bruises, and he might just have been in a fight.
Daniel plainly hadn't a clue what to expect next.
J-J nodded at the picture on the wall, then mimed taking a photo, briefly touching his chest in ownership before clapping his hands. His enthusiasm for the water colour was all the more convincing for being genuine.
Daniel looked from one to the other, then came the beginnings of a smile.
"You know Bosham?"
J-J nodded at once. Lip-reading had been an early skill, the key that unlocked conversations like these.
From the depths of his denim jacket he produced a single typed sheet he'd printed and photocopied weeks ago. Three briefs paragraphs set out the thinking behind the video.
Ambrym Productions wanted to explore the realities of drug-taking. They wanted to know how, and why, and where next. They wanted to get inside the heads of the people at the sharpest end and offer them the opportunity of sharing their experience.
The video was destined for schools all over the country. Kids would see it and make judgements of their own about the rights and wrongs of using drugs. Print material posters, teaching notes would complete the package.
Saying yes to J-J meant agreeing to a videotaped interview, an hour at the most. The questions would be straightforward. The interviewee would do most of the talking. No one was interested in point-scoring, or preaching, or any form of sensationalism. Was that too high a price for the good a video like this might do?
Daniel sank onto the sofa beside the audio stack and studied the single sheet of paper. When he finally looked up, his eyes were swimming behind the thick-rimmed glasses.
"You know Sarah well?"
J-J shook his head.
"But you liked her?"
J-J nodded. When his hands shaped an hourglass, Daniel at last managed a smile.
"She used to be my girlfriend." He picked up J-J's sheet again. "How do I know this is for real?"
J-J's hand returned to his jacket. Eadie had given him a sheaf of business cards. He passed one across, miming a telephone call.
Daniel examined the card.
"I can keep this?"
J-J nodded.
"When do you need an answer?"
J-J touched his watch, then raised his hands, palms up, thumbs turned out. Can't say.
"Soon?"
J-J gestured round, encompassing the entire room with a sweep of his arm. Then he mimed the camera, the lights, the microphone, the whole circus that would commit this man to videotape. Daniel looked up at him, watching the performance, saying nothing. Finally, J-J touched his watch again and pressed his hands together, a supplicatory gesture that the student seemed to understand.
"Very soon?" His eyes went back to the sheet. He read it for a second time, then put it to one side. Eadie's card still lay on the arm of the sofa.
"I'll have to think about it." He picked up the card. "OK?"
It took Cathy Lamb to voice what Suttle was trying to get across. The DI had convened the meeting immediately after lunch in her office at Kingston Crescent. Other members of the Crime Squad were still out, scouring the city for the Scousers.
"We agree the girl won't say anything about last night." She was looking at Suttle. "What else isn't she telling us?"
"I don't know, boss. But you're right, there's lots going on there.
She's well pissed off."
"So would you be," Winter said. "The way those animals treated her."
"I'm not sure sure it was them, though."
"They phoned us," Winter reminded him. "They gave us an address. How did they know where to find her? Coincidence? Just happened to be passing by?"
"Of course not. But what if they'd gone looking for Pullen? What if they thought he was the guy who'd grassed them up?"
"He lives in Ashburton Road."
"Yeah, but he also owns the place in Bystock Road. Maybe they confused the two. Easily done."
Lamb hadn't taken her eyes off Suttle.
"Go on," she said.
"OK." Suttle leaned forward, clearing a space on the low table Lamb reserved for her dieting magazines. "We do the door in Pennington Road. They bail out of number 34. Pretty soon after that, they turn up in Bystock Road. They want a word with Pullen. They knock on the door. Somebody answers. They get inside, find the girl upstairs tied to the bed."
"Who's this somebody?"
"God knows. Pullen's got half the world in there. Asylum seekers, blokes on the dole, all sorts. You know the way it works, benefit cheques made out to the landlord, hundreds of quid a week for doing sod all."
"So why was the place empty when you arrived?"
"Because the Scouse kids put the fear of God up them. Middle of the night. Threats and menaces. Half a brain, you bail out, don't you?"
"And the music?"
"Didn't happen till later. Remember the statement we took off the bloke next door? Said it woke him up round two in the morning? The music was the Scouse kids' contribution. They found the girl on the bed, turned on the music, then fucked off and belled us. The rest'
Suttle shrugged 'we know about."
Lamb was still putting together the chain of events, testing it link by link.
"So who tied the girl up?"
"Pullen." It was Winter at last. "The boy's right. It was probably Pullen that gave her the whacking as well. I must be getting old."
"But why would he want to whack her?"
"Because she'd let the Scouse lads chat her up. They'd all met earlier, some bar or other. The Scouse kids got alongside her. She liked them. You could tell that when we talked to her just now. She thought they were OK. They made her laugh. Am I right, Jimmy?"
Winter's question drew a nod from Suttle. Winter turned back to Cathy Lamb. "So from there on, it kicks off. A couple of pints does it for Pullen. He's seen what's going on and he takes it personally so, bosh, he has her out of there. Big row. Toys out the pram. He takes her round to Bystock Road, gives her a hiding, then ties her to the bed in case she has any other plans, and buggers off. He loves her really, of course he does, but there's just so much a bloke can take. Who knows?
Maybe he was planning to come back later. Maybe he was thinking flowers and a nice pot of tea, but we'll never know because the Scouse kids beat him to it. Prat that he is."
"We can prove this?"
"No way, unless any of them talk. Pullen won't, for sure. The Scousers we can't find. That leaves Trudy."
"No chance?"
"None. Kids in this city, kids with her background, they'd walk on broken glass before they talked to us. Any case, what are we trying to stand up? Kidnap? Assault? Happens all the time, blokes making a point or two."
"You're saying he tied her up, Paul. You're telling me he beat her."
"Sure, but it's easier than conversation, isn't it?"
There was a long silence. Winter was right and they all knew it.
Nailing down the truth about Trudy Gallagher could swallow hundreds of hours of CID time without the faintest chance of a conviction.
"OK." Lamb got to her feet. "Here's the way it goes from now on.
Secretan's a realist. He wants the Scouse kids out of here. He's not fussed about court, he just wants them gone. Doesn't matter where but it has to be soon."
"Sane man." Winter was looking positively cheerful. "So what's the plan?"
"In plain English, we get up their arses. That's Secretan's phrase, not mine. From now on, he wants a car outside. He wants them watched, high-visibility. He wants them hassled. He wants us in their face. He wants them so pissed off they call it a day."
"Outside where, boss?" It was Suttle.
"Pennington Road. They'll come back, bound to. They know we've got nothing on them. You were there, both of you. Plastic wraps, pair of scales, bicarb, icing sugar, but bugger all else. They must have kept the gear with them."
"Scenes of Crime?" Winter this time.
"Jacked it in an hour ago. DNA by the yard from the blood but it takes us nowhere. This is a war, Paul, and neither side has any interest in talking to us."
"OK." Winter nodded. "So what do we do?"
"You're the guys in the car." She smiled down at him. "Outside."
J-J was back in Hampshire Terrace by the time the girl from the university put her head round Ambrym Productions' office door. He recognised her at once. Small, pretty, Prada T-shirt, big silver earrings. Sarah.
Eadie Sykes was looking at video rushes on the PC, a pair of headphones giving her the privacy she needed. J-J touched her lightly on the shoulder. He'd found a chair for Sarah.
"Coffee?" he signed.
By the time he returned from the tiny kitchen along the corridor, Eadie and the student were locked in conversation. She'd just been called by her friend Dan. She'd felt slightly guilty giving J-J his name in the first place and now she wanted to be absolutely sure that this video of theirs, this project, was for real.
"Absolutely for real."
Eadie went through the funding, showed her letters of support from local luminaries, outlined the plans they'd made for distribution once the video was ready. She and J-J were facilitators, she kept saying.
On the one hand there was a country flooded with drugs. On the other, nationwide, millions of kids potentially at risk. All Ambrym wanted to do was level the ground in between. No ego trips. No exploitation.
Just the truth.
The girl nodded. She wanted to be convinced, J-J could tell. She was on a media course herself, she understood about documentary work, she'd be more than happy to lend a hand, but still there was something holding her back.
Eadie was pressing her about Daniel. How come he'd got into such trouble with drugs?
"He's a strange man. It's difficult…" She shook her head.
"How do you mean, strange?"
"It's like…" She frowned, hunting for the right phrase. "It's like he's really unstable, you know what I mean? I've been around him now for a couple of years and I've watched him getting worse. It's partly his age, partly the fact he's got so much money. That makes him an outsider at the uni. It shouldn't but it does."
Daniel, she explained, had come to higher education late. His father was a Manchester media lawyer, incredibly successful, incredibly busy.
His parents had divorced when Daniel was ten, and he'd spent his adolescence with an elderly aunt and uncle in Chester. After A levels, in a doomed attempt to break free, he'd gone to Australia where his mother was contemplating the wreckage of her third marriage. The last person she'd wanted to see was her son, and after a couple of years wandering around on a generous allowance from his dad, Daniel had returned to the UK, more introverted than ever. Then came a long period of drift, totally aimless, before he woke up one morning and decided to go to university.
"Here?"
"Bristol. Portsmouth was his third choice."
"What did he want to read?"
"Russian literature. He wanted to be a novelist. He thought the Russian might help."
Sarah had bumped into him one night when she was celebrating a friend's twenty-first. Dan had been sitting by himself in a pub called the Still and West. And he'd been crying.
"Why?" Eadie hadn't touched her coffee.
"I've no idea, not the first. I talked to him a bit, even let him buy me a drink."
"You don't think that was a ploy? Crying?"
"Not at all. Dan doesn't do ploys. He's just not that…" She paused again, looking down at her hands.
"Clever?"
"No, he's clever, definitely, probably too clever. No, he just doesn't do all that manipulative stuff. Maybe that's half the problem."
She'd begun to see more and more of him. Thanks to his rich dad he'd had the flat in Old Portsmouth from the start, and she used to go round for coffee and a chat. He'd made no demands on her, nothing physical, no anguished pleas to stay the night, but at the start of the next academic year she'd found herself with nowhere to live and when he'd offered her the spare bedroom she'd said yes.
"I was grateful. I still am. He saved my life last year. Decent accommodation in this city can be a nightmare."
"And you were close to him?"
"We were friends. Good friends. But that's all."
"And now?"
"We're still good friends."
"You still live there?"
"No." She shook her head. "It became impossible after he got really heavily into the drugs. I couldn't bear it. He's killing himself. He just doesn't care any more. That's hard to take."
"Did you ever score for him?"
The question took her by surprise. So direct.
"Yes," she said at last. "A couple of times I made a phone call, if you call that scoring. It's like pizza really. You phone a number.
Then the stuff just turns up."
"This was recently?"
"No. Back last year before I moved out. Both times he was desperate, just couldn't get anything together. It's pathetic really. I hated it, hated doing it, but it made him better for a bit so I suppose… I dunno…" She shrugged.
"Did you ever try and get him off it?"
"All the time. He knows what I think about drugs."
"What was he using?"
"Heroin. Sometimes cocaine, too, but mainly smack."
"Regularly?"
"Every four hours. I used to count them. He said it was the best friend he'd ever had. Heroin? A friend? Can you believe that?"
"And now? He's still using?"
"Definitely. I go and see him from time to time and it's obvious. I've still got a key to the flat. Dan made me keep it."
"You're absolutely sure he's still using?"
"Yeah. Like I just said, he has to it's the only way he can keep functioning." She paused. "He's got money. He knows how to use a phone. What else do you need?"
Eadie pulled an editing pad towards her and scribbled a note. Sarah looked suddenly alarmed.
"You're not going to…?" She nodded at the pad.
"No, of course not. Memory like a sieve." Eadie looked up. "What about his father?"
"Dan never sees him. His dad pays a standing order every month but that's it."
"Have you ever thought of getting in touch yourself?"
"I did once. He drove down from Manchester, took me out for a meal, told me how worried he was. That was after I'd moved out."
"Did he go and see Daniel?"
"No."
"How do you know?"
"I checked with Dan later. His dad hadn't even rung."
Eadie finally reached for her coffee. J-J stood behind her, wondering where this story might go next, beginning to understand the kind of cage Daniel Kelly had made for himself.
Sarah was still staring at the notepad. "I'd never have mentioned Dan in the first place," she muttered, 'except he's so articulate. He'd be perfect for what you need. Perfect."
"Is that why you got in touch with us?"
"Partly, yes. But it's more than that. Something has to happen in Dan's life. Something has to give him a shake. He'd be good on your video. He'd be excellent. Maybe that's what he needs."
"Bit of self-respect?"
"Exactly."
The thought prompted a slow nod from Eadie. She put the pad to one side.
"I get the impression that some of this decision's down to you."
"What decision?"
"Whether or not Daniel agrees to be interviewed. Would that be right?"
"Yes, I suppose it would. He has to be the one to say it. It has to come from him in the end. But yes, he's definitely asked my advice."
"So what do you think?"
"Me?" Sarah's eyes strayed to the light stands propped in the corner, to the neat little Sony digital nestling in the open camera box. "I think J-J should go back to the flat again. After I've made a call."
J-J returned to Old Portsmouth within the hour. He didn't have to bother with the entry phone because Daniel was up in the window of his flat, watching the street below. J-J felt the lock give under his fingers and pushed in through the big front door. Daniel was waiting for him upstairs, pale and fretful. His palm was moist when he shook J-J's outstretched hand.
"Sarah phoned," he said at once. "And the answer's yes." J-J reached out to pat him on the shoulder, a congratulatory gesture that made Daniel retreat at once into the safety of the flat. J-J watched his hands, the way they crabbed up and down his bare arms. The insides of both elbows were livid with bruises.
Daniel had something else to say, something important. He fixed J-J with his big yellow eyes. He spoke very slowly, exaggerated lip movements, spelling it out.
"I need a favour."
J-J cocked an eyebrow. What?
"I have to make a phone call but the number won't answer." He stumbled through a clumsy mime. "You understand me?"
Another nod from J-J, more guarded this time.
"I've got an address. I'll call a cab. All you have to do is knock on the door and ask for Terry. Give Terry my name. Tell him Daniel from Old Portsmouth. That's all you have to say. Terry. Daniel from Old Portsmouth. Then we can do the interview. OK?"
J-J glanced down and found himself looking at a fifty-pound note.
"Difficult," he signed.
"What?"
"Hard."
"I don't understand." Daniel plunged his hand into his pocket. Two more notes, twenties this time.
"Please…" J-J tried to fend him off.
"Just take the money. Go on, take it. Terry. Daniel from Old Portsmouth. Then we can do the interview. Is that too much to ask?"
He produced a mobile. J-J guessed he was phoning for the taxi.
Daniel folded the phone into his pocket. Patches of sweat darkened his shirt.
"Why don't you wait in the street?" He tapped his watch and held up five fingers. "The cab'll be here in no time."