Deadlight by Graham Hurley Page A

trusted source. Bloke would never let him down. Chiefly because he had so much to lose if he did.
    ‘And what does the source say?’
    ‘The kid’s carrying for Bazza Mackenzie.’
    ‘You believe him?’
    ‘I do, boss. And a couple of tenths of smack might put us in the driving seat. We’ve got a choice, haven’t we? Another trillion hours of overtime or a punt on Geech’s place. Take young Darren out, and Mr Patel can make a decent living again.’
    Cathy Lamb, her head still aching after the ninety-minute harangue from Hartigan, pondered the risks.
    ‘You need back-up?’
    ‘Only Dawn.’
    ‘You’re sure?’
    ‘Positive. If we hit the big one, you might want to bring in a POLSA team. In which case I’ll secure the premises and give you a call.’
    ‘Do that. And listen,’ – she gave him one of her sterner looks – ‘watch your bloody step.’
    Winter and Dawn Ellis shared a microwaved pasty for lunch, a brief stand-up snack in the first-floor room that served as a help-yourself canteen. Ellis looked exhausted. She’d taken another of the breather calls last night, barely an hour after Winter had appeared on her doorstep. She’d done the usual, tried 1471, but it was number withheld again and she’d not been able to get to sleep afterwards, waiting in the darkness in case the phone should ring a second time. When Winter suggested she do something about it – talk to BT or even have a word withCathy Lamb – she shook her head. She’d handle it by herself, she said. She wasn’t that feeble.
    After lunch, they took Ellis’s car, found a magistrate to swear the warrant, and then drove to Somerstown. Early afternoon, the estate was quiet. Leaving the little blazered Peugeot amongst a litter of broken bottles in a lay-by off the street, they took the stairs to the third floor. Shelley Geech’s flat was at the end of the walkway. Winter’s second knock brought her to the door. She was a thin, pallid, harassed-looking woman who refused to return Winter’s smile. She wore a 1999 Pompey away top over patched black jeans and inspected the warrant with barely a flicker of interest.
    ‘That’d be Darren,’ she said.
    The boy’s bedroom lay down the hall. The stench of stale chip fat was overpowering and Winter turned to warn Ellis about a puddle of something evil outside Darren’s door. Shelley Geech was banging around inside the kitchen but finally reappeared, a cigarette dangling from her fingers.
    ‘He’s in here?’ Winter nodded at the bedroom door.
    ‘Still asleep. Likes to lie in.’
    ‘Ever go to school, does he?’
    ‘No.’
    Winter pushed at the door. The curtains were still closed, but under the Pompey poster on the wall he could see the hump of a body in the single bed. A dog lay in a hollow of the duvet, a small cairn terrier. Apart from an MFI wardrobe with its door hanging off, the room was bare of furniture.
    Winter reached down in the half-darkness and shook the boy awake. There was a swishing noise and a sudden flood of sunshine as Ellis pulled the curtains back. The dog yapped and jumped off the bed.
    ‘Geech?’
    A face appeared from under the duvet, puffy with sleep. It took a second or two for Geech to work it out,then he was on his feet by the bed. Grubby white boxers. Stick-thin legs.
    ‘Where’s my fucking dog?’
    ‘Sit down,’ Winter told him.
    The dog started up again, in the hall this time, and Geech made a dive for the open door. Winter caught him and threw him backwards on to the bed. There was a sharp, bony crack as the back of his head hit the wall and Geech yelped with pain. The moment he tried to struggle off the bed, Winter sat on him.
    ‘The wardrobe.’ Winter had turned to Ellis. ‘But watch yourself.’
    Ellis stepped across the room, pulling on a pair of heavy-duty gloves, and began to examine the wardrobe. It was virtually empty inside – grubby-looking jeans hanging on the rail beside a couple of identical bomber jackets, brand new, that were