huge expanse of living room, locked into a lengthy call on his mobile. Winter had tried to bring the conversation to an end but Wishart had simply waved him away. He was talking to a client in San Diego. The rest of this pantomime could wait.
In the end it was Suttle who had presented Wishart with his bill for the evening, another credit card slip, again for eight hundred. Wishart had looked at it and shrugged.
‘So?’
‘We’re suggesting some of that money paid for cocaine.’
‘On the contrary. All of it goes to Maddox.’
‘So why pay Richardson, Mr Wishart?’
‘Because that’s the way I choose to do it. It’s very collegiate here. I pay Stephen. Stephen pays Maddox. We meet regularly. We enjoy ourselves. Stephen takes a modest sum for food and drink and Maddox gets the rest.’
‘Richardson is running a brothel, Mr Wishart. He’s living off immoral earnings. That’s an offence.’
‘Wrong. Stephen is an extraordinarily generous host. He introduced me to Maddox and for that I’m deeply grateful. If I choose to give Maddox money, that isentirely my prerogative. Unless, that is, there’s a law against screwing. Have we finished? Or must I phone my solicitor?’
Winter had dearly wanted to arrest Wishart, drive him down to the Bridewell and bang him up for the night, but both men knew he had no grounds. Wishart was right. Screwing Maddox and paying the going rate wasn’t an offence. Only a drugs charge, properly evidenced, could possibly stick.
Now Winter looked glumly at his watch. The girl Maddox was late. Across the table Suttle was toying with his coffee.
‘How many other blokes do we think she’s shagging?’
‘Half a dozen, at least.’
Winter had retrieved an appointments book from the Camber Court flat, the passing weeks littered with Richardson’s neat entries. The code had been elementary. M stood for Maddox, C for the other girl, Cécile. Punters had likewise been reduced to a single capital letter, but by matching the entries to the credit card slips Winter had quickly been able to confirm the information he’d acquired from the Portsea cleaner. These were well-known names from the Portsmouth social register: a Persian restaurateur, a successful young accountant, a local property developer, two Premiership footballers and a Southampton-based sports agent had fallen for Maddox’s charms, and none of them had paid less than eight hundred pounds. Working an average of three nights a week, Winter estimated she was turning over nearly ten grand a month.
Suttle was doing the sums.
‘That’s three hundred quid an hour. Give or take.’
‘Yeah? But can you imagine screwing a tosser like Wishart? There wouldn’t be a cheque big enough.’
Winter got to his feet. He needed to touch base with Cathy Lamb again and he wanted to do it in the privacy of the corridor. She’d been on first thing, before he’d set off for the surgery, and while she was delighted at Singer’s arrest she was demanding yet more scalps from
Plover
. In the year since Bazza Mackenzie’s effective retirement the local market for good-quality charlie had been wide open to every passing scrot and Cathy was determined to keep the supply chain well and truly disrupted. So where did Richardson source his goodies? And which doors should the squad be kicking in next?
In the corridor, on the point of phoning Cathy Lamb on his mobile, Winter spotted Maddox. She was standing beside the water cooler, chatting to one of the uniformed PCs. Catching sight of Winter, she gave him a smile. She was wearing a long suede coat, beautifully cut, and a pair of black leather ankle boots. Folds of blue and white were tucked around her neck and it took a moment or two for Winter to realise he was looking at a Pompey scarf.
She stepped towards him, extending a hand. Black gloves, the softest touch of leather.
‘Newcastle at home.’ She was unpeeling the scarf. ‘Three o’clock kick-off.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘Of
In the end it was Suttle who had presented Wishart with his bill for the evening, another credit card slip, again for eight hundred. Wishart had looked at it and shrugged.
‘So?’
‘We’re suggesting some of that money paid for cocaine.’
‘On the contrary. All of it goes to Maddox.’
‘So why pay Richardson, Mr Wishart?’
‘Because that’s the way I choose to do it. It’s very collegiate here. I pay Stephen. Stephen pays Maddox. We meet regularly. We enjoy ourselves. Stephen takes a modest sum for food and drink and Maddox gets the rest.’
‘Richardson is running a brothel, Mr Wishart. He’s living off immoral earnings. That’s an offence.’
‘Wrong. Stephen is an extraordinarily generous host. He introduced me to Maddox and for that I’m deeply grateful. If I choose to give Maddox money, that isentirely my prerogative. Unless, that is, there’s a law against screwing. Have we finished? Or must I phone my solicitor?’
Winter had dearly wanted to arrest Wishart, drive him down to the Bridewell and bang him up for the night, but both men knew he had no grounds. Wishart was right. Screwing Maddox and paying the going rate wasn’t an offence. Only a drugs charge, properly evidenced, could possibly stick.
Now Winter looked glumly at his watch. The girl Maddox was late. Across the table Suttle was toying with his coffee.
‘How many other blokes do we think she’s shagging?’
‘Half a dozen, at least.’
Winter had retrieved an appointments book from the Camber Court flat, the passing weeks littered with Richardson’s neat entries. The code had been elementary. M stood for Maddox, C for the other girl, Cécile. Punters had likewise been reduced to a single capital letter, but by matching the entries to the credit card slips Winter had quickly been able to confirm the information he’d acquired from the Portsea cleaner. These were well-known names from the Portsmouth social register: a Persian restaurateur, a successful young accountant, a local property developer, two Premiership footballers and a Southampton-based sports agent had fallen for Maddox’s charms, and none of them had paid less than eight hundred pounds. Working an average of three nights a week, Winter estimated she was turning over nearly ten grand a month.
Suttle was doing the sums.
‘That’s three hundred quid an hour. Give or take.’
‘Yeah? But can you imagine screwing a tosser like Wishart? There wouldn’t be a cheque big enough.’
Winter got to his feet. He needed to touch base with Cathy Lamb again and he wanted to do it in the privacy of the corridor. She’d been on first thing, before he’d set off for the surgery, and while she was delighted at Singer’s arrest she was demanding yet more scalps from
Plover
. In the year since Bazza Mackenzie’s effective retirement the local market for good-quality charlie had been wide open to every passing scrot and Cathy was determined to keep the supply chain well and truly disrupted. So where did Richardson source his goodies? And which doors should the squad be kicking in next?
In the corridor, on the point of phoning Cathy Lamb on his mobile, Winter spotted Maddox. She was standing beside the water cooler, chatting to one of the uniformed PCs. Catching sight of Winter, she gave him a smile. She was wearing a long suede coat, beautifully cut, and a pair of black leather ankle boots. Folds of blue and white were tucked around her neck and it took a moment or two for Winter to realise he was looking at a Pompey scarf.
She stepped towards him, extending a hand. Black gloves, the softest touch of leather.
‘Newcastle at home.’ She was unpeeling the scarf. ‘Three o’clock kick-off.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘Of
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