course I am. I have a season ticket. I even go to the away games when it’s somewhere interesting.’
Winter caught the PC’s eye. Like Suttle, his brain seemed to have disengaged.
‘This way, love.’ Winter shepherded her towards the corridor that led to the interview suite. The scent of her perfume took him back to last night. He foughtbriefly against the tide of images, and lost. Wishart, he thought grimly. Lucky bastard.
Suttle was already on his feet when Maddox stepped into the bareness of the interview room. He’d obviously decided to play the tough cop.
‘Take a seat.’ He nodded briskly at the empty chair across the table from his own. ‘This shouldn’t take long.’
Maddox hung the Pompey scarf on the back of the chair and unbelted the coat. The white T-shirt beneath was tucked loosely into a pair of deep burgundy corduroy trousers, and Winter was impressed by the fact that she hadn’t dressed to accentuate her figure. Given what he’d seen last night, every other slapper in this city would have gone for the tightest of tops. A truly class act, he thought.
Maddox settled herself in the chair while Suttle clarified the legal situation. She wasn’t under caution and she was free to leave whenever she chose. At the same time, with her permission, he’d like to record the interview in case there was any need to refer to it later.
‘Of course.’ She shrugged. ‘Why not?’
Winter was still looking at the T-shirt. It carried the image of a young man’s face, a mop of dark hair over the vaguest of gazes.
‘Who’s that then?’ Winter nodded at her chest.
Maddox had peeled off her gloves. A black-lacquered nail touched the front of her T-shirt.
‘You mean this guy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Arthur Rimbaud.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s a poet. Or was.’
‘You buy it off the shelf?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pompey?’
‘Paris.’ She settled herself back in the chair. ‘Do you know anything about French literature? Only Rimbaud was a bit of a legend. Wild child, really. Decamped to Africa and swapped poetry for gun-running.’
Winter nodded, out of his depth. Suttle pressed the RECORD button on the audio stack and Maddox’s eyes flicked to the four cassettes as he invited her to account for what they’d found at Camber Court. It was a leading question, and she knew it.
‘Found, how exactly?’
‘You in bed with Mr Wishart. The state of the other bedroom. Cocaine everywhere. Visa slips. Sex toys. Pornography. It’s a knocking shop, isn’t it?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re not denying it?’
‘No. Why should I?’
‘Because it’s illegal.’
‘Not from my point of view it isn’t.’
‘That’s as may be but we’re talking offences here.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like living off immoral earnings. You’re telling me Mr Richardson isn’t pimping?’
‘
Pimping?
Stephen?’ She laughed. ‘Sweet thought.’
‘He doesn’t take a cut? Make a living?’
‘He takes enough to keep us in champagne and something half decent to eat. He pays the rates and the electric and puts a bit aside for the odd night out. Just like every working girl.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘I’m sure you do but that’s the way it is. He’s a fun guy. He’s like the rest of us. He’s out for a good time and more to the point he’s got a bit of taste. The wayStephen sees it, it’s a vocation, not a scam. He wants to please people. And believe me, he does.’
‘For a price.’
‘Of course. We’re dealing with wealthy people here. It’s a market. We strike a deal. No one loses.’
‘How much do you take? For each trick?’
‘Eighty per cent.’
‘That’s high.’
‘It’s what we agreed. We’ve never quarrelled over money. That would be sordid.’
‘
Sordid?
’ It was Suttle’s turn to laugh. ‘You don’t think …?’ He began to shake his head.
‘What? What don’t I think?’ Maddox was leaning forward now, interested, engaged.
‘You don’t think … fat middle-aged
Winter caught the PC’s eye. Like Suttle, his brain seemed to have disengaged.
‘This way, love.’ Winter shepherded her towards the corridor that led to the interview suite. The scent of her perfume took him back to last night. He foughtbriefly against the tide of images, and lost. Wishart, he thought grimly. Lucky bastard.
Suttle was already on his feet when Maddox stepped into the bareness of the interview room. He’d obviously decided to play the tough cop.
‘Take a seat.’ He nodded briskly at the empty chair across the table from his own. ‘This shouldn’t take long.’
Maddox hung the Pompey scarf on the back of the chair and unbelted the coat. The white T-shirt beneath was tucked loosely into a pair of deep burgundy corduroy trousers, and Winter was impressed by the fact that she hadn’t dressed to accentuate her figure. Given what he’d seen last night, every other slapper in this city would have gone for the tightest of tops. A truly class act, he thought.
Maddox settled herself in the chair while Suttle clarified the legal situation. She wasn’t under caution and she was free to leave whenever she chose. At the same time, with her permission, he’d like to record the interview in case there was any need to refer to it later.
‘Of course.’ She shrugged. ‘Why not?’
Winter was still looking at the T-shirt. It carried the image of a young man’s face, a mop of dark hair over the vaguest of gazes.
‘Who’s that then?’ Winter nodded at her chest.
Maddox had peeled off her gloves. A black-lacquered nail touched the front of her T-shirt.
‘You mean this guy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Arthur Rimbaud.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s a poet. Or was.’
‘You buy it off the shelf?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pompey?’
‘Paris.’ She settled herself back in the chair. ‘Do you know anything about French literature? Only Rimbaud was a bit of a legend. Wild child, really. Decamped to Africa and swapped poetry for gun-running.’
Winter nodded, out of his depth. Suttle pressed the RECORD button on the audio stack and Maddox’s eyes flicked to the four cassettes as he invited her to account for what they’d found at Camber Court. It was a leading question, and she knew it.
‘Found, how exactly?’
‘You in bed with Mr Wishart. The state of the other bedroom. Cocaine everywhere. Visa slips. Sex toys. Pornography. It’s a knocking shop, isn’t it?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re not denying it?’
‘No. Why should I?’
‘Because it’s illegal.’
‘Not from my point of view it isn’t.’
‘That’s as may be but we’re talking offences here.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like living off immoral earnings. You’re telling me Mr Richardson isn’t pimping?’
‘
Pimping?
Stephen?’ She laughed. ‘Sweet thought.’
‘He doesn’t take a cut? Make a living?’
‘He takes enough to keep us in champagne and something half decent to eat. He pays the rates and the electric and puts a bit aside for the odd night out. Just like every working girl.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘I’m sure you do but that’s the way it is. He’s a fun guy. He’s like the rest of us. He’s out for a good time and more to the point he’s got a bit of taste. The wayStephen sees it, it’s a vocation, not a scam. He wants to please people. And believe me, he does.’
‘For a price.’
‘Of course. We’re dealing with wealthy people here. It’s a market. We strike a deal. No one loses.’
‘How much do you take? For each trick?’
‘Eighty per cent.’
‘That’s high.’
‘It’s what we agreed. We’ve never quarrelled over money. That would be sordid.’
‘
Sordid?
’ It was Suttle’s turn to laugh. ‘You don’t think …?’ He began to shake his head.
‘What? What don’t I think?’ Maddox was leaning forward now, interested, engaged.
‘You don’t think … fat middle-aged
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