guys … people with money to burn … You don’t think any of that’s pretty gross … selling yourself … doing their bidding?’
‘Not in the least. And even if it was, so what? Gross is everywhere. Since when has it been an offence?’
The question stopped Suttle in his tracks. Winter was beginning to enjoy this. Not just a class act, he thought, but bright as well. No wonder she was coining it.
‘Tell me about the drugs,’ he said.
Maddox was still looking at Suttle. At Winter’s question she began to withdraw.
‘I know nothing about the drugs.’
‘You knew Richardson keeps cocaine on the premises?’
‘Of course. We all have our weaknesses.’
‘You don’t use the stuff yourself?’
‘Never.’
‘Have you ever offered it to punters?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Not even if they’ve asked for it?’
‘No. I’ll do anything I can for them physically, anything they want within reason, but the rest of it …’ She shook her head, emphatic. ‘No.’
‘You’re telling me Richardson supplies other substances?’
‘I’m telling you I don’t get involved in that side of it.’
‘
Does
he offer other gear?’
‘I’ve no idea. He has exquisite taste in wine. His cooking is inspired. Our clients get plenty of attention afterwards. I can’t believe they’d ever need anything else.’
Winter sat back a moment, mentally tallying the fruits of last night’s search.
‘All that stuff in the wardrobe in the big bedroom. Is it yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘You dress up for the punters?’
‘When they make a request, yes.’ She looked at him a moment, then warmed the space between them with a sudden grin. ‘Forties French gear is the biggest turn-on. You’ve no idea how many men like to fuck Resistance heroines.’
‘You play the role?’
‘Of course. The gear. The walk. The come-ons. The make-up.
Tout ça
.’
‘You speak French?’
‘Yes.’
‘You fuck the punters in French?’
‘
Bien sûr
.’ She began to laugh again. ‘
Si tu veux
.’
Winter exchanged glances with Suttle, knowing she’d got the best of both of them. Nothing usable was going to come of this interview and if Cathy Lamb ever got hold of the tapes she’d have a fit. This wasn’t evidence gathering. This was a floor show.
Winter reached out, pressed the STOP button. Then he sat back, looking Maddox in the eye.
‘You know what really interests me?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘What is it?’
‘You want to know why I do it.’ She smiled at him. ‘Is it the money? Is that why I do it?’
She let the question hang between them. Very slowly Winter shook his head. For the first time in weeks he’d stopped worrying about the pain behind his eyes.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not the money.’
‘So what is it then?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You’re lying. You’re like every other man. You just don’t want to admit it.’
‘Admit what?’
‘That I might enjoy it.’ She reached for her gloves. ‘Does that help your enquiries?’
Faraday was in Eadie’s apartment on the seafront when he got the call. J-J was busy in the kitchen preparing a late lunch, a mountain of chopped onions browning in the pan. Faraday fumbled for his mobile and walked across to the big picture window at the other end of the room. Fitful sunshine puddled the Solent.
‘Mr Faraday?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Darren Webster, sir, from Newport. We met yesterday. Hope you don’t mind me calling.’
‘Of course not. What’s the problem?’
‘It’s not something I can discuss on the phone, sir. I’m in Pompey this afternoon, over for the football. I was just wondering …’
‘You want a meet?’
‘Yes, sir. If it’s not too much trouble.’
Faraday was watching a pilot launch ploughing out through the churning tide, trying to weigh the implications of this sudden development. He’d spent most of the morning reviewing what little anyone seemed to know about Webster’s headless body, and the more he thought
‘Not in the least. And even if it was, so what? Gross is everywhere. Since when has it been an offence?’
The question stopped Suttle in his tracks. Winter was beginning to enjoy this. Not just a class act, he thought, but bright as well. No wonder she was coining it.
‘Tell me about the drugs,’ he said.
Maddox was still looking at Suttle. At Winter’s question she began to withdraw.
‘I know nothing about the drugs.’
‘You knew Richardson keeps cocaine on the premises?’
‘Of course. We all have our weaknesses.’
‘You don’t use the stuff yourself?’
‘Never.’
‘Have you ever offered it to punters?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Not even if they’ve asked for it?’
‘No. I’ll do anything I can for them physically, anything they want within reason, but the rest of it …’ She shook her head, emphatic. ‘No.’
‘You’re telling me Richardson supplies other substances?’
‘I’m telling you I don’t get involved in that side of it.’
‘
Does
he offer other gear?’
‘I’ve no idea. He has exquisite taste in wine. His cooking is inspired. Our clients get plenty of attention afterwards. I can’t believe they’d ever need anything else.’
Winter sat back a moment, mentally tallying the fruits of last night’s search.
‘All that stuff in the wardrobe in the big bedroom. Is it yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘You dress up for the punters?’
‘When they make a request, yes.’ She looked at him a moment, then warmed the space between them with a sudden grin. ‘Forties French gear is the biggest turn-on. You’ve no idea how many men like to fuck Resistance heroines.’
‘You play the role?’
‘Of course. The gear. The walk. The come-ons. The make-up.
Tout ça
.’
‘You speak French?’
‘Yes.’
‘You fuck the punters in French?’
‘
Bien sûr
.’ She began to laugh again. ‘
Si tu veux
.’
Winter exchanged glances with Suttle, knowing she’d got the best of both of them. Nothing usable was going to come of this interview and if Cathy Lamb ever got hold of the tapes she’d have a fit. This wasn’t evidence gathering. This was a floor show.
Winter reached out, pressed the STOP button. Then he sat back, looking Maddox in the eye.
‘You know what really interests me?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘What is it?’
‘You want to know why I do it.’ She smiled at him. ‘Is it the money? Is that why I do it?’
She let the question hang between them. Very slowly Winter shook his head. For the first time in weeks he’d stopped worrying about the pain behind his eyes.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not the money.’
‘So what is it then?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You’re lying. You’re like every other man. You just don’t want to admit it.’
‘Admit what?’
‘That I might enjoy it.’ She reached for her gloves. ‘Does that help your enquiries?’
Faraday was in Eadie’s apartment on the seafront when he got the call. J-J was busy in the kitchen preparing a late lunch, a mountain of chopped onions browning in the pan. Faraday fumbled for his mobile and walked across to the big picture window at the other end of the room. Fitful sunshine puddled the Solent.
‘Mr Faraday?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Darren Webster, sir, from Newport. We met yesterday. Hope you don’t mind me calling.’
‘Of course not. What’s the problem?’
‘It’s not something I can discuss on the phone, sir. I’m in Pompey this afternoon, over for the football. I was just wondering …’
‘You want a meet?’
‘Yes, sir. If it’s not too much trouble.’
Faraday was watching a pilot launch ploughing out through the churning tide, trying to weigh the implications of this sudden development. He’d spent most of the morning reviewing what little anyone seemed to know about Webster’s headless body, and the more he thought