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out of the hospital morgue, Faraday thanked the pathologist for the sacrifice of his Saturday night. The post-mortem had yielded no surprises – Sammy Spellar had died from a massive brain haemorrhage – but the procedure was mandatory and Faraday would be getting the typed report within days. Before he said goodbye he inquired how the pathologist’s daughter had done at her gymkhana. Her name was Susie and this was her first pony.
    The pathologist took his time peeling off his surgical gloves.
    ‘She won,’ he said proudly.
    Back at his listening post at the Bridewell, Faraday knew at once that Winter had also posted a victory. He was helping Scott Spellar piece together his trips to London, still using the threat of the murder charge to squeeze every last particle of information from the boy. The addresses he visited in London, the amounts he carried back to Portsmouth, the drops he used in the city, even the times of the trains he caught when he couldn’t be bothered to take the car he’d bought on the proceeds of his first six months. Every last detail Winter wrote down, making sure he had it right and making sure that Scott Spellar knew it. These notes of Winter’s were handcuffs, binding the youth hand and foot. Henceforth, if he was sensible, Scott Spellar would do exactly what Winter decreed.
    The formal interview over, he offered Scott another cigarette. The boy told him he didn’t want it. This time last night, life had been really kushti. He’d had money, a job, respect, a girlfriend, the lot. Now, he’d lost everything.
    ‘It’s over, isn’t it?’ he muttered. ‘You’ll bang me up. I’m fucked.’
    ‘Bang you up for what?’
    ‘For drugs. Possession. Supply. The whole fucking lot.’
    Faraday heard Winter’s soft chuckle. This was the moment he savoured most of all. This was the moment that would change Scott’s life for ever.
    ‘We could do a deal,’ he murmured. ‘Sweet for you, sweet for me.’
    ‘How’s that, then?’
    ‘You keep me in touch, street-wise. You give me names, addresses, who’s carrying what for who, just like you did just then. In return I give you money. Maybe quite a lot of money.’
    ‘That’s grassing.’
    ‘You’re right. But that way you’ll get paid twice. Once by us and once by Marty Harrison.’
    The name drew an audible intake of breath from Scott. It was the first time that Winter had mentioned Harrison and Faraday could picture the fear in the boy’s eyes. After a moment or two, he tried to laugh it off, pretending he’d never heard of Marty Harrison, but his denial fooled nobody, least of all Paul Winter.
    ‘We know,’ he said softly. ‘We know about you and Marty.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘Surveillance. Obs. We’ve got you clocked, son. You want the date and times?’
    ‘You’re winding me up.’
    ‘You think so? You want to give Marty a ring? Check it out?’ There was another silence, longer this time, then Scott’s voice came through the speakers again. He sounded like a child. He sounded close to tears.
    ‘You think I’d grass up Marty?’ he whispered. ‘You must be off your fucking head. The guy’d kill me. He’d chop me up in little pieces and feed me to his dogs. You know what he’s like. Jesus …’
    Faraday shot a look at Cathy then bent to the speaker again as the shuffle of paper came from the room next door. Winter was sounding positively cheerful.
    ‘These notes stay with me,’ he purred. ‘I’m not after a statement, nothing formal, nothing you’ll have to sign, but remember what you’ve told me, and remember that I’m the mate you need if things get out of hand. At the end of the day, son, my gang’s bigger than Marty’s.’ Faraday heard the scrape of a chair, then Winter’s voice again, brisker and more businesslike. ‘You’re right about Class A drugs, by the way. Carrying that stuff in those sorts of quantities is serious shit. Here.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘My mobile number. Ring me when you’ve had a