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  I laughed. Back in uniform in Colin Smith’s office, I think he was missing the cut and thrust of CID. He wanted to know about the next book. I said I was thinking of sending Paul Winter under cover to join up with Bazza Mackenzie and I needed a bit of a steer about one or two details. Any chance?

  Rich, as ever, was generous enough to be candid. I think he shared Colin’s belief that it was better trusting guys like me with the truth rather than have all kinds of implausible crap appearing on the page. U/c work, he said, could be seriously demanding. You had to know how to become someone else. You had to develop your legend, or story, and remember every part of it. You had to be alert to traps or inconsistencies every second of your waking life. For most u/c officers, this would be your first real look at a world you’d only ever seen over a table in the interview suite or from the back of an armoured Transit van. You were suddenly around guys for whom the only currency that ever mattered was respect. And what made the job even tougher was the fact that you were probably doing two or three other jobs at the same time.

  “You mean u/c jobs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Being three other different people?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit.”

  “Exactly.”

  The burn-out rate, said Rich, was high, an occupational hazard amongst u/c officers. Some chucked it in because they couldn’t hack it any more. Some quit because they were convinced they were going to get themselves killed. Others turned native, joining the bad guys for real.

  This was interesting. This was what I had in mind for Winter. Rich wanted to know how I was going to make that credible. Why would Winter turn his back on the Job? Why would he join Bad Baz?

  “Because you guys fuck up all the time,” I suggested.

  “You’re kidding me.” Rich’s smile suggested that was plausible.

  “And because you nearly get him killed.”

  “Really?” The smile had gone. “How?”

  I spent the rest of the evening explaining. By the time we left the pub Rich agreed my little wheeze would work. Back in Devon, I tried out the book’s opening. This is what I wrote.

  Monday 4th September, 2006. Cambados, Spain.

  Uncomfortable in the heat, Winter followed the funeral cortege as it wound up the path towards the cemetery. From here, high on the rocky hillside, he could sense what had drawn the dead man to Cambados. Not simply the lure of Colombian cocaine, delivered wholesale across the Atlantic. Not just the prospect of ever-swelling profits as he helped the laughing powder towards the exploding UK marketplace. But the chance to settle somewhere remote, somewhere real, to make a life for himself amongst these tough, nut-brown Galician peasants.

  The cortege came to a halt beside the ruins of the Santa Marina church while the priest fumbled with the gate of the cemetery. Winter paused, glad to catch his breath. The view was sensational. Immediately below, a tumble of houses crowding towards the waterfront. Further out, beyond the estuary, the acheing blueness of the open sea.

  Last night, after an emotional tour of his brother’s favourite bars, Bazza had ended up locked in an embrace with Mark’s girlfriend’s mother. Her name was Teresa. She was a plump, handsome woman who walked with the aid of a stick and as far as Winter understood, the funeral arrangements had been entirely her doing.

  The priest had accepted her assurances that Mark had been a practising catholic. The friends he’d made had secured a plot in the cemetery. God had doubtless had a hand in the jet-ski accident, and Mark’s death doubtless served some greater purpose, but the only thing she understood just now was that her daughter’s life would never be the same. Bebe had been only months away from becoming Mark’s wife. There would have been children, lots of children. God gives, and God takes away, she’d muttered, burying her face in a fold of Bazza’s linen jacket.

  The mourners began to shuffle upwards again, and Winter caught a whiff of something sweet, carried on the wind. Beside him, still hungover, was a lifelong friend of Bazza’s, a survivor from the glory days of the Eighties. The last time Winter had seen him was in court, a couple of years back. He’d been up on a supply charge, coupled with accusations of GBH, and had walked free after a key witness had changed his mind about giving evidence. Last night, by barely ten, he’d been legless.

  “What’s that, mush?” He had his nose in the air.

  “Incense.” Winter paused again, mopping his face. “Gets rid of bad smells.”

  Late evening, the same day, Winter was drinking alone at an empty table outside a bar on the waterfront. The bar belonged to Teresa. According to Bazza, she’d won it as part of a divorce settlement from her husband, an ex-pro footballer, and for old times sake it was still called the Bar del Portero, the keeper’s bar. Winter had been here a lot over the last couple of days, enjoying the swirl of fishermen, and high-season tourists, conscious of the black-draped photos of Mark amongst the gallery of faces from the goalie’s past.

  Tonight, though, was different. Bazza and his entourage had disappeared to a restaurant and to be honest Winter was glad of an hour or two on his own.

  The first he knew about company was a hand on his shoulder, the lightest touch. He looked up to find a tall, slim Latino helping himself to the other chair. He was older than he looked. He had the hands of a man in his forties, and there were threads of grey in his plaited hair. The white T-shirt carried a faded image of Jimmy Hendrix.

  “You’re a cop.” He said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Si.”

  “Who says?”

  “Me. I know cops. I know cops all my life. You tell me it’s not true?”

  “I’m telling you nothing. Except it’s none of your fucking business.”

  There was a long silence. The Latino produced a mobile and checked for messages. Then he returned the mobile to his jeans pocket, tipped his head back against the chair, and stared up into the night sky.

  “We’re wasting time, you and me, Senor Winter. I know who you are. I know where you come from. I know….” He shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  Winter leaned forward, irritated, pushing his glass to one side.

  “So why bother checking? Why all this drama?”

  “Because we need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Si…you want to tell me what you’re doing here? In Cambados?”

  “Not especially.”

  “You’re a friend of Senor Mackenzie.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’ve come over because of his brother.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because you and Senor Mackenzie are…” he frowned, “…friends.”

  “Spot-on, son. Bazza and me go back a while. And it happens you’re right. I am a cop. Or was. I’m also a mate of Bazza’s. A family friend. Here to support the lad. Here to help. Here to do my bit.”

  “But cops never stop being cops. And that could be a problem.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Si.” His gaze had settled on Winter’s face. “I have a question for you, Mr Winter. It’s a very simple question. As it happens, I know about your friends, about Senor Mackenzie, and I know about you. This man is a cop, I tell them. It’s all over his face, the way he talks, the way he moves, his eyes, who he watches, how he watches, everything. Sure, they tell me. The man’s a cop. And a good cop. A good cop turned bad. But clever. Useful. Me? I tell them they’re crazy. Loco. And wrong, too. Why? Because like I say cops never stop being cops. Never. Nunca. Not here, in Spain. Not in my country. Not in yours. Nunca. Whatever they say. Nunca.”

  “And the question?”

  “Tell me why you’re really here.”

  “You’d never believe me.”

  “I might.”

  “OK. And if y
ou don’t?”

  “It will be bad, very bad. For you. And maybe for us, also.”

  “How bad is very bad?”

  “The worst.” He smiled. “Lo peor.”

  Winter took his time digesting the news. Bazza had pointed out this man twice in the last couple of days, once pissed, once sober. His name was Riquelme, though everyone seemed to called him Rikki. He was Colombian. He was said to hold court in a four-star hotel along the coast. Not a gram of cocaine came into Cambados without his say-so.

  Rikki was still waiting for an answer to his question. Winter swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm lager and glanced at his watch. Conversations like this he didn’t need.

  “I’m fifty in a year or two…” he looked up, “…and you know the present I’ve always promised myself? Retirement. No more fannying around. No more working my arse off for people trying to stitch me up. No more chasing braindead junkies around. But you know something about my line of work? It doesn’t pay. Not the kind of money I’m going to need. So what do I do? I look for someone who might take me seriously for once. And for someone who might understand what I’m really worth. Happens I’ve found that someone. And that someone, just now, needs a bit of support. Comprende?”

  Winter waited for some kind of response. The Columbian studied him for a moment or two, then produced a thin cheroot.

  “Bullshit.” He said softly.

  A bit like Deadlight, this single scene on the waterfront – as far as the fate of Winter is concerned - holds the secret to the entire book. Willard, stung by the catastrophic collapse of Operation Tumbril, has put Winter into play against Bazza Mackenzie. His legend, the set of circumstances that explain his expulsion from the force, involve four pints of Stella and a traffic car tucked round the side of the pub, ready to nab Pompey’s maverick detective the moment he gets behind the wheel.

  In a scene that never made it to the book, Winter asks Willard what role he’s supposed to be playing as far as Mackenzie is concerned.

  “You’re fat, you’re old, you’re washed up, and you’re fucking bitter about the woollies nicking you on the DUI charge. We took what we wanted and once you became a serious pain, in fact a fucking liability, we threw you out.” Willard offered a thin smile. “How does that sound?”

  Now on Bazza’s pay roll, Winter is tasked to organise a high profile tribute event to mark the passing of Bazza’s half-brother, killed off Cambados in a jet-ski accident. Winter knows nothing about jet-skis or media rights but is a quick study. He’s busy putting together Pompey’s first Jet-Ski Grand Prix when a Devon and Cornwall operation seizes a big consignment of cocaine, imported from Colombia first through Cambados, and then through Pompey’s Ferry port. Hantspol had known of this operation for a while but no one had thought to warn Winter.

  Early the next morning, Mackenzie turns up at Winter’s apartment, convinced his new recruit lay behind the drugs bust. With him is his scary enforcer, ex-pro footballer Brett West.

  “You’re a disgrace.” Mackenzie said. “And you’re a fucking grass.”

  “You’re right, Baz, I am a disgrace. I’m a bent copper. And I was silly enough to believe all those promises you made.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. All the stuff about coming on board, about going legit, about the stuff we could do together, about opportunities. But it’s not about that at all, is it? It’s about you being as bent and paranoiac as ever. Me? I should never have got involved. Not if I wanted to avoid drivel like this.”

  Winter tightened the belt on his dressing gown. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Mackenzie for a second. By the window, West stirred.

  “The cunt’s lying.” He said.

  Mackenzie wasn’t so sure. Winter could sense his uncertainty.

  “If you’ve got this right…” he said to Mackenzie, “…then you’re talking big time u/c, covert operations, the lot. I can see why you might think that. I can see where this phone call you got from Rikki might have led. You think I’ve stitched you up. You think I’m part of some monster fucking plan to worm my way into the organisation, to nose around, to find out where the bodies are buried. If all that was true, then one of the things I’ve got to maintain is my cover. Right?”

  Mackenzie nodded, said nothing.

  “So if that’s true, if that’s the case, if that’s the way it happens in real life, then what the fuck am I doing pulling a stroke like Cambados? Knowing full well you’ll find out? Is that some clever double bluff? Or might you just be looking at the wrong bloke? Go on, Baz, do yourself a favour, work it out. Of course I’m bent. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. But I’m not stupid. Or at least not that stupid.”

  Mackenzie was frowning now. He looked away for a moment, avoiding Westie’s glare.

  “You’re a clever fucker” he said softly, “I grant you that.”

  Writing a scene like this, with Winter desperately toeing the line between survival and something infinitely more horrible, convinced me that I was on track. A scene shortly afterwards confirmed it, fatefully clearing the path that Winter would tread for the rest of the series.

  Slipping the surveillance that Bazza has put in place, Winter takes the train to Bournemouth where DCI Gail Parsons is waiting in a borrowed office at Bournemouth General Hospital to de-brief him. In the wake of the Devon and Cornwall operation, she says, Det Supt Willard has made a decision.

  “He believes that this business last week, the cocaine seizure, has changed the scenario. To put it bluntly, he believes you may be at risk.”

  “I’ve been at risk from the start.”

  “More at risk.”

  “He wants to withdraw me? Abort the whole thing? Only that could be tricky. In fact that would leave me completely in the shit. What do I tell Bazza? That I’ve got a headache? That the money’s crap? That I’m really a copper? Do me a favour, boss. This is like the cocaine thing all over again. In fact it’s worse. Those guys know where I live. They’d nail me to the floor.”

  “That’s exactly the point.”

  “What’s the point?”

  Parsons studied him for a long moment. Then she pushed the notepad to one side.

  “I have to be frank. We’ve done a full risk assessment. It’s late in the day, I admit, but at least we’ve got to grips with it.”

  “Who’s “we”?”

  “Myself and Mr Willard. There’s no question of pulling you out, not at this point in the operation, not unless you insist, and of course that’s absolutely your right, but whatever happens we’re obliged to offer you resettlement.”

  “You what?” Winter was staring at her now. “Resettlement?”

  “Exactly. We’ll make sure you have the whole package, of course. New ID, new passport, new documentation, new address. Full pension.”

  “Pension?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “You’d have a choice. Canada, New Zealand, or Australia. We’d pay all relocation expenses plus we’d find you suitable accommodation until you’d had a chance to find your feet.”

  “And then?”

  “We’d contribute to the capital cost of a house or a flat, whatever you chose. There’d be adjustments, of course, depending on your own financial circumstances, once you’d sold your own place.” She reached for the pad again, and picked up the pencil. “Gunwharf, isn’t it?”

  Winter ignored the question. He was still absorbing the implications of this bombshell.

  “The full makeover, then. A new me. Put out to grass.” The phrase made him laugh.

  Parsons didn’t see the joke. “Absolutely.” She nodded. “Mr Willard and I both agree it’s an appropriate outcome.”

  “And what if I say no?”

  “Then we’d have to look at other pathways forward.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a transfer to another force.”
/>
  “In the UK?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “But not Pompey?”

  “No.”

  “So there’s no way I can get back to the job? Like he promised?”

  “I’m afraid not. Not the way things have panned out. It’s for the best, Paul, believe me.”

  There was a long silence. Winter could hear the clatter of a trolley in the corridor outside. At length, Parsons adjusted the collar of the white coat she must have borrowed. Winter felt like asking her for an aspirin.

  “I’m fucked.” He said softly.

  “Paul, I’m not hearing this.”

  “No?” He gazed at her, robbed of anything coherent to say. Two weeks undercover. A fortnight on the hardest job he’d ever been asked to sort out. Moments when he was certain they’d sussed him. Moments when he knew he’d be lucky to get away with a beating. And now this. Fucked. Re-bottled. Re-labelled. Stuffed on a plane and exported to the other side of the world. He shook his head. Looked away. There were tears in his eyes. He didn’t want her to see them.

  “Naturally, we don’t expect a response immediately, certainly not this afternoon…” Parsons glanced at her watch, “…but we’d appreciate some kind of decision soon. Maybe in a couple of days. Would that be asking too much?”

  Winter was still gazing into nowhere. There were two things he held precious in his life. One was the job. The other was Pompey. And here they were. Both gone. He tipped his head back a moment, gazing up at the ceiling. He had to get a grip. Now, above all, he had to make-believe.

  “I appreciate it, boss.” He gave her a smile. “It’s nice to know you’ve thought this thing through.”

  From this point onward, Paul Winter will never be a policeman again. Neither Willard nor Parsons know it, but his way back to the job he’d loved is blocked. Under these circumstances, he has no choice but to join Bazza for real, stepping carefully round the countless traps that lie ahead. As the plot unfolds, he once again comes very close to getting himself killed but finally manages to convince Bazza that his passage to the Dark Side is 100% kosher. There follows a scene that was a joy to write and confirmed my gut feeling that Winter had ended up in high-octane company.