Crack Down

He grinned. ‘I don’t know how you put up with all this naked aggression, Shelley,’ he said.

‘Once you understand it’s compensatory behaviour for her low self-esteem, it’s easy.’ Shelley did A Level psychology at evening classes. I’m just grateful she didn’t pursue it to degree level.

Ignoring the pair of them, I marched through my office and into the cupboard that doubles as darkroom and ladies’ loo. I towelled my hair as dry as I could get it, then applied the exaggerated amounts of mascara, eye shadow, blusher and lipstick that Mrs Barclay required. I stared critically at the stranger in the mirror. I couldn’t imagine spending my whole life behind that much camouflage. But then, I’ve never wanted to be irresistible to car salesmen.

We hit the garage just after four. The gleaming, midnight blue Gemini turbo super coupé was standing in splendid isolation on the concrete apron at the side of the showroom. Darryl was beside himself with joy when he actually touched the bank draft. The motor trade’s so far down in the doldrums these days that paying customers are regarded with more affection than the Queen Mum, especially ones who don’t spend three days in a war of attrition trying to shave the price by yet another fifty quid. He was so overjoyed, he didn’t even bother to lie. ‘I’m delighted to see you drive off in this beautiful car,’ he confessed, clutching the bank draft with both hands and staring at it. Then he remembered himself and gave us a greasy smile. ‘Because, of course, it’s our pleasure to give you pleasure.’

Richard opened the passenger door for me, and, smarting, I climbed in. ‘Oh, this is real luxury,’ I forced out for Darryl’s benefit, as I stroked the charcoal grey leather. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was anything other than brain-dead. Richard settled in next to me, closing the door with a solid clunk. He turned the key in the ignition, and pressed the button that lowered his window. ‘Thanks, Darryl,’ he said. ‘It’s been a pleasure doing the business.’

‘Pleasure’s all mine, Mr Barclay,’ Darryl smarmed, shuffling sideways as Richard let out the clutch and glided slowly forward. ‘Remember me when Mrs Barclay’s ready for a new luxury vehicle?’

In response, Richard put his foot down. In ten seconds, Darryl Day was just a bad memory. ‘Wow,’ he exclaimed as he moved up and down through the gears in the busy Bolton traffic. ‘This is some motor! Electric wing mirrors, electric sun roof, electric seat adjustment …’

‘Shame about the clockwork driver,’ I said.

By the time we got home, Richard was in love. Although the Gemini coupé was the twelfth Leo car we’d ‘bought’, this was the first example of the newly launched sporty superstar. We’d had to confine ourselves to what was actually available on the premises, and we’d tended to go for the executive saloons that had made Leo one of the major suppliers of fleet cars in the UK. As we arrived outside the pair of bungalows where we live. Richard was still raving about the Gemini.

‘It’s like driving a dream,’ he enthused, pressing the remote control that locked the car and set the alarm.

‘You said that already,’ I muttered as I walked up the path to my house. ‘Twice.’

‘No, but really, Kate, it’s like nothing I’ve ever driven before,’ Richard said, walking backwards up the path.

‘That’s hardly surprising,’ I said. ‘Considering you’ve never driven anything designed after Porsche came up with the Beetle in 1936. Automotive technology has moved along a bit since then.’

He followed me into the house. ‘Brannigan, until I drove that, I’d never wanted to.’

‘Do I gather you want me to talk to Andrew Broderick about doing you a deal to buy the Gemini?’ I asked, opening the fridge. I handed Richard a cold Jupiler and took out a bottle of freshly squeezed pink grapefruit juice.

He opened the drawer for the bottle opener and popped the cap off his beer, looking disconsolate. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. Can’t afford it, Brannigan.’

I didn’t even think about trying to change the mind of a man with an ex-wife and a son to support. I never poke my nose into his finances, and the last thing that would ever make the short journey across his mind is curiosity about my bank balance. We never have to argue about money because of the way we organize our lives. We own adjacent houses, linked by a conservatory built across the back of both of them. That way, we have all the advantages of living together and almost none of the disadvantages.

I opened the freezer and took out a bottle of Polish vodka. It was so cold, the sobs of spirit on the inside of the bottle were sluggish as syrup. I poured an inch into the bottom of a highball glass and topped it up with juice. It tasted like nectar. I put down my glass and gave Richard a hug. He rubbed his chin affectionately on the top of my head and gently massaged my neck.

‘Mmm,’ I murmured. ‘Any plans for tonight?’

‘’Fraid so. There’s a benefit in town for the girlfriend of that guy who got blown away last month in Moss Side. You remember? The innocent bystander who got caught up in the drugs shootout outside the café? Well, she’s four months pregnant, so the local bands have got together to put on a bit of a performance. Can’t not show, sorry.’

‘But you don’t have to go for a while, do you?’ I asked, running my fingers over his shoulder blades in a pattern that experience has demonstrated usually distracts him from minor things like work.

‘Not for ages,’ he responded, nuzzling my neck as planned. Nothing like exploiting a man’s weaknesses, I thought.

I wasn’t the only one into the exploitation game, though. As I grabbed my drink and we did a sideways shuffle towards the bedroom, Richard murmured, ‘Any chance of me taking the Gemini with me tonight?’

I jerked awake with the staring-eyed shock that comes when you’ve not been asleep for long. The light was still on, and my arm hurt as I peeled it off the glossy computer gaming magazine I’d fallen asleep over. I reached for the trilling telephone and barked, ‘Brannigan,’ into it, simultaneously checking the time on the alarm clock. 00:43.

‘Did I wake you?’ Richard asked.

‘What do you think?’

‘Sorry. That kind of answers the question,’ he said cryptically.

My brain wasn’t up to it. ‘What question, Richard?’ I demanded. ‘What question’s so urgent it can’t wait till morning?’

‘I just wondered if you were at the wind-up, that’s all. But you’re obviously not, so I’d better come home and call the cops.’

I was no further forward. I massaged my forehead with my spare hand, but before I could get any more sense out of him, the pips sounded and the line went dead. I contemplated going back to sleep, but I knew that was just the fantasy of a deranged mind. You don’t become a private eye because you lack curiosity about the doings of your fellow man. Especially when they’re as unpredictable as the man next door. Whatever Richard was up to, I was involved now too. Heaving a sigh, I got out of bed and struggled into my dressing gown. I went through to my living-room, unlocked the patio doors and walked through the conservatory to Richard’s house.

As usual, his living room looked like a teenager’s idea of paradise. A Nintendo console lay on top of a pile of old newspapers by the sofa. Stacks of CDs teetered on every available surface that wasn’t occupied by empty beer bottles and used coffee mugs. Rock videos were piled by the TV set. A couple of rock bands’ promotional T-shirts and sweat shirts were thrown over an armchair, and a lump of draw sat neatly on a pack of Silk Cut, next to a packet of Rizlas on the coffee table. If vandals ransacked the place, Richard probably wouldn’t notice for a fortnight. When we first got together, I used to tidy up. Now, I’ve trained myself not to notice.

Two steps down the hall, I knew what to expect in the kitchen. Every few weeks, Richard decides his kitchen is a health hazard, and he does his version of spring cleaning. This involves putting crockery, cutlery and chopsticks in the dishwasher. Everything else on the worktops goes into a black plastic bin liner. He buys a bottle of bleach, a pair of rubber gloves and a pack of scouring pads and scrubs down every surface, including the inside of the microwave. For two days, the place is spotless and smells like a public swimming pool. Then he comes home stoned with a Chinese takeaway and everything goes back to normal.

I opened the dishwasher and took out the jug from the coffee maker. I got the coffee from the fridge. Richard’s fridge contains only four main food groups: his international beer collection, chocolate bars for the dope-induced raging munchies, ground coffee and a half-gallon container of milk. While I was waiting for the coffee to brew, I tried not to think about the logical reason why Richard was coming home to call the police.

I realized the nightmare was true when I heard the familiar clatter of a black hack’s diesel engine in the close outside. I peeped through the blind. Sure enough, there was Richard paying off the cabbie. I had a horrible feeling that the reason he was in a cab rather than the Gemini had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he had consumed. ‘Oh shit,’ I muttered as I took a second mug from the dishwasher and filled it with strong Java. I walked down the hall and proffered the coffee as Richard walked through the front door.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he started, taking the mug from me. He gulped a huge mouthful. Luckily, he has an asbestos throat. ‘Cheers.’

‘Don’t tell me, let me guess,’ I said, following him through to the living room, where he grabbed the phone. ‘You came out of the club, the car was gone.’

He shook his head in admiration. ‘Ever thought of becoming a detective, Brannigan? You don’t ring 999 for a car theft, do you?’

‘Not unless they also ran you over.’

‘When I realized the car was on the missing list, I wished they had,’ he said. ‘I thought, if Brannigan doesn’t kill me, the money men will. Got a number for the Dibble?’

I recited the familiar number of Greater Manchester Police’s main switchboard. Contrary to popular mythology about private eyes, Bill and I do have a good working relationship with the law. Well, most of the time. Let’s face it, they’re so overworked these days that they’re pathetically grateful to be handed a stack of evidence establishing a case that’ll let them give some miserable criminal a good nicking.

Richard got through almost immediately. While he gave the brief details over the phone, I wondered whether I should call Andrew Broderick and give him the bad news. I decided against it. It’s bad enough to lose twenty grand’s worth of merchandise without having a night’s sleep wrecked as well. I must point that out to Richard some time.

3

Two nights later, it happened again. I was about to deal Kevin Costner a fatal blow in a game of Battle Chess when an electronic chirruping disturbed our joust. Costner dissolved in a blue haze as I struggled up from the dream, groping wildly for the phone. My arm felt as heavy as if I really was wearing the weighty medieval armour of a knight in a tournament. That’ll teach me to play computer games at bedtime. ‘Brannigan,’ I grunted into the phone.

‘Kate? Sorry to wake you.’ The voice was familiar, but out of context it took me a few seconds to recognize it. The voice and I came up with the answer simultaneously. ‘Ruth Hunter here.’

I propped myself up on one elbow and switched on the bedside lamp. ‘Ruth. Give me a second, will you?’ I dropped the phone and scrabbled for my bag. I pulled out a pad and pencil, and scribbled down the time on the clock. 02:13. For a criminal solicitor to wake me at this time of night it had to be serious. Whichever one of Mortensen and Brannigan’s clients had decided my beauty sleep was less important than their needs was going to pay dear for the privilege. They weren’t going to get so much as ten free seconds. I picked up the phone and said, ‘OK. You have my undivided attention. What is it that won’t keep?’

‘Kate, there is no way of making this pleasant. I’m sorry. I’ve just had Longsight police station’s custody sergeant on to me. They’ve arrested Richard.’ Ruth’s voice was apologetic, but she was right. There was no way of making that news pleasant.

‘What’s he done? Had a few too many and got caught up in somebody else’s war?’ I asked, knowing even as I did that I was being wildly optimistic. If that was all it was, Richard would have been more interested in getting his head down for a kip in the cells than in getting the cops to call Ruth out.

‘I’m afraid not, Kate. It’s drugs.’

‘Is that all?’ I almost burst out laughing. ‘This is the 1990s, Ruth. How much can they give him for a lump of draw? He never carries more on him than the makings for a couple of joints.’

‘Kate, it’s not cannabis.’ Ruth had that tone of voice that the actors on hospital dramas use when they’re about to tell someone their nearest and dearest probably isn’t going to make it. ‘If it was cannabis, believe me, I wouldn’t have bothered calling you.’

I heard the words, but I couldn’t make sense of them. The only drug Richard ever uses is draw. In the two years we’ve been together, I’ve never known him drop so much as half a tab of E, in spite of the number of raves and gigs he routinely attends. ‘It’s got to be a plant, then,’ I said confidently. ‘Someone’s had it in for him and they’ve slipped something into his pocket.’

‘I don’t think so, Kate. We’re talking about two kilos of crack.’

Crack. Fiercely addictive, potentially lethal, crack cocaine is the drug everybody in narcotics prevention has the heebie-jeebies about. For a moment, I couldn’t take it in. I know two kilos of crack isn’t exactly bulky, but you’d have to notice you had it about your person. ‘He was walking around with two kilos of crack on him? That can’t be right, Ruth,’ I managed.

‘Not walking around. Driving. I don’t have any details yet, but he was brought in by a couple of lads from traffic. I’m afraid it gets worse, Kate. Apparently the car he was in was stolen.’

I was out of bed, pulling knickers and tights out of the top drawer. ‘Well, who was he with, then? He can’t have known he was in a hot motor!’

My stomach knotted as Ruth replied, ‘He was on his own. No passengers.’

‘This is like a bad dream,’ I said. ‘You know what he’s like. Can you see Richard as a major-league car thief and drug dealer? Where are you now, Ruth?’ I asked.

‘I’m on my way out the door. The sooner I get in to see him, the sooner we can get this business straightened out. You’re right. Richard’s no villain,’ she said reassuringly.

‘Too true. Look, Ruth, thanks for letting me know. I appreciate it.’ I fastened my bra and moved over to the wardrobe door.

‘I’ll keep you posted,’ she said. ‘Speak to you soon.’

Sooner than you think, I told myself as I shrugged into a cream polo-neck knitted cotton top. I grabbed my favourite knock-’em-dead suit, a lightweight wool number in a grey and moss green weave. Of course, dressing on the run, my legs tangled in the trousers as I made for the hall and I ended up sprawled on the floor, face smacked up against the skirting board, forced to recognize that it was too long since I’d cleaned the house. Cursing in a fluent monotone, I made it as far as the porch and pulled a pair of flat loafers out of the shoe cupboard. On my way out of the door, I remembered the route I was planning to go down, and hurried back into the living room, where I picked up the slim black leather briefcase I use to impress prospective clients with my businesslike qualities.

As I started the car, I noticed Richard’s Beetle wasn’t in its usual parking space. What in God’s name was going on? If he’d gone out in his own car, what was he doing driving round in the middle of the night in a stolen car with a parcel of heavy drugs? More to the point, did the owners of the drugs know who’d driven off with their merchandise? Because if they did, I didn’t give much for Richard’s chances of seeing his next birthday.

I pulled up in the visitors’ car park at Longsight nick a couple of minutes later. There wasn’t much competition for parking places that time of night. I knew I’d have at least fifteen minutes to kill, since Ruth had to drive all the way over from her house in Hale. Usually, I don’t have much trouble keeping my mind occupied on stake-outs. Maybe that’s because I don’t have to do it too often, given the line of work Mortensen and Brannigan specialize in. A lot of private eyes have to make the bulk of their income doing mind-and-bum-numbing bread-and-butter surveillance work, but because we work mainly with computer crime and white-collar fraud, we spend a lot more of our backside-breaking hours in other people’s offices than we do outside their houses. But tonight, the seventeen minutes I spent staring at the dirty red brick and tall blank windows of the rambling, mock-Gothic police station felt like hours. I suppose I was worried. I must be getting soft in my old age.

I spotted Ruth’s car as soon as she turned into the car park. Her husband’s in the rag trade, and he drives a white Bentley Mulsanne Turbo. When she gets dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, Ruth likes to drive the Bentley. It doesn’t half get up the noses of the cops. Her regular clients love it to bits. As the dazzling headlights in my rear-view mirror dimmed to black, I was out of my car and waving to Ruth.

The driver’s window slid down with an almost imperceptible hum. She didn’t stick her head out; she waited for me to draw level. I grinned. Ruth didn’t. ‘You’ll have a long wait, Kate,’ she said, a warning in her voice.

I ignored the warning. ‘Ruth, you and I both know you’re the best criminal lawyer in the city. But we also both know that being an officer of the court means there is a whole raft of things you can’t even think about doing. The kind of shit Richard seems to have got himself in, he needs someone out there ducking and diving, doing whatever it takes to dig up the information that’ll get him off the hook with the cops and with the dealers. I’m the one who’s going to have to do that, and the most efficient way for that process to get started is for me to sit in on your briefing.’

Give her her due, Ruth heard me out. She even paused for the count of five to create the impression she was giving some thought to my suggestion. Then she slowly shook her head. ‘No way, Kate. I suspect you know the provisions of PACE as well as I do.’

I smiled ruefully. The Police and Criminal Evidence Act hadn’t exactly been my bedtime reading when it became law, but I was reasonably familiar with its provisions. I knew perfectly well that the only person a suspect was entitled to have sitting in on their interview with the police was his or her solicitor. ‘There is one way round it,’ I said.

There’s something about the mind of a criminal solicitor. They can’t resist discovering any new wrinkle in the law. Dangle that as a carrot and they’ll bite your arm off faster than a starving donkey. ‘Go on,’ Ruth said cautiously. I swear her eyes sparkled.

‘Trainee solicitors who are just starting criminal work usually learn the ropes by bird-dogging a senior brief like yourself,’ I said. ‘And that includes sitting in on interviews in police stations.’

Ruth smiled sweetly. ‘Not in the middle of the night. And you’re not a trainee solicitor, Kate.’

‘True, Ruth, but I did do two years of a law degree. And as you yourself pointed out not five minutes since, I do know my way around PACE. I’m not going to blow it out of ignorance of the procedures.’ I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had to be this persuasive. Before I knew where I was, I’d be down on my knees begging. This was going to be the most expensive night out Richard Barclay had ever had.

Ruth shook her head decisively. ‘Kate, if we’re going to quote each other, let me remind you of your opening speech. As an officer of the court, there are a whole lot of things I can’t even think about doing. I’m afraid this is one of them.’ As she spoke, the window rose again.

I stepped back to allow Ruth to open the door and get out of her living room on wheels. She let the door close with a soft, expensive click. She took a deep breath, considering. While I waited for her to say something, I couldn’t help admiring her style. Ruth looked nothing like a woman whose sleep had been wrecked by the call that had dragged her out of bed. There was nothing slapdash about her understated make-up and her long blonde hair was pulled back in a neat scalp plait, the distinguished silver streaks at the temples glinting in the street lights. She was in her middle thirties, but the only giveaway was a faint cluster of laughter lines at the corners of her eyes. She wore a black frock coat over a cream silk shirt with a rolled neck, black leggings and black ankle boots with a high heel. The extra height disguised the fact that she had to be at least a size eighteen. We’d been friends ever since she’d been the guest speaker at my university Women In Law group, and I’d never seen her look anything other than immaculate. If I didn’t like her so much, I’d hate her.

Now, she put a surprisingly slim hand on my arm. ‘Kate, you know I sympathize. If that was Peter in there, I’d be moving heaven and earth to get him out. I have no doubt whatsoever that Richard’s first demand will be that I get you on the case. And I’ll back that one hundred per cent. But give me space to do what I’m best at. As soon as I’m through here, I’ll come straight round and brief you, I promise.’

I shook my head. ‘I hear what you’re saying, but that’s not enough, I’m sorry. If I’m going to do what I’m best at, there are questions I need to ask that won’t necessarily have anything to do with what you need to know. Ruth, it’s in your client’s best interests.’

Ruth put an arm round my shoulder and hugged me. ‘Nice try, Kate. You really should have stuck to the law, you know. You’d have made a great advocate. But the answer’s still no. I’ll see you later.’

She let me go and walked across the police car park towards the entrance, the heels of her boots clicking on the tarmac. ‘You’d better believe it,’ I said softly.

Time to exploit the irregular verb theory of life. In this case, the appropriate one seemed to be: I am creative, you exaggerate, he/she is a pathological liar. I gave Ruth ten minutes to get through the formalities. Then I walked across to the door and pressed the intercom buzzer. ‘Hello?’ the intercom crackled.

Giving my best impression of a panic- stricken, very junior gopher, I said, ‘I’m with Hunter Butterworth. I was supposed to meet Ms Hunter here; I’m her trainee, you see, only, my car wouldn’t start, and I got here late, and I saw her car outside already. Can you let me through? Only, I’m supposed to be learning how to conduct interviews by observing her, and when she rang me she said Mr Barclay’s case sounded like one I could learn a lot from,’ I gabbled without pause.

‘Miss Hunter never said anything about expecting a trainee,’ the distorted voice said.

‘She’s probably given up on me. I was supposed to meet her twenty minutes ago. Please, can you let me through? I’ll be in enough trouble just for being so late. If she thinks I haven’t showed up at all, my life won’t be worth living. I’ve already had the “clients rely on us for their liberty, Ms Robinson’ lecture once this week!’

I’d struck the right chord. The door buzzed and I pushed it open. I stepped inside and pushed open the barred gate. The custody sergeant grinned at me from behind his desk. ‘I’m glad I’m not in your shoes,’ he said. ‘She can be a real tartar, your boss. I had a teacher like her once. Miss Gibson. Mind you, she got me through O Level French, which was no mean feat.’

He asked my name, and I claimed to be Kate Robinson. He made a note on the custody record, then led me down a well-lit corridor. I took care not to trip over the cracked vinyl floor tiles whose edges were starting to curl. It was hard to tell what colour they’d started out; I couldn’t believe someone had actually chosen battleship grey mottled with khaki and bile green. Halfway along the corridor, he paused outside a door marked ‘Interview 2’ and knocked, opening the door before he got a reply. ‘Your trainee’s here, Miss Hunter,’ he announced, stepping back to usher me in.