by Val McDermid
‘What did you do next?’ Ruth said.
‘Well, I did what any reasonable person would have done,’ Richard said. My heart sank. ‘I took the trade plates off and cobbed them in the gutter.’
‘You cobbed them in the gutter?’ Ruth and I chorused, neck and neck in the incredulity stakes.
‘Of course I did. They didn’t belong to me. I’m not a thief,’ Richard said with a mixture of self-righteousness and naïvety that made my fingers itch with the desire to get round his throat.
‘It didn’t occur to you that they might be helpful evidence for the police in catching the car thieves?’ Ruth said, all silky savagery.
‘No, it didn’t, I’m sorry. I’m not like you two. I don’t have a criminal sort of mind.’
Ruth looked like she wanted to join me in the lynch mob. ‘Go on,’ she said, her voice icy. ‘What did you do after you disposed of your corroboration?’
‘I got in the car and set off. I was nearly home when I saw the flashing blue lights in my rear-view mirror. I didn’t even pull over at first, because I wasn’t speeding or anything. Anyway, they cut me up at the lights on Upper Brook Street, and I realized it was me they were after. So I stopped. I opened the window a couple of inches, but before I could say anything, one of the busies opened the door and dragged me out of the motor. Next thing I know, I’m spread-eagled over the bonnet with a pair of handcuffs on and his oppo’s got the boot open.
‘They kept on at me about the car being stolen, and I kept telling them, yeah, I knew that, ’cos I was the person it had been stolen off, but they just wouldn’t listen. Then the guy looking in the boot came round with this Sainsbury’s plastic bag, and he’s waving it in my face saying, “And I suppose the villains that nicked your car decided to leave you a little something for your trouble?” Well, I had no idea what was in the boot, did I? So I told them that, and they just laughed, and bundled me into their car and brought me here. Next thing I know is they’re on at me about a parcel of crack. And that’s when I thought, uh-oh, I need a brief.’
Richard sat back and looked at the two of us. ‘It’s an unexpected bonus, getting Brannigan as well,’ he added. ‘How soon can you get me out of this dump, Ruth?’ he asked, gesturing round the shabby interview room.
‘That depends on several things. Being absolutely honest, Richard, I’m not optimistic that I can avoid them charging you, which means you won’t be going anywhere until I can get you in front of a magistrate and apply for bail, which we can probably manage tomorrow morning. I still have some questions, though. Have you at any time opened the boot of the coupé?’
Richard frowned. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said hesitantly. ‘No, I’m pretty sure I haven’t. I mean, why would I?’
‘You didn’t check it out when you bought it? Look to see if there was a spare wheel and a jack?’ Ruth asked.
‘The salesman showed us when we took it for a test drive,’ I interjected. ‘I certainly don’t remember Richard ever going near it.’
He managed a grin. ‘We didn’t have it long enough for Brannigan to take it shopping, so we didn’t need the boot.’
‘Good,’ Ruth said. ‘This carrier bag that they produced from the boot. Had you ever seen it before?’
Richard shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t know. It was just an ordinary Sainsbury’s carrier bag. Brannigan’s got a drawer full of them. There was nothing about it to make it any different from any other one. But it wasn’t in the boot when that rattlesnake showed us the car on Monday. And I didn’t put it there. So I guess it’s fair to say I’d never seen it before.’
‘Did you touch it at all?’
‘How could I? I said, I’d never seen it before,’ Richard said plaintively.
‘The officer didn’t throw it to you, or hand it to you?’ Ruth persisted.
‘He couldn’t, could he? His oppo had me cuffed already,’ Richard replied.
‘Yes, I’m a little surprised at that. Had you put up a struggle? Or had you perhaps been a little over-energetic in the verbal department?’ Ruth asked carefully.
‘Well, I wasn’t exactly thrilled at being bodily dragged out of what was, technically, my own motor when I hadn’t even been speeding and I’d been on the Diet Coke all night. So I suppose I was a bit gobby,’ Richard admitted. If my heart could have sunk any further, it would have done. Add resisting arrest to the list, I thought gloomily.
Ruth was clearly as cheered as I was by this news. ‘But you didn’t actually offer any physical violence?’ she asked, the hope in her voice as obvious as a City supporter in a United bus.
‘No,’ Richard said indignantly. ‘What do you take me for?’
Diplomatically, neither of us answered. ‘The keys for this coupé – did you have both sets?’
Richard shook his head. ‘No, Brannigan had the others.’
‘Have you still got them?’ she asked me.
I nodded. ‘They’re in the kitchen drawer. No one but the two of us has had access to them.’
‘Good,’ Ruth said. ‘These two women you were with – can you give me their names and addresses? I’ll need statements from them to show you were talking about their record contract, rather than sitting in some dark corner negotiating a drug deal.’
‘You’re not going to like this,’ Richard predicted. Correctly, as it turned out. ‘I only know their stage names. Lilith Annsdaughter and Eve Uhuru. I don’t have any addresses for them, just a phone number. It’s in my notebook, but the boys in blue have taken that off me. Sorry.’ He tried a smile, but the magic didn’t work on either of us.
Ruth showed her first real sign of tiredness. Her eyes closed momentarily and her shoulders dropped. ‘Leave that with me,’ she said, her voice little stronger than a sigh. Then she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and pulled a packet of extra-long menthol cigarettes out of her briefcase. She offered them round, but got no takers. ‘Do you suppose this counts as Thursday’s eleventh or Friday’s first?’ she asked. ‘Either way, it’s against the rules.’ She lit the cigarette, surprisingly, with a match torn from a restaurant matchbook. I’d have had Ruth marked down as a Dunhill lighter.
‘One more thing,’ Ruth said. ‘You’ve got a son, haven’t you, Richard?’
Richard frowned, puzzled. ‘Yeah. Davy. Why?’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Why do you want to know that?’ Richard asked. I was glad he had; it saved me the bother.
‘According to the custody sergeant, when the officers searched the car more thoroughly, they found a Polaroid photograph that had slid down the side of the rear seat. It shows a young boy.’ Ruth took a deep breath. ‘In a rather unpleasant pose. I think they’re going to want to ask some questions about that too.’
‘How do you mean, a rather unpleasant pose?’ I demanded.
‘He’s stripped down to his underpants and handcuffed to a bed,’ Ruth said.
Richard looked thunderstruck. I knew just how he felt. ‘And you think that’s got something to do with me?’ he gasped, outraged.
‘The police might,’ Ruth said.
‘It couldn’t be anything to do with us,’ I butted in. ‘Neither of us has been in the back seat since we got the car. The only person who’d been in the back seat that I know of is the salesman, on the test drive.’
‘OK, OK,’ Ruth said. ‘Calm down. All I was thinking is that the photograph might possibly have an innocent explanation, and that it might have been your son.’
‘So what does this kid look like?’ Richard said belligerently.
‘I’d say about ten, dark wavy hair, skinny.’
Richard let out a sigh. ‘Well, you can count Davy out. He’s only eight, average size for his age, and his hair’s straight like mine, and the same colour. Light brown.’ The colour of butterscotch, to be precise.
‘Fine. I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,’ Ruth said. ‘Any questions, Kate?’
I nodded. Not that I had any hopes of a useful answer. ‘Richard, when you wer
e in Manto’s, did you see anyone you recognized from the club the other night? Anyone a bit flash, a bit hooky, the type that just might have nicked the motor?’
Richard screwed up his eyes in concentration. Then he shook his head. ‘You know me, Brannigan. I don’t go places to look at the punters,’ he said apologetically.
‘Did you do a number on anybody about the car?’
‘I didn’t mention it to a soul. I’d just have looked a dick-head next week, back with my usual wheels,’ he said, with rare insight.
‘I don’t suppose you know who’s doing the heavy-duty stuff round town these days?’
Richard leaned forward and stared into my eyes. I could feel his fear. ‘I’ve got no interest,’ he said, his face tense. ‘I bend over backwards to avoid taking any interest. Look, you know how much time I spend in the Moss and Cheetham Hill with new bands. Everybody knows I’m a journo. If I showed the slightest interest in the gangs and the drugs, I’d be a dead man, blown away on the steps of some newspaper office as a warning to other hacks not to get any daft ideas in their heads about running a campaign to clean up Manchester. You ask Alexis. She’s supposed to be the crime correspondent. You ask her the last time there was a heavy incident in Moss Side or Cheetham Hill where she did anything more than toddle along to the police press conference! Believe me, if I thought for one minute that the gang that owns these drugs knows it was me that drove off with them, I’d be begging for protective custody a long, long way from Manchester. No, Brannigan, I do not know who’s doing the heavy stuff, and for the sake of both our healths, I suggest that you remain in the same blissful state.’
I shrugged. ‘You want to walk away from this? The only way you’re going to do that is if we give them a body to trade,’ I turned to Ruth. ‘Am I right?’
‘Regardless of that, you’re probably going to have to spend another few days in police custody,’ Ruth warned him.
Richard’s face fell. ‘Is there no way you can get me out sooner? I’ve got to get out of here, double urgent,’ he said.
‘Richard, in my opinion, the police will charge you with possession of a Class A drug with intent to supply, which is not a charge on which magistrates are inclined to allow bail. I’ll do my best, but the chances are heavily stacked against us. Sorry about that, but there we go.’ Ruth paused to savour a last mouthful of smoke before regretfully stubbing out her cigarette.
‘Oh, shit,’ Richard said. He took off his glasses and carefully polished them on his paisley silk shirt. He sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go for it. But there’s one slight problem I haven’t mentioned that Brannigan seems to have forgotten about,’ he said sheepishly, looking short-sightedly in my direction.
My turn to sigh. ‘Give,’ I said.
‘Davy’s due on the seven o’clock shuttle tonight. Remember? Half-term?’
As his words sank in, I got to my feet, shaking my head. ‘Oh no, no way. Not me.’
‘Please,’ Richard said. ‘You know how much it means to me.’
‘There isn’t that much dosh in the world,’ I said, panicking.
‘Please, Kate. That bitch is just looking for an excuse to shut me out,’ he pleaded.
‘That’s no way to talk about the woman you married, the mother of your child, the former joy of your existence and fire of your loins,’ I said, slipping defensively into our routine banter. It was no use. I knew as I looked down at the poor sod that I’d already given in. A dozen years of efficient contraception, and what does it get you? Someone else’s kid, that’s what.
5
I had to sit through the whole tale a second time for the CID’s preliminary taped interview with Richard. Ruth had instructed him to co-operate fully, in the hope that it might predispose them towards letting his bail application go through. Looking at their faces as they listened to Richard’s admittedly unlikely story, I didn’t rate his chances of seeing daylight for a while.
After the interview, Ruth and I went into a brief huddle. ‘Look, Kate, realistically, he’s not going to get bail tomorrow. The best chance we have of getting him out is if you can come up with evidence that supports his story and points to the real criminals.’ I held my tongue; Ruth is one of the few people I allow to tell me how to suck eggs.
‘The crucial thing, given the amount of drugs involved, is that we keep him out of the mainstream prison system so he’s not in contact with criminals who have connections into the drug scene. What I’m going to suggest to the CID is that they use the excuse of the “stolen” car and the possibly pornographic photograph to exploit paragraph five of the Bail Act,’ she went on.
I must have looked as blank as I felt, for she deigned to explain. ‘If the suspect’s been arrested for one offence and the police have evidence of his implication in another, they can ask for what we call a lie-down. In other words, he remains in police custody for up to three days for the other matters to be investigated. That’ll give us a bit of leeway, since the meter doesn’t start running till the day after the initial hearing. That gives us Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. He’ll appear in court again on Wednesday, by which time you might have made enough headway for me to be able to argue that he should be let out.’
‘Oh whoopee,’ I said. ‘A schedule so tight I’ll be singing soprano and an eight-year-old too. Go for it, Ruth.’
I left Ruth to her wheeling and dealing with the CID just after half past four and drove into the city centre. Chinatown was still lively, the late-night trade losing their shirts in the casinos and drunkenly scoffing Chinese meals after the clubs had closed. Less than a mile away, in the gay village round Chorlton Street bus station, the only sign of life was a few rent boys and hookers, hanging around the early-morning street corners in a triumph of hope over experience. I cruised slowly along Canal Street, the blank windows of Manto’s reflecting nothing but my Peugeot. I didn’t even spot anyone sleeping rough till I turned down Minshull Street towards UMIST.
The street was still. I pulled up in an empty parking meter bay. There were only three other cars in the street, one of them Richard’s Beetle. I’d have to come back in the morning and collect it before some officious traffic warden had it ticketed and clamped. At least its presence supported Richard’s story, if the police were inclined to check it out. I took my pocket Nikon out of my glove box, checked the date stamp was switched on and took a couple of shots of the Beetle as insurance.
Slowly, I walked round to Sackville Street, checking doorways and litter bins for the trade plates. I didn’t hold out much hope. They were too good a prize for any passing criminal, never mind the guys who had stuck them on the coupé in the first place. As I’d expected, the streets were clear. On the off chance, I walked round into the little square of garden in Sackville Street and searched along the wall and in the bushes, being careful to avoid touching the unpleasant crop of used condoms. No joy. Stumbling with exhaustion, I walked back to my car and drove home. The prospect of having to take care of Davy weighed heavily on me, and I desperately wanted to crack on and make some progress towards clearing Richard. But the sensible part of me knew there was nothing I could do in the middle of the night. And if I didn’t get some sleep soon, I wouldn’t be fit to do what had to be done come daylight.
I set my alarm for half past eight, switched off the phones and turned down the volume on the answering machine. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do the same thing with my brain. I tossed and turned, my head full of worries that wouldn’t lie down and leave me in peace. I prayed Ruth’s stratagem would work. While he was still in police custody, Richard was fairly safe. But as soon as he was charged and remanded to prison, the odds would turn against him. No matter how much the police tried to keep the lid on this business, it wouldn’t take long in the leaky sieve of prison before the wrong people learned what he was in for. And if the drugs belonged to one of the Manchester gangs, some warlord somewhere would decide that Richard needed to be punished in ways the law has long since ceased to contemplate.
We
’d both gone into this relationship with damage from past encounters. From the start, we’d been honest about our pain and our fears. As a result, we’d always kept it light, by tacit agreement. Somewhere round about dawn, I acknowledged that I couldn’t live with myself if I let anything happen to him. It’s a real bastard, love.
I was only dozing when the alarm went off. The first thing I did was check the answering machine. Its friendly red light was flashing, so I hit the replay button. ‘Hello, Kate, it’s Ruth.’ Her voice was friendlier than I deserved. ‘It’s just before six, and I thought you’d be pleased to hear that I’ve manged to persuade the divisional superintendent that he has most chance of obtaining convictions from this situation if he keeps Richard’s arrest under wraps. So he’s agreed, very reluctantly, not to hold a press conference announcing a major drugs haul. He’s not keen, but there we go. Was I put on earth to keep policemen happy? He’s also receptive to the idea of a lie-down, but he wants to hang on till later in the day before he makes a final decision. Anyway, I hope you’re managing some sleep, since working yourself to the point of exhaustion will not serve the interests of my client. Why don’t you give me a call towards the end of the afternoon, by which time we both might have some information? Speak to you soon, darling. It’ll be all right.’ I wished I could share her breezy confidence.
As the coffee brewed, I called my local friendly mechanic and asked him to collect Richard’s Beetle, promising to leave a set of keys under the kitchen window box. I also phoned in to the office and told Shelley what had happened. Of course, it was Richard who got the sympathy. Never mind that I’d been deprived of my sleep and landed with a task that might have caused even Clint Eastwood a few nervous moments. Oh no, that was my job, Shelley reminded me. ‘You do what you’ve got to do to get that poor boy out of jail,’ she said sternly. ‘It makes me feel ill, just thinking of Richard locked up in a stinking cell with the dregs of humanity.’
