03.Crack Down

by Val McDermid

  Caught flat-footed, I leapt for the Peugeot. By the time he’d reversed on to the main drag and headed off towards Oxford Road, I was behind him, just far enough for him not to get twitchy. Interestingly, he didn’t drive the Cosworth like a boy racer. If anything, he drove like my father, a man who has never had an accident in twenty-three years of driving. Mind you, he’s seen dozens in his rear-view mirror…The speedo didn’t rise above twenty-eight, he stopped on amber and he didn’t even attempt any traffic-light grand prix stuff. We crossed Oxford Road and carried on sedately down Whitworth Street, into Aytoun Street and past Piccadilly station. Then it was time for a quick whizz through the back doubles before he pulled up outside Sacha’s nightclub and blasted the horn. Luckily I was far enough behind him to stay tucked away on the corner. I cut my lights and waited.

  Not for long. If the speed of her response was anything to go by, patience wasn’t her boyfriend’s strong suit. Depressingly, she looked like she’d walked straight off the bottle-blonde production line. Expensive bimbo, but bimbo nevertheless. Bimbos are the last women in the world wearing crippling high heels and make-up that could camouflage a Chieftain tank. This one must have had enough hair spray on her carefully tumbled locks to lacquer a Chinese cabinet, since it didn’t even move in the chill wind that had sprung up in the last hour.

  She jumped into the waiting Cosworth and we were off again. He was still driving like a pursuer’s dream. I dumped the Pet Shop Boys and let Annie Lennox entertain me instead. Round Piccadilly, down Portland Street, down to Deansgate, out along Regent Road. I had to hang well back now, because there wasn’t a lot of traffic around, and the thief was driving so law-abidingly that any reasonable driver would have overtaken him long ago. At the end of the dual carriageway, instead of heading straight on down the motorway, he hung a left, heading towards Salford Quays. I can’t say I was totally surprised. He looked the sort.

  The Quays used to be, unromantically, Salford Docks. Then the eighties happened, and waterfronts suddenly became trendy. London, Liverpool, Glasgow, Newcastle, Manchester. They all discovered how easy it was to part fools and their money when you threw in a view of a bit of polluted waterway. Salford Quays was Manchester’s version of greed chic. It’s got it all: the multi-screen cinema, the identikit international hotel for jet-set business people, more saunas per head of population than Scandinavia, it’s very own scaled-down World Trade Centre for scaled-down yuppie losers and more Penthouses than penthouses. The only thing it lacks is any kind of human ambience.

  I noticed that the Cosworth was slowing. I pulled into the parking bay of a small block of flats and killed my lights just as he drew up. He’d stopped outside a long block of narrow three-storey town houses with integral garages on the ground floor.

  He got out of the Cosworth, but I could see a whisper of exhaust in the cold night air that told me the engine was still running. He waved a hand in the direction of the garage door and it rose slowly to reveal a two-year-old black Toyota Supra. He swapped the cars over, leaving the Supra on the hard standing and the Cosworth tucked safely away inside the garage.

  I watched for another twenty minutes or so as lights went on and off in various rooms. When the house went dark, I decided that if Richard’s car thief was entitled to sleep, so was I.

  I got home just after two. The house was silent, the bed chilly. If I didn’t get him out of jail soon, I was going to have to buy a hot-water bottle.

  10

  I dreamed I was walking down a corridor filled with breakfast cereal, going snap, crackle and pop with every step. Cautiously, I opened one eye. It was only half a dream. Davy was sitting on the edge of the bed, tucking into a bowl of one of Richard’s noisier cereals, a tumbler of orange juice on the bedside table next to him. He was watching me, and as he registered the rising eyelid, he smiled uncertainly.

  ‘Did I wake you?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t want to miss you.’

  I propped myself up on one elbow and shook my head. ‘Not really,’ I lied. Things were bad enough without me giving Davy a bad time. I glanced at the clock. Five past seven. I couldn’t even summon up the energy to groan.

  ‘Have you got to work today?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I said.

  He looked crestfallen. ‘Can’t I come with you?’ he asked wistfully. ‘I could help.’

  ‘Sorry, hon, not today. But I don’t have to go out for a couple of hours yet, so we could play some computer games first, if you want?’

  He didn’t have to be asked twice. When Chris and Alexis stumbled through the conservatory just after half past eight looking like Beauty and the Beast, Davy and I were absorbed in a game of Lemmings. Alexis threatened to pull the plug out of the socket unless we reverted to normal English usage. Guess which one is the Beast?

  I got up and said I had to go. Before Davy’s disappointment could turn into a sulk, Alexis asked if he’d brought his trunks and if he fancied spending the afternoon at a fun pool. Nobody invited me, which is probably just as well, since the temptation of playing on the slides and surfing in the wave pool might just have proved too much.

  Before the grown-ups could go into a huddle about how we were going to amuse him till lunch time, Davy solved the problem. ‘Kate, is it all right if I go out and play this morning?’ he asked.

  ‘Who with?’ I asked, trying to act like a responsible co-parent. Judging by the look on Davy’s face, he was afraid I was turning into the wicked stepmother.

  ‘Daniel and Wayne, from the estate. I always play with them when I come and see my dad.’

  I didn’t see a problem, and as soon as the deal was struck, Davy was gone. ‘I’ve got to run too,’ I said, heading for the shower.

  ‘What’s happening with Richard?’ Alexis demanded, following me down the hall as Chris disappeared into the kitchen and started brewing some more coffee.

  ‘They’ve charged him with possession with intent to supply,’ I shouted over the sound of the spray and the pump from my new power shower.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Alexis said.

  ‘I’m hopeful we can keep the lid on it,’ I said. ‘Will there be any reporters in the magistrates’ court this morning?’

  ‘Well, if I don’t go down, there won’t be anyone from the Chron,’ Alexis said. ‘And with it being a bank holiday weekend, the court agency probably won’t bother with cover either. You might just get away with it. If you do drop unlucky, there are two courts sitting. If there is a reporter kicking around, ask your solicitor to get the case called in one court while the reporter’s in the other one. Shouldn’t be a problem. I take it that Plan A is for you to find the evidence that will clear Richard before his next court appearance?’

  ‘Got it in one,’ I said. ‘And unless you’ve got any bright ideas about how I’m going to do that, sod off and let me have my shower in peace.’

  Alexis chuckled. ‘OK. I’m going in to the office in a bit to write up my copy from dinner last night. That’ll be my alibi for ignoring the mags. If anybody asks me, I’ll say I checked it out with the clerk and there was nothing of any interest coming up. I’ll be at my desk till lunch time if you need me for anything.’

  ‘Thanks. I might just take you up on that. How did your evening go, by the way?’

  Alexis pulled a face. ‘That depends on whether you’re asking the cold-hearted bastard journalist or the human being. As a journo, it was a major coup. There is definitely a big-time child porn ring operating somewhere in Greater Manchester, and I’m the only journo that knows about it. We’re talking million-pound industry here. But Barney showed me some of their stock in trade. And as a human being, I have to say it was one of the nastiest experiences of my life. It made me fucking glad I don’t have kids of my own to worry about.’

  ‘I don’t need child porn to make me feel like that,’ I said gloomily. ‘Temporary custody of Davy’s quite enough. Did you ask him about any tie-ins with drugs?’

  ‘I did, and if there are any, he doesn’t know about them. Mo
st likely, one of your drug dealers is a pervert. Which doesn’t really help, does it?’

  I love to start the day with the good news.

  Saturday morning, Manchester Magistrates’ Court. The one day of the week the marble corridors of the court don’t resemble the supermarket chill cabinet – there’s hardly a headless chicken in sight. The only cases dealt with at the Saturday court are the overnighters – breaches of the peace, drunk and disorderly, soliciting, the occasional assault. And Richard. Because his was such a major charge and he was arrested after midnight, the police hadn’t been inclined to process the paperwork fast enough for him to appear at Friday’s court, so he’d spilled over into Saturday. Although it probably didn’t feel like it to Richard, that had its advantages. As Alexis had confirmed, the chances were good that it would escape press attention, so the people whose drugs Richard had driven off with wouldn’t be picking up their Evening Chronicle and finding ‘Rock journalist charged with massive drug haul’ splashed all over the front page.

  According to Ruth, Richard had been moved the night before from the nick at Longsight into the custom-built secure detention cells inside the magistrates’ court building. As we’d arranged, I made my way to the duty solicitor’s interview room on the fifth floor. Normally at quarter to ten on a court morning, the place is heaving with defendants, their families, their kids and their harassed lawyers. The air’s usually thick with cigarette smoke and recriminations. Today, while it wasn’t as silent as the executive floor lobby of a multinational, it was a lot quieter than weekdays.

  I pushed open the glass door of the small office and sat on the far side of the round table, commanding a view of the entire length of the foyer outside the courtrooms. It was nearly ten when Ruth swept into sight, a nervous-looking man almost trotting to keep up with her. Ruth shoved the door open and subsided into the chair opposite me with a huge sigh. ‘God, that holding area depresses the knickers off me,’ she complained, lighting a cigarette. ‘Kate,’ she added through a mouthful of smoke, ‘this is Norman Undercroft, the duty solicitor. Norman, this is Kate Brannigan, my client’s partner.’

  Norman ducked his head politely, looking up at me from under mousey brows. Close to, he looked a lot older than my first impression. His papery skin was covered in a network of fine lines, placing him in his late forties. He opened his mouth to speak, but Ruth beat him to it. ‘Right, Kate. Listen very carefully, I only have time to run this past you once. This morning, Richard will be represented by Norman here. Norman will get up on his hind legs and tell the court that this is a complicated matter about which his client has not yet had the opportunity to consult his own solicitor fully. Therefore, Norman will be asking the court to remand Richard in custody for the weekend. The prosecution will leap to their feet indignantly and respond that Richard is a menace to society, and furthermore, the police are investigating other serious charges in relation to him. They’ll ask for a lie-down so that these matters can be resolved. And the mags will smile sweetly and agree. Any questions?’

  ‘When can I see him?’ I asked.

  ‘Between seven and nine in the evening. Any visit is at the discretion of the duty inspector, so don’t be stroppy. You go round to the back entrance in Gartside Street opposite the car park. That it? Sorry to be so abrupt, but I’ve got twenty for lunch and Peter has not got the knack of getting the caterers to do any work.’ She got to her feet. ‘Have you made any progress, by the way?’

  ‘It’s early days yet, but I think I might just be getting somewhere.’

  ‘OK. Look, I’ve arranged to see Richard tomorrow morning. Why don’t we meet afterwards? Say eleven, in the Ramada. You can buy me brunch.’

  ‘Make it Salford Quays,’ I called after her. ‘I might need to be down there.’

  ‘The Quays it is,’ she tossed over her shoulder as she disappeared round the corner. The room seemed to double in size now only Norman and I were left. I gave him a friendly smile.

  ‘Overwhelming,’ I said.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Norman. ‘Good, though. I’d choose her if I was ever charged with anything, especially if I’d done it.’

  I hoped everyone else wouldn’t assume Richard was guilty just because he’d hired the best criminal lawyer in town. Wearily, I followed Norman round to Court 9. There didn’t seem to be a journalist in the court, unless the court reporting agency had taken to hiring elderly women who look one step away from bag ladies and have such excellent powers of recall that they don’t need a notebook.

  I sat on one of the flip-down seats at the back of the courtroom. There were two magistrates on the bench, a man and a woman, both middle-aged, both decidedly middle class. After two breaches of the peace and a soliciting, I decided she was a teacher and he owned his own small business. She had that unmistakable air of wanting to tell them all to behave, and he had the blunt style of the self-made man who has no conception of why everybody can’t be like him.

  Richard was the last case of the morning. Watching him walk into the dock, I realized just how hard it is for people to get justice. After thirty-six hours in custody wearing the same clothes, not having shaved or showered, he looked like a bad lad even to me, and I was on his side. The very structure of the court itself made the accused appear to be some sort of desperado. Richard stood in the reinforced dock, behind a barrier of heavy perspex slats, the door into the court locked to avoid any possibility of him escaping. Behind him stood an alert prison officer. The system made it clear who was the sinner here.

  Although he was familiar enough with court procedures from his days as a local paper journalist, Richard looked around the court with all the bewilderment of an animal that went to sleep in the jungle and woke up in the zoo. His hair seemed to have gone lank and dead overnight, and he pushed it back from his forehead in a gesture I’d noticed hundreds of times when he was working. When he saw me, one corner of his mouth twitched in a half-smile. That was a half more than I could manage.

  There was no chance for Richard even to protest his innocence. He was treated like a parcel that has to be processed. As Ruth had predicted, the magistrates made little difficulty about remanding Richard in custody. The prosecuting solicitor obligingly explained that not only were the police pursuing further inquiries but they were also keen that Richard be kept away from other prisoners to avoid any collusion with his alleged co-conspirators. They all looked as if the very idea of a bail application on a charge like this was the best joke they’d heard since Margaret Thatcher announced the National Health Service was safe in her hands. The whole thing took nine and a half minutes. As Richard’s prison officer escort led him out of the dock, he turned his back to the bench, wiggled his fingers at me and blew a kiss. I could have wept.

  Instead, I thanked Norman Undercroft politely for his efforts and walked briskly out into the fresh air. Since I was only round the corner from Alexis’s office, I cut through Crown Square and entered the building via the underground car park. I had wheedled the door combination out of Alexis ages ago; you never know when you’re going to need a bacon sandwich at four in the morning, and the motto of the canteen staff of the Manchester Morning Sentinel and Evening Chronicle is ‘We never run out’.

  I took the lift up to the editorial floor. Things were fairly peaceful. Most of the sports staff hadn’t come in yet, and Saturdays are such quiet news days that there’s only ever a skeleton team in the newsroom. Alexis sat hunched over her keyboard in a quiet corner cut off from the rest of the room by a dense thicket of various interesting green things. I recognized the devil’s ivy and the sweetheart plant. I’ve killed cuttings from both of them. I edged round the plants. Alexis flapped a hand at me, indicating I should sit down and shut up. I did.

  With a flurry of fingers over the keyboard, Alexis reached the end of her train of thought, leaned back, narrowed her eyes and re-read her last paragraph, absently reaching out for the cigarette in her ashtray. It had already burned down to the tip, and she looked at it in astonishment. Only then did I me
rit any attention. ‘All right?’ she asked.

  ‘As predicted. Remanded till Wednesday to allow for further police inquiries relating to other serious crimes. And unless the court agency has taken to hiring the Invisible Man for Saturday shifts, we’re clear there too.’

  ‘It’s only a matter of time before somebody gets a whisper.’ Alexis warned. ‘It’s too good a story for the Old Bill to sit on. It’s not every day they capture a parcel that size.’

  ‘So let’s get a move on,’ I said.

  ‘What’s with the “us”? Isn’t unpaid childminding enough?’

  ‘That’s only the start. I need to look at your copy of the electoral roll.’

  Alexis nodded and tipped back dangerously in her chair till she could reach the filing cabinet behind her. She pulled out the bottom drawer. ‘Help yourself,’ she said. I don’t know exactly where she gets it from, but Alexis always has an up-to-date copy of the city voters’ list. She keeps it next to another interesting document which fell off the back of a British Telecom lorry, a list of Greater Manchester names and addresses sorted by phone number. In other words, if you’ve got the number, you can look up the address and name of the subscriber. Very handy, especially when you’re dealing with the kind of dodgy customer Alexis and I are always running up against.

  I looked up the relevant street in the electoral roll and discovered the occupant was listed as Terence Fitzgerald. The phone book revealed no listing for Terence Fitzgerald, but I checked Directory Inquiries on my mobile phone and discovered there was a mobile listed for him.

  ‘Find what you wanted?’ Alexis asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. I had a way to go before I could be sure that the car thief and Terence Fitzgerald were one and the same. Thanks to the poll tax fiasco, the electoral roll has ceased to be an accurate guide to who actually lives at any particular address.