Blue Genes

by Val McDermid

  I took a deep breath. ‘You make a bit of money on the side, don’t you? Doing bits and pieces for people like me?’

  ‘Yeah, but not enough to support a habit like this,’ he said wryly, waving a hand round at the computers and their associated software and peripherals.

  ‘But you’re good at finding the weak points in systems and worming your way in, aren’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘You know I’m the best.’

  ‘How do you fancy working the other side of the street?’

  He frowned suspiciously. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

  ‘Meaning going straight. At least in normal working hours. Meaning, coming to work for me.’

  ‘Thought you had a partner who did all the legit security stuff?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t want charity, you know. I either want a proper job or nothing.’

  ‘My partner is taking early retirement due to ill health,’ I said grimly.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘Delusional psychosis. He thinks he’s in love and wants to live in Australia.’

  Gizmo grinned. ‘Sounds like an accurate diagnosis to me. So what’s the job description?’

  ‘We do a lot of corporate computer security work, liaising with their software engineers and consultants to make their systems as unbeatable as we can get them. We also work with people whose systems have been breached, both plugging the holes and trying to track what’s been raided and where it’s gone. We’ve done a little bit of work with banks and insurance companies tracking money that’s been stolen by breaching Electronic Fund Transfers. I know enough about it to pitch for the business, but not enough to do the work. That’s where I’m going to need to replace Bill. Interested?’

  He spun round on his chair a couple of times. ‘I think I might be,’ he said. ‘Are you talking a full-time job or ad hoc consultancy?’

  ‘I’ll be honest, Giz. Right now, I can’t afford to take you on full time. Initially, it would have to be as and when I can bring the work in. But if you’re as good as you say you are, we’ll generate a lot of word-of-mouth business.’

  He nodded noncommittally. ‘When would you want me to start?’

  ‘Mutually agreed date in the not-too-distant?’

  ‘Dosh?’

  ‘Fifty per cent of the net? Per job?’

  ‘Gross.’

  I shook my head. ‘Net. I’m not a charity. Shelley has to put the pitch document together and she has to do all the admin. Her time comes off the fee. Plus phone expenses, faxes, photocopying. Most jobs, it’s not big bucks. But sometimes it starts to run into money. Net or nothing.’

  ‘I can live with it. Net it is. Six-month trial, see how we both go on?’

  ‘Suits me. There is one thing though, Giz…?’ His red-rimmed eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Well, two things,’ I continued. ‘A haircut and a smart suit.’ I held a hand up to stem the protest I knew was coming. ‘I know it breaks your heart to spend money on a suit that could be better spent on a new genlock adapter. And I know you think that anything more sophisticated than a number one all over once a year is for girlies, but these are deal breakers. If you like, I’ll even come with you and make the process as painless as possible, but it’s got to be done.’

  Gizmo breathed out heavily through his nose. ‘Fuck it, who do you think you are? I’ve managed to avoid that kind of shit working for Telecom, why should I do it for you?’

  ‘Telecom have just fired you, Giz. Maybe corporate image had something to do with it, maybe not. Bottom line is, Telecom were a necessary evil for you. Working for me is going to be fun, and you know it. So get the haircut, get the suit.’

  He scowled like a small boy who’s been told to wash behind his ears. ‘Yeah, well,’ he growled, scuffing his heels on the floor. ‘You drive a hard bargain.’

  I smiled sweetly. ‘You’ll thank me for it one day. Let me know when you want to shop till you drop.’

  I walked downstairs alone, leaving Gizmo staring at a screen. I still didn’t know where the money was going to come from to buy Bill out. But at least I was starting to feel like it might be possible for the agency to earn enough to pay it back.

  Rasul and Lal’s sandwich bar is one of Manchester’s best kept secrets. Nestled under the railway arches at the trendy rather than the glossy end of Deansgate, it produces some of the finest butties in town. They like to name sandwiches after their regular customers, and I’m proud to reveal there’s a Brannigan Butty up there on the board—tuna and spring onion in mayo with black olives and tomatoes in crusty French bread. Strictly speaking, it’s a takeaway, but in the room behind the shop some of us get to perch and munch. I’m not sure of the criteria Rasul and Lal apply for admission to the back shop, but I’ve found myself sharing the privileged space with doctors, lawyers, Equal Opportunities Commission executives and TV technicians. The one thing we all have in common is that we’re refugees, hiding from our lives for as long as it takes to scoff a sandwich and swallow a coffee.

  When I arrived in the back shop the following morning, Della was already there. She’d opted for an egg mayonnaise sandwich. I was feeling less traditional, going for a paratha with a spicy omelette on top. There was no one else around apart from the brothers. There seldom is around ten, which was why I’d chosen it for our meeting. This was one time I absolutely didn’t want to be seen publicly with Della.

  We gave each other as much of a hug and kiss as our breakfasts would allow. She looked like she’d had more sleep than me, her skin glowing, her green eyes clear, copper hair pulled back into the kind of chignon that never stayed neat for more than five minutes on me when I had the hair for it. On Della, there wasn’t a stray hair to be seen. I couldn’t quite work out why, but Della was getting better looking with every passing year. Maybe it had something to do with cheekbones her whole body seemed to hang from. ‘Mysterious morning call,’ she remarked as we cosied up in the corner between the fridge and the back door.

  ‘You’ll understand why when I tell you what I’ve got for you.’

  ‘Goodies?’ she inquired enthusiastically.

  ‘Not so’s you’d notice.’ I bit into my sandwich. Anything to postpone the moment when I delivered the bad news.

  Realizing I needed to work up to this one, Della said, ‘We lifted your headstone con artists yesterday morning before their eyes were open. We’d fixed up an ID parade with some of the names you gave us, and we got enough positive identifications to persuade them that they might as well put their hands up and admit to the lot. Turns out they’d pulled the same routine in Birmingham and Plymouth before they turned up here. Nice work, Kate.’

  ‘Thanks. By the way, on the subject of those two, something occurred to me which you’ve probably thought of already.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I was thinking about the business they’re in. Mobile phones. I just wondered how straight the company is that they’re working for. Given how many ways there are to make an illegal buck out of mobies, and given that this pair are cool as Ben and Jerry’s in the way they operate, I wondered if it might be worth a poke about at Sell Phones.’

  ‘You know, that might not be such a bad idea. I was so busy with my own team this week, I never gave it a thought. But Allen and Sargent’s arrest gives me the perfect excuse to get a search warrant on Sell Phones. Thanks for the thought,’ Della said, looking slightly embarrassed that she hadn’t worked it out for herself. I knew just how she felt; I’ve been there too many times myself.

  ‘No problem. However I don’t think you’re going to be quite as thrilled about today’s bulletin, somehow.’

  ‘Come on, get it over with. It can’t be as bad as all that. The only news that deserves a face like yours is that Josh is a serial killer.’

  ‘What about a bent DI?’ I said gloomily.

  The smile vanished from Della’s eyes. ‘I don’t have to ask if you’re sure, do I?’

  ‘It’s possible somebody’s setting me up, but I don’t think so. It fits the
facts too well.’

  Della’s mouth tightened into a grim line and she looked past me into the middle distance. ‘I absolutely hate corrupt police officers,’ she said bitterly. ‘They’ve always got some pathetic piece of self-justification, and it never ever justifies the damage they do. So, who are we talking about here? Just tell me it’s not one of mine.’

  ‘It really isn’t one of yours,’ I said, knowing it was pretty bleak as reassurances go. ‘It’s a DI in Vice. Peter Lovell? Heard of him?’

  Della’s answer had to wait. Rasul came through to the fridge for another tray of sliced ham. ‘All right?’ he asked cheerfully, far too polite to indicate that the expressions on our faces showed the exact opposite.

  ‘Fine,’ we chorused.

  When he’d left, Della said, ‘I know who you mean. I’ve never had anything to do with him directly, never met him socially, but I have heard the name. He’s supposed to be a good copper. High body count, keeps his patch clean. What’s the story?’

  ‘I’m not too sure of the exact wording on the charge sheet, but it goes something like threatening behaviour, assault, illegal possession of firearms, conspiracy, incitement to cause an affray, obtaining money with menaces, improper use of police resources…Oh, and illegal billposting.’

  ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were winding me up,’ Della said wearily. She looked at her half-eaten sandwich. ‘I just lost my appetite.’ She was about to bin it, but I stopped her. For some reason I was ravenous this morning. I had the last mouthful of my paratha and started on her leftovers. Ignoring every environmental health regulation from Brussels to Baltimore, Della pulled out her cigarettes and Zippo and sucked on a Silk Cut. ‘Details, then,’ she said.

  Lal stuck his head round the door into the shop. ‘Can you crack the window if you’re smoking, Del?’ he asked. I was astonished. I’d never heard anyone contract Della’s name and live. Not only did she ignore his liberty-taking, she even opened the window a couple of inches. Either Della was in a state of shock or there was something going on between her and Lal that I knew nothing about.

  ‘It all started when Richard came home with Dan Druff and the Scabby Heided Bairns,’ I began. By the time I’d finished, Della looked like she was about to have a second close encounter with the half-sandwich she’d already eaten. ‘So right now, Lovell’s winning,’ I finished up. ‘He’s got the muscle to get what he wants, and the gangsters can’t beat him the usual way because every time they make a move, their shock troops end up behind bars.’

  ‘I can’t believe he’d be so stupid,’ she said. ‘He must be looking at having his thirty in when he retires. That’s a good pension, and he’s young enough to pull something decent in private security. And he’s risking the lot.’

  I helped myself to a Kit Kat from an open box on a shelf behind me. ‘He’s risking a hell of a lot more than that,’ I pointed out as I stripped the wrapper off. ‘He’s risking his life. The people he’s dealing with can’t afford to lose that much face. If the normal ways of warning someone off aren’t working with Lovell, somebody is going to shell out the requisite five grand.’

  ‘And then there will be a war. It doesn’t matter how bent a bobby is, when he’s dead, he’s a hero. And when we lose one of our own, the police service doesn’t stop till somebody has paid the price.’

  ‘I think they realize that,’ I said quietly. ‘They’ll have to be desperate before they go for a hit. But every week that goes by where money goes into Lovell’s pocket instead of theirs is a week when the ratchet gets screwed a notch tighter. I don’t know how far away desperation is for the likes of Collar di Salvo’s lad, but I know some of the other players are really hurting.’

  Della thumbed another cigarette out of the packet. ‘So Greater Manchester Police has to put a stop to Lovell on humanitarian grounds? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Something like that. But I’m not talking GMP, I’m talking DCI Della Prentice and a small hand-picked team. If Lovell’s been on the force this long, he must have a fair few in his corner, and I don’t see how you can be sure who they all are. You need outsiders like you’ve got in the Regional Crime Squad.’

  Della did the time-wasting thing that smokers do to buy some space: fiddling with the cigarette, rolling the lighter round in her hand, examining the filter for holes. ‘So what do you suggest?’ she asked.

  ‘An undercover operation?’

  ‘Nice of you to volunteer.’

  I shook my head. ‘No way. I’m not sticking my head above the trench on this one. Remember, I’m the one who doesn’t believe in private health insurance, and the waiting list for key organ transplants is too long for my liking.’

  Della took another hit of nicotine then said, ‘Bottle gone?’

  ‘Cheeky bastard,’ I growled. ‘My bottle’s as sound as it’s ever been.’

  ‘Really?’ she drawled. God, I hate Oxbridge graduates. They learn that sarcastic drawl at their first tutorial and they never forget it. Those of us who grew up in the backstreets shadowed by the dreaming spires never got past the snarl.

  ‘Yeah, really,’ I snarled. ‘You’re the police, it’s your job to catch criminals, remember?’

  ‘Problem is, you’re not bringing me any hard evidence,’ Della said.

  ‘So mount your own undercover operation. Leave me out of it.’

  ‘It’s hard for us, Kate. We don’t have any way into an undercover. We haven’t got some tame club manager who’s going to roll over and help us. And from what you’ve said, your contacts are not going to welcome Officer Dibble with open arms. They might well think it’s better to deal with the devil they know. Whereas you…’

  ‘Call yourself my friend, and you want me to go up against an animal like Lovell with his army of hard cases?’

  Della shrugged. ‘You know you’ll have all the back-up you need. Besides, from what you tell me, there’s been a lot of mouth but not a lot of serious action. Nobody’s been killed, nobody’s even had a serious going-over. Mr Lovell’s merry men seem to specialize in violence against property. When it comes to sorting people out, he seems to go for remarkably law-abiding means. He calls the police. I think you’d be perfectly safe.’

  ‘Gee thanks,’ I said.

  Della put a hand on my arm. Her eyes were serious. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything I wouldn’t do myself. I’ll handpick the back-up team.’

  ‘You think that makes me feel any better? Everybody knows you’re an even madder bastard than I am!’ I pointed out bitterly, knowing I was beaten.

  ‘So you’ll do it?’

  ‘I’ll call you when I’ve got the setup sorted,’ I said resignedly. ‘I’m not a happy camper, I want you to know that.’

  ‘You won’t regret this,’ Della said, pulling me into a hug.

  ‘I better not.’

  Della paid for the Kit Kat on the way out.

  I thought it was about time I showed my face in the office lest Bill got to thinking he could start the revolution without me. With luck, he would still be busy showing Sheila the delights of the North West.

  I don’t know why I indulged myself with the notion that luck might be on my side. It had been out of my life so long I was beginning to think it had run off to sea. When I walked in Bill was sitting on Shelley’s desk, going through a file with her. Given that I wasn’t speaking to Bill and Shelley wasn’t speaking to me, it looked like an interesting conversation might be on the cards. ‘Kate,’ Bill greeted me with a cheerful boom. ‘Great to see you.’ And I am Marie of Romania.

  ‘Hi,’ I said to no one in particular. ‘Has anything come for me from the Land Registry?’

  ‘If you checked your in-tray occasionally, you’d know, wouldn’t you?’ Shelley said acidly. It probably wasn’t the time to tell her I’d gone through it at one that morning. Not if I wanted to keep my office manager.

  ‘Have you thought any more about the implications of my move?’ Bill asked anxiously.

  I stopped mid
way to my office door, threw my hands up in mock amazement and said, ‘Oh dearie me, I knew there was something I was supposed to be thinking about. Silly me! It just slipped my mind.’ I cast my eyes up to the ceiling and marched into my office. ‘Of course I’ve bloody thought about it,’ I shouted as I closed the door firmly behind me. People who ask asinine questions should expect rude answers.

  The letter from the Land Registry was sitting right on top of my in-tray. Their speed these days never ceases to amaze me. What I can’t work out is why it still takes solicitors two months to convey a house from one owner to another. I flipped through the photocopied sheets of information that came with the covering letter. It confirmed the suspicion that had jumped up and down shouting, ‘See me, Mum, I’m dancing!’ when I’d interviewed Helen Maitland.

  I might have been warned off talking to Sarah Blackstone’s former patients. But Alexis hadn’t said anything about her former lover.

  20

  I’d gone into my first interview with the real Dr Helen Maitland without enough background information. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. After a late lunch in a Bradford curry café that cost less than a trip to McDonald’s, I parked up in a street of back-to-back terraced houses that spilled down a hill on the fringe of the city centre. Half a dozen Asian lads and a couple of white ones were playing cricket on a scrap of waste ground where one of the houses had been demolished. When I didn’t get out of the car at once, they stopped playing and stared curiously at me. I wasn’t interesting enough to hold their attention for long, and they soon returned to their game.

  I sat staring at a house halfway down the street. It looked well kempt, its garden free of weeds and its paintwork intact. It was a door I hadn’t knocked on for a few years, and I had no idea what kind of welcome I’d get. Even so, it still felt like a more appealing prospect than quizzing Sarah Blackstone’s medical colleagues. I’d first come here in search of a missing person. Not long after I’d found her, she ended up murdered, with her girlfriend the prime suspect. My inquiries had cleared the girlfriend, but in the process, I’d opened a lot of wounds. I hadn’t spoken to Maggie Rossiter, the girlfriend, since the trial. But she was still on the office Christmas card list. Not because I ever expected her to put work our way, but because I’d liked her and hadn’t been able to come up with a better way of saying so.