Crack Down

by Val McDermid

  She glanced up as I came through. ‘Late again, is he?’ she asked. I nodded. ‘Want me to give him an alarm call?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s in,’ I said. ‘He mumbled something this morning about going to a bistro in Oldham where they do live rockabilly at lunch time. It sounded so improbable it has to be true. Did you check if today’s draft has come through?’

  Shelley nodded. Silly question, really. ‘It’s at the King Street branch,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll pop out and get it now,’ I said. ‘If Boy Wonder shows up, tell him to wait for me. None of that “I’ll just pop out to the Corner House for ten minutes to have a look at their new exhibition” routine.’

  I gave the lift a miss and ran downstairs. It helps me maintain the illusion of fitness. As I walked briskly up Oxford Street, I felt at peace with the world. It was a bright, sunny day, though the temperature was as low as you’d expect the week before the spring bank holiday. It’s a myth about it always raining in Manchester – we only make it up to irritate all those patronizing bastards in the South with their hose-pipe bans. I could hear the comic Thomas the Tank Engine hooting of the trams in the distance. The traffic was less clogged than usual, and some of my fellow pedestrians actually had smiles on their faces. More importantly, the ALF job had gone without a hitch, and with a bit of luck, this would be the last banker’s draft I’d have to collect. It had been a pretty straightforward routine, once Bill and I had decided to bring Richard in to increase the credibility of the car buying operation. It must be the first time in his life he’s ever been accused of enhancing the credibility of anything. Our major target had been a garage chain with fifteen branches throughout the North. Richard and I had hit eight of them, from Stafford to York, plus four independents that Andrew also suspected of being on the fiddle.

  There was nothing complicated about it. Richard and I simply rolled up to the car dealers, pretending to be a married couple, and bought a car on the spot from the range in the showroom. Broderick had called in a few favours with his buddies in the credit rating agencies that lenders used to check on their victims’ creditworthiness. So, when the car sales people got the finance companies to check the names and addresses Richard gave them, they discovered he had an excellent credit rating, a sheaf of credit cards and no outstanding debt except his mortgage. The granting of the loan was then a formality. The only hard bit was getting Richard to remember what his hooky names and addresses were.

  The next day, we’d go to the bank and pick up the banker’s draft that Broderick had arranged for us. Then it was on to the showroom, where Richard signed the rest of the paperwork so we could take the car home. Some time in the following couple of days, a little man from ALF arrived and took it away, presumably to be resold as an ex-demonstration model. Interestingly, Andrew Broderick had been right on the button. Not one of the dealers we’d bought cars from had offered us finance through ALF. The chain had pushed all our purchases through Richmond Credit Finance, while the independents had used a variety of lenders. Now, with a dozen cast-iron cases on the stocks, all Broderick had to do was sit back and wait till the dealers finally got round to admitting they’d flogged some metal. Then it would be gumshields time in the car showrooms.

  While I was queueing at the bank, the schizophrenic weather had had a personality change. A wind had sprung up from nowhere, throwing needle-sharp rain into my face as I headed back towards the office. Luckily, I was wearing low-heeled ankle boots with my twill jodhpur-cut leggings, so I could jog back without risking serious injury either to any of my major joints or to my dignity. That was my first mistake of the day. There’s nothing Richard likes better than a dishevelled Brannigan. Not because it’s a turn-on; no, simply because it lets him indulge in a rare bit of one-upmanship.

  When I got back to the office, damp, scarlet-cheeked and out of breath, my auburn hair in rats’ tails, Richard was of course sitting comfortably in an armchair, sipping a glass of Shelley’s herbal tea, immaculate in the Italian leather jacket I bought him on the last day of our winter break in Florence. His hazel eyes looked at me over the top of his glasses and I could see he was losing his battle not to smile.

  ‘Don’t say a word,’ I warned him. ‘Not unless you want your first trip in your brand new turbo coupé to end up at the infirmary.’

  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 attenti
on. 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.