VAL McDERMID

Crack Down

DEDICATION

For my mother, with love and thanks

CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

KEEP READING

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY

COPYRIGHT

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

1

If slugs could smile, they’d have no trouble finding jobs as car salesmen. Darryl Day proved that. Oozing false sincerity as shiny as a slime trail, he’d followed us round the showroom. From the start, he’d made it clear that in his book, Richard was the one who counted. I was just the bimbo wife. Now Darryl sat, separated from the pair of us by a plastic desk, grinning maniacally with that instant, superficial matiness that separates sales people from the human race. He winked at me. ‘And Mrs Barclay will love that leather upholstery,’ he said suggestively.

Under normal circumstances, I’d have got a lot of pleasure out of telling him his tatty sexism had just cost him the commission on a twenty grand sale, but these circumstances were so far from normal, I was beginning to feel like Ground Control to Major Tom as far as my brain was concerned. So instead, I smiled, patted Richard’s arm and said sweetly, ‘Nothing’s too good for my Dick.’ Richard twitched. I reckon he knew instinctively that one way or another, he was going to pay for this.

‘Now, let me just check that we’re both clear what you’re buying here. You’ve seen it in the showroom, we’ve taken it on the test drive of a lifetime, and you’ve decided on the Gemini turbo super coupé GLXi in midnight blue, with ABS, alloy wheels …’ As Darryl ran through the luxury spec I’d instructed Richard to go for, my partner’s eyes glazed over. I almost felt sorry for him. After all, Richard’s car of choice is a clapped-out, customized hot pink Volkswagen Beetle convertible. He thinks BHP is that new high-quality tape system. And isn’t ABS that dance band from Wythenshawe … ?

Darryl paused expectantly. I kicked Richard’s ankle. Only gently, though. He’d done well so far. He jerked back to reality and said, ‘Er, yeah, that sounds perfect. Sorry, I was just a bit carried away, thinking about what it’s going to be like driving her.’ Nice one, Richard.

‘You’re a very lucky man, if I may say so,’ Darryl smarmed, eyeing the curve of my calf under the leopard skin leggings that I’d chosen as appropriate to my exciting new role as Mrs Richard Barclay. He tore his gaze away and shuffled his paperwork. ‘Top of the range, that little beauty is. But now, I’m afraid, we come to the painful bit. You’ve already told me you don’t want to part-ex, is that right?’

Richard nodded. ‘’S right. My last motor got nicked, so I’ve got the insurance payout to put down as a deposit. Which leaves me looking for six grand. Should I sort out a bank loan or what?’

Darryl looked just like the Duke of Edinburgh when he gets a stag in his sights. He measured Richard up, then flicked a casual glance over me. ‘The only problem with that, Richard, is that it’s going to take you a few days to get your friendly bank manager in gear. Whereas, if we can sort it out here and now, you could be driving that tasty motor tomorrow tea time.’ Classic sales ploy; take it off them.

Richard did his personal version of the Fry’s Five Boys gamut, from disappointment to anticipation. ‘So can we do that, then, Darryl?’ he asked eagerly.

Darryl already had the forms prepared. He slid them across the desk to show Richard. ‘As it happens, we have an arrangement with a finance company who offer a very competitive rate of interest. If you fill in the forms now, we can sort it with a phone call. Then, tomorrow, if you bring in a banker’s draft for the balance, we’ll be able to complete the paperwork and the car’ll be all yours to drive away.’

I looked at the form, not so easy now Darryl had reclaimed it to fill in the remaining blanks. Richmond Credit Finance. Address and phone number in Accrington. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen their footprints all over this investigation. I’d meant to check the company out, but I hadn’t got round to it yet. I made a mental note to get on to it as soon as I had a spare moment. I tuned back in at the bit where Darryl was asking Richard what he did for a living. This was always the best bit.

‘I’m a freelance rock journalist,’ Richard told him.

‘Really?’ Darryl asked. Interesting how his face opened up when he experienced a genuine emotion like excitement. ‘Does that mean you interview all the top names and that? Like Whitney Houston and Beverley Craven?’

Richard nodded glumly. ‘Sometimes.’

‘God, what a great job! Hey, who’s the most famous person you’ve ever interviewed? You ever met Madonna?’.

Richard squirmed. It’s the question he hates most. There aren’t that many rock stars he has much respect for, either as people or as musicians, and only a handful of them are names that most members of the public would identify as superstars. ‘Depends what you mean by famous. Springsteen. Elton John. Clapton. Tina Turner. And yeah, I did meet Madonna once.’

‘Wow! And is she really, you know, as, like, horny as she comes over?’

Richard forced a smile. ‘Not in front of the wife, eh?’ I was touched. He was really trying to make this work.

Darryl ran a hand through his neat dark hair and winked. In an adult, it would have been lewd. ‘Gotcha, Richard. Now, your annual income. What would that be?’

I switched off again. Fiction, even the great stuff, is never as interesting when you’re hearing it for the nth time. Darryl didn’t hang about explaining little details like annual percentage interest rates to Richard, and within ten minutes, he was on to the finance company arranging our car loan. Thanks to the wonders of computer technology, credit companies can check out a punter and give the thumbs up or down almost instantaneously. Whatever Richmond Credit Finance pulled up on their computer, it convinced them that Richard was a sound bet for a loan. Of course, when you’re relying on computers, it’s important to remember that what you get out of them depends entirely on what someone else has put in.

Twenty minutes later, Richard and I were walking out of the showroom, the proud possessors, on paper at least, of the flashest set of wheels the Leo Motor Company puts on the road. ‘I do all right, Mrs Barclay?’ Richard asked eagerly, as we walked round the corner to where I’d parked the Peugeot 205 Mortensen and Brannigan had been leasing for the six months since my last company car had ended up looking like an installation from the Tate Gallery.

‘You wish,’ I snarled. ‘Don’t push your luck, Barclay. Let me tell you, the longer I spend pretending to be your wife, the more I understand why your first marriage didn’t go the distance.’

I climbed in the car and started the engine. Richard stood on the pavement, looking hangdog, his tortoiseshell glasses slipping down his nose. Exasperated, I pushed the button that lowered the passenger window. ‘Oh for God’s sake, get in,’ I said. ‘You did really well in there. Thank you.’

He smiled and jumped in. ‘You’re right, you know.’

‘I usually am,’ I said, only half teasing, as I eased the car out into the busy stream of traffic on the Bolton to Blackburn road. ‘About what in particular?’

‘That being a private eye is ninety-five per cent boredom coupled with five per cent fear. The first time we did that routine, I was really scared. I thought, what if I forget what I’m supposed to say, and they suss that we’re setting them up,’ he said earnestly.

‘It wouldn’t have been the end of the world,’ I said absently, keeping an eye on the road signs so I didn’t miss the turn off for Manchester. ‘We’re not dealing with the Mafia here. They wouldn’t have dragged you out kicking and screaming and kneecapped you.’

‘No, but you might have,’ Richard said. He was serious.

I laughed. ‘No way. I’d have waited till I got you home.’

Richard looked worried for a moment. Then he decided I was joking. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘now when we do it, I’m not nervous any more. The only danger is that it’s so repetitious I’m afraid I’ll blow it out of boredom.’

‘Well, I’m hoping we won’t have to go through it many more times,’ I said, powering down the ramp on to the dual carriageway. The little Peugeot I chose has a 1.9 litre engine, but since I got the dealership to take the identifying badges off it, it looks as innocuous as a housewife’s shopping trolley. I’d be sorry to see the back of it, but once I’d finished this job, I’d be in line for a brand new sporty Leo hatchback. Freemans.

‘That’s a shame, in some ways. I hate to admit it, Brannigan, but I’ve quite enjoyed working with you.’

Wild horses wouldn’t have got me to admit it, but I’d enjoyed it too. In the two years that we’d been lovers, I’d never been reluctant to use Richard as a sounding board for my investigations. He’s got one of those off-the-wall minds that sometimes come up with illuminating insights into the white collar crime that makes up the bulk of the work I do with my business partner Bill Mortensen. But the opportunity to get Richard to take a more active part had never arisen before this job. I’d only gone along with Bill’s suggestion to involve him precisely because I felt so certain it was a no-risk job. How could I expose to danger a man who thinks discretion is a fragrance by Calvin Klein?

This job was what we call in the trade a straight up-and-downer. The only strange thing about it was the way we’d got the job in the first place. A two-operative agency in Manchester isn’t the obvious choice for an international car giant like the Leo Motor Company when they’ve got a problem. We’d got lucky because the new head honcho at Accredited Leo Finance was the brother-in-law of a high-class Manchester jeweller. We’d not only installed Clive Abercrombie’s security system, but we’d also cracked a major gang of counterfeiters who were giving the executive chronometer brigade serious migraine. As far as Clive was concerned, Mortensen and Brannigan were the people to go to when you wanted a slick, discreet job.

Of course, being an arm of a multi-national, ALF couldn’t bring themselves to knock on the door and pitch us the straight way. It had all started at a reception hosted by the Manchester Olympic Bid organization. Remember the Olympic Bid? They were trying to screw dosh out of local businesses to support their attempt to kick off the new millennium by holding the Games in the Rainy City. Bill and I are such a small operation, we were a bit bewildered at being invited, but I’m a sucker for free smoked salmon, and besides, I reckoned it would do no harm to flash my smile round a few potentially lucrative new contacts, so I went off to fly the flag for Mortensen and Brannigan.

I was only halfway through my first glass of Australian fizz (as good a reason as any for awarding the Olympics to Sydney) when Clive appeared at my elbow with a strange man and a sickly grin. ‘Kate,’ he greeted me. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

I was on my guard straight away. Clive and I have never been buddies, probably because I can’t bring myself to be anything more than professionally polite to social climbers. So when the Edmund Hillary of the Cheshire set accosted me so joyously, I knew at once we were in the realms of hidden agendas. I smiled politely, shook his hand, counted my fingers and said, ‘Nice to see you too, Clive.’

‘Kate, can I introduce my brother-in-law, Andrew Broderick? Andrew, this is Kate Brannigan, who’s a partner in Manchester’s best security company. Kate, Andrew’s the MD and CEO of ALF.’ I must have looked blank, for Clive added hurriedly, ‘You know, Kate. Accredited Leo Finance. Leo Motor Company’s credit arm.’

‘Thanks, Tonto,’ I said.

Clive looked baffled, but Andrew Broderick laughed. ‘If I’m the loan arranger, you must be Tonto. Old joke,’ he explained. Clive still didn’t get it. Broderick and I shook hands and weighed each other up. He wasn’t a lot taller than my five feet and three inches, but Andrew Broderick looked like a man who’d learned how to fight his battles in a rugby scrum rather than a boardroom. It was just as well he could afford to have his suits hand-stitched to measure; he’d never have found that chest measurement off the peg. His nose had been broken more than once and his ears were as close to being a pair as Danny De Vito and Arnold Schwarzenegger. But his shrewd grey eyes missed nothing. I felt his ten-second assessment of me had probably covered all the salient points.

We started off innocuously enough, discussing the Games. Then, casually enough, he asked what I drove in the course of business. I found myself telling him all about Bill’s new Saab convertible, the workhorse Little Rascal van we use for surveillance, and the nearly fatal accident that had robbed me of the Nova. I was mildly surprised. I don’t normally talk to strangers.

‘No Leos?’ he asked with a quirky smile.

‘No Leos,’ I agreed. ‘But I’m open to persuasion.’

Broderick took my elbow, smiled dismissively at Clive and gently steered me into a quiet corner behind the buffet. ‘I have a problem,’ he said. ‘It needs a specialist, and I’m told that your organization could fit my spec. Interested?’

Call me a slut, but when it comes to business, I’m always open to offers. ‘I’m interested,’ I said. ‘Will it keep, or do you want to thrash it out now?’

It turned out that patience wasn’t Andrew Broderick’s long suit. Within five minutes, we were in the lounge of the Ramada, with drinks on their way. ‘How much do you know about car financing?’ he asked.

‘They always end up costing more than you think,’ I said ruefully.

‘That much, eh?’ he said. ‘OK. Let me explain. My company, ALF, is a wholly owned subsidiary of the Leo Motor Company. Our job is to provide loans for people who want to buy Leo cars and haven’t got enough cash. But Leo dealerships aren’t obliged to channel all their customers through us, so we have to find ways to make ourselves sexy to the dealerships. One of the ways we do this is to offer them soft loans.’

I nodded, with him so far. ‘And these low-interest loans are for what, exactly?’

‘Dealerships have to pay up front when they take delivery of a car from Leo. ALF gives them a soft loan to cover the wholesale cost of the car for ninety days. After that, the interest rate rises weekly. When the car is sold, the soft loan is supposed to be paid off. That’s in the contract.

‘But if a dealership arranges loans for the Leos it sells via a different finance company, neither ALF nor Leo is aware that the car’s been sold. The dealer can smack the money in a high-interest account for the remains of the ninety days and earn himself a tidy sum in interest before the loan has to be paid off.’ The drinks arrived, as if on cue, giving me a few moments to digest what he’d said.

I tipped the bottle of grapefruit juice into my vodka, and swirled the ice cubes round in the glass to mix the drink. ‘And you obviously hate this because you’re cutting your own margins to supply the low-interest loans, but you’re getting no benefit in return.’

Broderick nodded, taking a hefty swallow of his spritzer. ‘Leo aren’t crazy about it either because it skews their market share figures, particularly in high turnover months like August,’ he added.

‘So where do I come in?’ I asked.

‘I’ve come up with an alternative distribution system,’ he said simply. Now, all I know about the car business is what I’ve learned from my dad, an assembly line foreman with Rover in Oxford. But even that little is enough for me to realize that what Andrew Broderick had just said was on a par with the Prime Minister announcing he was going to abolish the Civil Service.

I swallowed hard. ‘We don’t do bodyguard jobs,’ I said.

He laughed, which was the first time I’d doubted his sanity. ‘It’s so simple,’ he said. ‘Instead of having to fill their showrooms with cars they’re then under pressure to sell asap, dealers would carry only one sample of the model. The customer would specify colour, engine size, petrol or diesel, optional extras, etc. The order would then be faxed to one of several regional holding centres where the specific model would be assembled from Leo’s stock.’

‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. Leo are fighting it tooth and nail because it involves them in initial expenditure of more than threepence ha’penny,’ I said resignedly.

‘And that’s where you come in, Ms Brannigan. I want to prove to Leo that my system would be of ultimate financial benefit to both of us. Now, if I can prove that at least one of our bigger chains of dealerships is committing this particular fraud, then I can maybe start to get it through Leo’s corporate skulls that a helluva lot of cash that should be in our business is being siphoned off. And then maybe, just maybe, they’ll accept that a revamped distribution service is worth every penny.’

Which is how Richard and I came to be playing happy newly-weds round the car showrooms of England. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Three weeks into the job, it still seemed like a good idea. Which only goes to show how wrong even I can be.

2

The following afternoon, I was in my office, putting the finishing touches to a routine report on a fraudulent personal accident claim I’d been investigating on behalf of a local insurance company. As I reached the end, I glanced at my watch. Twenty-five to three. Surprise, surprise, Richard was late. I saved the file to disc, then switched off my computer. I took the disc through to the outer office, where Shelley Carmichael was filling in a stationery supplies order form. If good office management got you on to the Honours List, Shelley would be up there with a life peerage. It’s a toss-up who I treat with more respect – Shelley or the local pub’s Rottweiler.

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 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.

Like a true professional, Ruth didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Thank you,’ she said grimly. Typically, it was Richard who nearly gave the show away. His whole face lit up in that familiar smile that still sends my hormones into chaos.

He got as far as, ‘What are you –’ before Ruth interrupted.

‘I hope you don’t mind, Mr Barclay, but my colleague is a trainee who is supposed to be learning the tricks of the trade,’ she said loudly. ‘I’d like her to sit in on our consultation, unless you have any objections?’

‘N-no,’ Richard stammered, looking bewildered.

I stepped into the room and the sergeant closed the door firmly behind me.

Simultaneously, Richard said, ‘I don’t understand,’ and Ruth growled softly, ‘I should walk out of here right now and leave you to it.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t not. It’s too important. But look on the bright side; if I can blag my way into the secure interview room of a police station, aren’t you glad you’ve got me on the team?’ I added an apologetic smile.

Before Ruth could find an answer for that particular bit of cheek, Richard said plaintively, ‘But I don’t understand what you’re doing here, Brannigan.’

‘I’m here because you need help, Richard. I know you spend most of your time on another planet, but here on earth, it’s considered to be a pretty serious offence to drive around in a stolen car with enough crack to get half Manchester out of their heads,’ I told him.

‘Look, I know it sounds like I’m in deep shit. But it’s not like that.’ He ran a hand through his hair and frowned. ‘I keep trying to tell everybody. It wasn’t a stolen car. It was our car. The one we bought in Bolton on Tuesday.’

4

Before I could pick the bones out of that, Ruth interrupted. ‘Let’s just hold everything right there. Kate, you are here on sufferance. I, on the other hand, am here because Richard asked me to be. I’ve got a job to do and I intend to do it, in spite of your interference. So let me ask my questions, and then if there’s anything we haven’t covered, you can have your turn.’

It wasn’t a suggestion, it was an instruction. I knew what I’d done was bang out of order. I’d taken a big risk on the strength of my friendship with Ruth, and I didn’t want to risk damaging those bonds any further. Besides, I like watching people who are really good at what they do. ‘That’s absolutely fine with me,’ I said.

‘You mean she really isn’t meant to be here?’ Richard asked, his grin irrepressible even in the face of Ruth’s frown.

‘If you weren’t facing such serious charges, I’d have bounced her out of the door. It didn’t seem like a good time to generate even more suspicion on the part of the police. Now, Richard, let’s get to it. I don’t have all night.’ Ruth picked up her pencil and started to write. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. What happened tonight?’

Richard looked uncertain. ‘Well, the beginning isn’t tonight. I mean, depending on what you mean, the beginning’s either Tuesday night or three weeks ago.’

It was my turn to grin. I didn’t envy Ruth her task. I love him dearly, but the only time Richard can tell a story in a straight line from beginning to end is when he’s sat in front of a word processor with the prospect of a nice little earner at the end of the day.

Ruth squeezed the bridge of her nose. ‘Maybe you could give me the short version, and I’ll stop you when I don’t understand something.’

‘It’s this job Kate’s got on. I’ve been helping her out with it. We have to buy these cars, you see, and then we give them back to the car company.’ Richard paused hopefully.

Ruth’s grey eyes swivelled round and fixed on me. ‘Perhaps you’d like to elaborate … ?’

I nodded. ‘My clients are the finance arm of the Leo Motor Company. They suspect some dealerships of committing fraud. It’s our job to provide them with evidence, so Richard and I have been posing as a married couple, buying cars with money supplied by Leo, who then take the cars back from us,’ I said.

‘Thanks. So, you’ve been buying these cars. What happened on Tuesday night?’ she asked.

‘We’d picked up this really ace motor, the Gemini turbo super coupé,’ Richard said enthusiastically. ‘Anyway, I had to go into town, and I decided to treat myself and drive the coupé, since we’d only got it for a day or two. Then when I came out of the club, the car was gone. So I came home and reported it stolen to the police.’

Ruth looked up from her pad. ‘Did they send anyone round?’

‘Yeah, a copper came round about an hour later and I gave him all the details,’ Richard said.

‘And I informed my client first thing on Wednesday morning, if that’s any help,’ I added.

This time Ruth didn’t scowl at me. She just made another note and said, ‘So what happened next?’

Richard took off his glasses and stared up at the ceiling. A line appeared between his brows as he focused his memory. ‘I went into town about nine tonight. I had to meet a couple of women in the Paradise Factory. They’re the singers in a jazz fusion band, and they’ve just signed their first record deal. I’m doing a piece on them for one of the glossies. It was too noisy in the Factory to hear ourselves talk, so we left and went round to Manto’s.’ Trust Richard to spend his evening in the trendiest café bar in the North West. Looking at his outfit, I was surprised the style police had let him in. ‘We stayed till closing time,’ he went on. ‘The girls were going on to the Hacienda, but I didn’t fancy it, so I went off to get my car. I’d parked it off Portland Street, and I was walking past the gardens on Sackville Street when I saw the car.’ He put his glasses back on and looked expectantly at Ruth.

‘Which car, Richard?’ Ruth asked patiently.

‘The coupé,’ he said, in the injured tones of someone who thinks they’ve already made themselves abundantly clear. Poor misguided soul.

‘You saw the car that you had reported stolen in the early hours of Wednesday morning?’

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Only, I wasn’t sure right away if it was the same one. It was the right model and the right colour, but I couldn’t see if it was the right registration number. It had trade plates on, you see.’

‘Trade plates,’ Ruth repeated as she scribbled. I was intrigued. Any self-respecting car thief would have smacked fake plates on a stolen car right away. I couldn’t for the life of me see why they’d use the red and white plates garages use to shift untaxed cars from one place to another. It was just asking to be noticed.

‘Yeah, trade plates,’ Richard said impatiently. ‘Anyway, I went over to this car, and I lifted up the trade plate on the front, and it was the same reg as the one that got nicked on Tuesday night,’ Richard said triumphantly. He put his glasses on and grinned nervously at both of us. ‘It’s going to be OK, isn’t it?’ he added.

Ruth nodded. ‘We’ll get it sorted out, Richard. Now, are you absolutely certain that this was the same car?’

‘I still had the keys on my key-ring,’ he said. ‘It had one of those little cardboard tags on it with the number of the car, so I wasn’t just relying on my memory. It was the identical number. Besides, the key I had opened the car, and there was still one of my tapes in the cassette. Isn’t that proof enough?’

‘Somehow, I don’t think the point at issue is going to be the car,’ I muttered quietly. Ruth gave me a look that would have curdled a pia colada.

‘Did you call the police and tell them you’d found the car?’ Ruth asked.

‘Well, I figured that if I wandered off to look for a phone, the guy that had nicked it could easily have had it away again while I was busy talking to the Dibble. So I thought I’d just repo it myself and call the cops when I got home,’ Richard explained. It wasn’t so unreasonable. Even I had to concede that.

‘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 were 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.’

‘Yes, boss,’ I muttered rebelliously. Shelley always makes me feel like a bloody-minded teenager when she goes into Mother Hen mode. God knows what effect it has on her own two adolescents. ‘Just tell Bill what I’m doing. I’ll be on my mobile if you need me urgently,’ I added.

I washed two thick slices of toast down with a couple of mugs of scalding coffee. The toast because I needed carbohydrate, the coffee because it was a more attractive option than surgery to get my eyes open. I pulled on jogging pants and a sweat shirt without showering and drove over to the Thai boxing gym in South Manchester where I punish my body on as regular a basis as my career in crime prevention allows. It might not be the Hilton, but it meets my needs. It’s clean, it’s cheap, the equipment is well maintained and it’s mercifully free of muscle-bound macho men who think they’ve got the body and charm of Sylvester Stallone when in reality they don’t even have the punch-drunk brains of Rocky.

I wasn’t the only person working out on the weights that morning. The air was already heavy with the smell of sweat as half a dozen men and a couple of women struggled to keep time’s winged chariot in the service bay. As I’d hoped, my old buddy Dennis O’Brien, burglar of this parish, was welded to the pec deck, moving more metal than the average Nissan Micra contains. He was barely breaking sweat. The bench next to him was free, so I picked up a set of dumbbells and lay back to do some tricep curls. ‘Hiya, kid,’ Dennis said on his next outgoing breath. ‘What’s the world been doing to you?’

‘Don’t ask. How about you?’

He grinned like a Disney wolf. ‘Still doing the police’s job for them,’ he said. ‘Got a real result last night.’

‘Glad somebody did,’ I said, enjoying the sensation of my flabby muscles tightening as I raised and lowered the weights.

‘Fourteen grand I took off him,’ Dennis told me. ‘Now that’s what I call a proper victim.’

He was clearly desperate to tell the tale, so I gave him the tiny spur of encouragement that was all he needed. ‘Sounds like a good ’un. How d’you manage that?’

‘I hear this firm from out of town are looking for a parcel of trainers. So I arrange to meet them, and I tell them I can lay my hands on an entire wagonload of Reeboks, don’t I? A couple of nights later, we meet again and I show him a sample pair from this truck I’m supposed to have nicked, right? Only, I haven’t nicked them, have I? I’ve just gone down the wholesaler’s and bought them.’ As he got into his story, Dennis paused in his work-out. He’s physically incapable of telling a tale without his hands.

‘So of course, they fall for it. Anyway, we arrange the meet for last night, out on the motorway services at Sandbach. My mate Andy and me, we get there a couple of hours before the meet and suss the place out. When these two bozos arrive, Andy’s stood hiding behind a truck right the far side of the lorry park, and when the bozos park up beside my car, I make sure they see me giving him the signal, and he comes over to us, making out like he’s just come out of the wagon, keys in his hand, the full monte.’ Dennis was giggling between his sentences like a little lad outlining some playground scam.

I sat up and said, ‘So what happens next?’

‘I say to these two dummies, “Let’s see the money, then. You hand over the money, and my mate’ll hand over the keys to the wagon.” And they do no more than hand over their fourteen grand like lambs. I’m counting the money, and when I’ve done, I give Andy the nod and he tosses them the keys. We jump into the motor and shoot straight off. I tell you, the last thing I see is the pair of them schmucks jumping up and down beside that wagon, their mouths opening and shutting like a pair of goldfish.’ By the end of his tale, Dennis was doubled over with laughter. ‘You should’ve seen them, Kate,’ he wheezed. ‘The Dennis O’Brien crime prevention programme scores another major success.’

The first time he said that to me, I’d been a bit baffled. I didn’t see how ripping someone off to the tune of several grand could prevent crime. So Dennis had explained. The people he was cheating had a large sum of money that they were prepared to spend on stolen goods. So some thief would have to steal something for them to buy. But if Dennis relieved them of their wad, they wouldn’t have any money to spend on stolen goods, therefore the robbery that would have had to take place was no longer necessary. Crime prevention, QED.

I moved over to a piece of equipment designed to build my quads and adjusted the weights. ‘A lot of dosh, fourteen grand,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you worried they’re going to come after you?’

‘Nah,’ he said scornfully, returning to his exercise. ‘They’re from out of town. They don’t know where I hang out, and nobody in Manchester would be daft enough to tell them where to find me. Besides, I was down Collar Di Salvo’s car lot first thing this morning, trading the BMW in. They’ll be looking for a guy in a red BM, not a silver Merc. Take a tip, Kate – don’t buy a red BMW off Collar for the next few days. I don’t want to see you in a case of mistaken identity!’

We both pumped iron in silence for a while. I moved around the machines, making sure I paid proper attention to the different muscle groups. By ten, I was sweating, Dennis was skipping and there were only the two of us left. I collapsed on to the mat, and enjoyed the complaints of my stomach muscles as I did some slow, warm-down exercises. ‘I’ve got a problem,’ I said in between Dennis’s bounces.

Just saying that brought all the fear and misery right back. I stared hard at the off-white walls, trying to make a pattern out of the grimy handprints, black rubber skidmarks and chips from weights swung too enthusiastically. Dennis slowed to a halt and walked across to the shelves of thin towels that the management think are all we deserve. Like I said, it’s cheap. I suppose it was their version of crime prevention; nobody in their right mind would steal those towels. Dennis picked up a couple, draped them over his big shoulders and sat down on the bench facing me. ‘D’you want to talk about it?’

I sighed. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I can.’ It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Dennis. Quite the opposite. I trusted his affection for me almost too much to tell him what had happened to Richard. There was no knowing what limits Dennis would go to in the attempt to take care of anyone threatening my happiness and wellbeing. Considering the different perspective we have on the law of the land, we find ourselves side by side facing in the same direction more often than not. For some reason that neither of us quite understands, we know we can rely on each other. And just as important, we like each other too.

Dennis patted my left ankle, the only part of me he could comfortably reach. ‘You decide you want an ear, you let your Uncle Dennis know. What d’you need right now?’

‘I’m not sure about that either.’ I wiped the back of my hand over my mouth and upper lip and tasted the sharp salty sweat. ‘Dennis. Why would you put trade plates on a stolen motor rather than false plates?’

‘What kind of stolen motor? Joyrider material, stolen to order, or just somebody stuck for a ride home?’

‘A brand new Leo Gemini turbo super coupé. Less than a ton on the clock.’

He pondered for a moment. ‘Temporary measure? To keep the busies off my back till I got it delivered where it was supposed to be going?’

‘In this instance, we’re talking a couple of days after the car was lifted. Plenty of time to have dropped it off with whoever, I’d have thought,’ I said, shaking my head.

‘In that case, you’re probably talking right proper villainy,’ he replied, rubbing the back of his neck with one of the towels.

‘Run it past me,’ I said.

Dennis pulled a packet of Bensons and a throw-away lighter out of the pocket of his sweat pants and lit up. ‘They never have any bloody ashtrays in here,’ he complained, looking round. The paradox clearly escaped him. ‘Anyway, your professional car thief goes out on the job knowing exactly what motor he’s going for. He doesn’t do things on spec. He’d have a set of plates on him that he’d already matched up with another car of the same make and model, so that if some smart-arsed traffic cop put him through the computer he’d come up clean. So he wouldn’t need trade plates. Your serious amateurs, they might use trade plates just to get it across town to their dealer. But they’re not that easy to come by. OK so far?’

I got off the floor and squatted on a low bench. ‘Clear as that Edinburgh crystal you offered me last month,’ I said.

‘Your loss, Kate,’ he said. ‘Now, on the other hand, if I wanted a fast car for a one-off job, I’d do exactly what the guy you’re interested in has done. I’d nick a serious set of wheels, smack some trade plates on it from my local friendly hooky garage when I was actually using it, then dump it as soon as I’d finished the job.’

‘When you say proper villainy, what exactly did you have in mind?’ I asked.

‘The kind of stuff I don’t do. Major armed robbery, mainly. A hit, maybe.’

I began to wish I had the sense not to ask questions I wasn’t going to like the answers to. ‘What about drugs?’

He shrugged. ‘Not the first thing that would spring to mind. But then, I don’t hang out with scum like that, do I? At a guess, it’d only be worth doing if you were shifting a parcel of drugs a reasonable distance between two major players. Say, from London to Manchester. Otherwise there’d be so many cars running around with trade plates that even the coppers would notice. Also, trade plates are ten a penny on the motorway. Whereas brand new motors with or without trade plates stick out like a sore thumb on the council estates where most of the drugs get shifted. You want to get a pull these days, you just have to park up in Moss Side in anything that isn’t old enough to need an MOT,’ he added bitterly.

‘What would you say if I told you there were a couple of kilos of crack in the boot of this car?’

Dennis got to his feet. ‘Nice chatting to you, Kate. Be seeing you. That’s what I’d say.’

I pulled a face and stood up too. ‘Thanks, Dennis.’

Dennis put a warm hand on my wrist and gripped it tightly enough for me not to think about pulling away. ‘I’ve never been more serious, Kate. Steer clear of them toerags. They’d eat me for breakfast. They wouldn’t even notice you as they swallowed. Give this one the Spanish Archer.’

‘The Spanish Archer?’ This was a new one on me.

‘El Bow.’

I smiled. ‘I’ll be careful. I promise.’ I thought I’d grown out of promising what I can’t deliver. Obviously I was wrong.

6

I walked into the office to find my partner Bill looming over Shelley like a scene from The Jungle Book. Bill is big, blond and shaggy, the antithesis of Shelley, petite, black and immaculately groomed right down to the tips of her perfectly plaited hair. He looked up and stopped speaking in midsentence, finger pointing at something on Shelley’s screen.

‘Kate, Kate, Kate,’ he boomed, moving across the room to envelop me in the kind of hug that makes me feel like a little girl. Usually I fight my way out, but this morning it was good to feel safe for a moment, even if it was only an illusion. With one hand, Bill patted my back, with the other he rumpled my hair. Eventually, he released me. ‘Shelley filled me in. I was just going to phone you,’ he said, walking over to the coffee machine and busying himself making me a cappuccino. ‘This business with Richard. What do you want me to do?’

On paper, Bill might be the senior partner of Mortensen and Brannigan. In practice, when either of us is involved in a major case and needs help from the other, there’s never any question of the gopher role going to me just because I’m the junior. Whoever started the ball rolling stays the boss. And in this instance, since it was my lover who was in the shit, it was my case.

I took the frothy coffee he handed me and slumped into one of the clients’ chairs. ‘I don’t know what you can do,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to find out who stole the car, who the drugs belong to and to make out a strong enough case against them for the police to realize they’ve made a cock-up. Otherwise Richard stays in the nick and we sit back and wait for the slaughter of the innocents.’

Bill sat down opposite me. ‘Shelley,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘stick the answering machine on, grab yourself an espresso and come and give us the benefit of your thoughts. We need every brain we’ve got working on this one.’

Shelley didn’t need telling twice. She sat down, the inevitable notepad on her knee. Bill leaned back and linked his hands behind his head. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘First question. Accident or intent?’

‘Accident,’ I said instantly.

‘Why are you so sure?’ Bill asked.

I took a sip of coffee while I worked out the reasons I’d been so certain. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘First, there are too many imponderables for it to be intentional. If someone was deliberately trying to set up Richard, or me, they wouldn’t have bothered with the trade plates. They’d just have left it sitting there with its own plates, so obvious that he couldn’t have missed it. Why bother with all of that when they could have planted the drugs in either of our cars at any time?’

Shelley nodded and said, ‘The thing that strikes me is that it’s an awful lot of drugs to plant. Surely they could have achieved the same result with a lot less crack than two kilos. I don’t know much about big-time drug dealers, but I can’t believe they’d waste drugs they could make money out of just to set somebody up.’

‘Besides,’ I added, ‘why in God’s name would anyone want to frame Richard? I know I sometimes feel like murdering him, but I’m a special case. Not even his ex-wife would want him to spend the next twenty years inside, never mind be willing to splash out – what, two hundred grand?’

Bill nodded. ‘Near enough,’ he said.

‘Well, even she wouldn’t spend that kind of dosh just to get her own back on him, always supposing he paid her enough maintenance for her to afford it. It’s not as if he’s an investigative journalist. The only people who take offence at what he writes are record company executives, and if any of them got their hands on two kilos of crack it would be up their noses, not in the boot of Richard’s car.’ My voice wobbled and I ran out of steam suddenly. I kept coming up against the horrible realization that this wasn’t just another case. My life was going to be irrevocably affected by whatever I did over the next few days.

Thankfully, Bill didn’t notice. I don’t think I could have handled any more sympathy right then. ‘OK. Accident. Synchronicity. What are the leads?’

‘Why does somebody always have to ask the one question you don’t have the answer to?’ I said shakily.

‘Has his solicitor got anything from the police yet?’ Bill asked. ‘Who’s looking after him, by the way?’

‘He’s got Ruth. If the cops have got anything themselves yet, they’ve not passed it on. But she asked me to call her this afternoon.’ I stirred the froth into the remains of my coffee and watched it change colour.

‘So what have we got to go at?’

‘Not a lot,’ I admitted. ‘Frankly, Bill, there aren’t enough leads on this to keep one person busy, never mind the two of us.’

‘What were you planning on doing?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know anybody on the Drugs Squad well enough to pick their brains. So that leaves Della.’

Bill nodded. ‘She’ll be as keen to help as me and Shelley.’

‘She should be,’ I agreed. Not only did Detective Chief Inspector Della Prentice owe me a substantial professional favour in return for criminals translated into prisoners. Over the past few months, she’d also moved into that small group of women I count as friends. If I couldn’t rely on her support, I’d better send my judgment back to the manufacturer for a major service. ‘The only other thing I can think of is cruising the city centre tonight looking for another serious motor with trade plates on it.’

‘The logic presumably being that if they’ve lost the car they were counting on, they’ll need another one?’ Bill asked. ‘Even though the drugs have gone?’

‘It’s all I’ve got. I’m hoping that our man will be out and about, trying to find out who’s got a parcel of crack they shouldn’t have. But that’s a one-person job, Bill. Look, leave me numbers where I can reach you, day or night. I promise, if I get anywhere and I need an extra pair of hands, I’ll call you right away.’

‘That’s truly the only lead you’ve got? You’re not holding out on me?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Believe me, Bill, if I thought there was anything for you to do, I’d be on my hands and knees begging,’ I said, only half joking.

‘Well, let’s see what Della has to say. Right, team, let’s get some work done!’ He strolled back over to Shelley’s desk. ‘This bit here, Shelley. Can we shift it further up the report, so all the frightening stuff hits them right at the beginning?’

Shelley rolled her eyes upwards and got to her feet, squeezing my arm supportively as she passed me on the way to her desk. ‘Let me have a look, Bill,’ she said, settling into her chair.

As I headed for my own office, Bill looked up and smiled. I think it was meant to reassure me. It didn’t. I closed my door and dropped into my chair like a stone. I put a hand out to switch on my computer, but there didn’t seem a lot of point. I swivelled round and looked out of the window at the city skyline. The lemon geranium on the sill was drooping. Knowing my track record with plants, my best friend Alexis had given me the geranium, confidently predicting it was indestructible. I tried not to see its impending death as an omen and turned away. Time was slipping past, and I didn’t seem to be able to take any decisive action to relieve the sense of frustration that was burning inside me like indigestion.

‘Come on, Brannigan,’ I urged myself, picking up the phone. At least I could get the worst job over with. When the phone was answered, I said, ‘Andrew Broderick, please.’

Moments later, a familiar voice said, ‘Broderick.’

‘Andrew, it’s Kate Brannigan. I have good news and bad news,’ I said. ‘The good news is that we’ve found the car, undamaged.’

‘That’s tremendous,’ he said, his astonishment obvious. ‘How did you manage that?’

‘Pure chance, unfortunately,’ I said. ‘The bad news, however, is that the police have impounded it.’

‘The police? But why?’

I sighed. ‘It’s a bit complicated, Andrew,’ I said. Brannigan’s entry for the understatement of the year contest. When I’d finished explaining, I had an extremely unhappy client.

‘This is simply not on,’ he growled. ‘What right have they got to hang on to a car that belongs to my company?’

‘It’s evidence in a major drugs case.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ he exploded. ‘If I don’t get that car back, this operation is going to cost me about as much as the scam. How the hell am I going to lose that in the books?’

I didn’t have the answer. I made some placatory noises, and got off the line as fast as I could. Staring at the wall, I remembered a loose end that was hanging around from Broderick’s job, so I rang my local friendly finance broker.

Josh Gilbert and I have an arrangement: he runs credit checks on dodgy punters for me and I buy him dinner a lot. Anything else he can help us with we pay through the nose for.

It turned out that Josh was out of town, but his assistant Julia was around. I explained what I wanted from her and she said, ‘No problem. I can’t promise I’ll get to it today, but I’ll definitely fax it to you by Tuesday lunch time. Is that OK?’

It would have to be. The one free favour Josh had ever done me was introducing me to Detective Chief Inspector Della Prentice. My next call was to her direct line. She answered on the second ring. ‘DCI Prentice,’ she said crisply.

‘Della, it’s Kate,’ I said. Even to me, my voice sounded weary.

‘Kate! Thanks for getting back to me,’ she said.

‘Sorry? I didn’t know you’d been trying to get hold of me,’ I replied, shuffling the papers on my desk in case I’d missed a message.

‘I spoke to your machine an hour or so ago. When I heard what had happened to Richard,’ Della said. ‘I just wanted you to know that I don’t believe a word of it.’

I felt a lump in my throat, so I swallowed hard and concentrated very hard on the jar of pencils by my phone. ‘Me neither,’ I said. ‘Del, I know it’s not your manor, but I need all the help I can get on this one.’

‘Goes without saying, Kate. Look, it’s not going to be easy for me to get access to the case information or any forensic evidence, but I’ll do what I can,’ she promised.

‘I appreciate that. But don’t put your own head in the noose in the process,’ I added. No matter how much they spend on advertising to tell us different, anyone who has any contact with real live police officers know that The Job is still a white, patriarchal, rigidly hierarchical organization. That makes life especially hard for women who refuse to be shunted into the ghetto of community liaison and get stuck in at the sharp end of crime fighting.

‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll find out who’s on the team and see who I know. Meanwhile, is there anything specific I can help you with?’

‘I need a general backgrounder on crack. How much there is of it around, where it’s turning up, who they think is pushing the stuff, how it’s being distributed. Anything there is, including gossip. Off the record, of course. Any chance?’ I asked.

‘Give me a few hours. Can you meet me around seven?’

I pulled a face. ‘Only if you can get to the airport,’ I said. ‘I have a plane to meet.’

‘No problem.’

‘Oh yes it is. Richard’s son’s going to be on it. And the one thing he mustn’t find out is that his dad’s in the nick on drugs charges.’

‘Ah,’ Della said. It was a short, clipped exclamation.

‘I take it that response means you don’t want to share the child-minding?’

‘Correct. Count me out. Look, I’ll dig up all I can and meet you at Domestic Arrivals in Terminal I, at the coffee counter, just as you come in. Around quarter to seven, OK?’

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