Crack Down. Val McDermid
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.
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