Читать книгу Crack Down - Val McDermid, Val McDermid - Страница 11

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 throwaway 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.