Crack Down (10 page)

I was ten minutes early for our meeting, but Della was already sitting in the domestic terminal with a coffee. When the automatic doors hissed open to let me in, she glanced up from her
Evening Chronicle
. Even from that distance I could see the anxiety in her deep-set green eyes. She jumped to her feet and pulled me into a hug as soon as I got close enough. “Poor you,” she said with feeling, steering me gently into a seat. The sympathy was too much. Seeing the tears in my eyes, Della patted me awkwardly on the shoulder and said, “Give me a sec, I'll get you a coffee.”

By the time she returned, I was as hard-boiled as Philip Marlowe again. “Like the hair,” I remarked. Her shining chestnut hair, normally controlled to within an inch of its life in a thick plait, was loose around her shoulders, held back from her face with a wide, sueded silk headband.

“Thanks.” She pulled a face. “Think it'll impress a forty-year-old merchant banker?”

“Business or pleasure?”

“He thinks pleasure, I suspect business.” Detective Chief Inspector Della Prentice is the operational head of the Regional
Crime Squad's fraud task force. She's a Cambridge graduate, with all the social graces that implies, which means that when she's got some bent businessman in her sights he's more likely to think this charming woman who's so fascinated by his work is a corporate headhunter rather than a copper. The problem is, as Della once explained with a sigh, the best con men are often the most charming.

“We never sleep, eh?” I teased.

“Not with people we suspect might have their hands in a rather interesting can of worms,” Della said. “Even if he is buying me dinner at the Thirty-Nine Steps.” I felt a momentary pang of jealousy. Since Richard only ever wants to eat Chinese food, I don't often get the chance to eat at the best fish restaurant in Manchester. As if reading my thoughts, Della said, “But enough of my problems. Any news on Richard?”

“Not a sausage. I feel so frustrated. I just haven't got any handles to get a hold of. I don't suppose you've got anything for me?” I asked morosely.

“We … ell, yes, and no,” Della said cautiously, lighting a cigarette with her battered old Zippo.

The ticket-free windscreen
had
been an omen. “Yeah?” I demanded.

“The fingerprint SOCO who went over Richard's car did some work for me a while back when I was looking into forged insurance policies, and we got quite pally. So I bought her a butty at lunch time.”

“What did she find?” I asked.

“It's what she didn't find that's significant. She was being a bit cautious. Understandably, because she's not had time yet to analyze all the prints thoroughly. But it looks like Richard's fingerprints were on all the surfaces you'd expect—door handle, gear stick, steering wheel, the cassette in the stereo. But there were none of his prints on the boot, or the carrier bag or the plastic bags that the rocks were in. In fact, there were no prints at all on any of those. Just the kind of smudges you get from latex gloves. And Richard had no gloves on his person, nor were there any in the car.” Della gave a tentative smile, and I found myself reflecting it.

“D'you know, that's the first good news I've heard all day?”

Della looked apologetic. “I know it's not much, but it's a start. If I hear any more on the grapevine, I'll let you know. Now, as to the other thing. You owe me, Kate—I thought when I left the West Yorkshire fraud squad that I'd never have to drink with another patronizing, sexist Yorkshireman. Today I discovered they actually get worse when they're in exile on the wrong side of the Pennines. According to DCI Geoff Turnbull of the Drugs Squad, it's understandable that a nice woman like me should be interested in drugs. After all, even if I didn't manage to fulfill my womanly role by reproducing myself before my divorce, I must have contemporaries whose kids are in their late teens and therefore at that dangerous age,” Della growled through clenched teeth.

“Oh dear,” I sympathized. “And when exactly are they letting him out of intensive care? I know a choir that's short on sopranos.”

Della managed a twisted smile. “Once he'd finished condescending, he did actually come up with some interesting information. Apparently, when crack first started to appear in this country, it was in relatively small amounts and in quite specific areas. The obvious inference was that there were only a handful of people involved in the importing and distribution of it, and while its presence was worrying, its level of penetration wasn't seriously disturbing. However, during the last few months, small quantities of crack have been turning up all over the country along with some unusual designer drugs. The really worrying thing is that these finds have been coming out of routine operations.” Della paused expectantly.

I didn't know what she was expecting. I said, “Why is that so worrying?”

“It's turned up where they didn't expect to find it. The operations have been targeted at something else, say Ecstasy or heroin, and they've ended up producing a small but significant amount of crack as well. And it's not localized. It's dotted all over the shop.” Della looked serious. I could see why. If small finds were appearing unexpectedly, the chances were that they were only the tip of a very large iceberg.

“Any particular geographical distribution?” I asked.

“Virtually all over the country. But it's mostly confined to bandit country.”

“Meaning?” I asked.

“The sort of areas that are semi-no-go. Inner-city decayed housing, satellite council estates both in the cities and in bigger towns. The kind of traditional working-class areas where people used to leave school and go into the local industry, only there's no industry any more so they graduate straight to the dole queue, the drink and drugs habits and the petty crime that goes with them.” Della stubbed her cigarette out angrily.

“I bet your Yorkshire DCI didn't put it quite like that.”

“How did you guess?” Della said cynically. “Anyway, the bottom line is that it looks like we've got a crack epidemic on our hands. And they suspect that whoever is dealing this crack has a very efficient distribution network.”

That ruled out the post office. “And they think Richard is part of that?”

“I didn't ask. But they clearly think he's important enough to be worth sweating.” Della sighed. “It doesn't look good, Kate, I'm bound to say.”

I nodded. She didn't have to tell me. “Any suggestions as to where I might start looking?”

Della looked at me. Her green eyes were serious. “You're not going to thank me for this, but I don't think you should be looking at all. These are very dangerous people. They will kill you if they think you're any kind of threat.”

“You think I don't know that? What option have I got, Della? If I can't get the real villains behind bars, they'll kill Richard. As soon as they find out just who drove off with their parcel of crack. You know they will. They can't afford not to, or every two-bit dealer in town'll think they can give them the run-around.” I swallowed the last of my coffee. I should have gone for camomile tea. The last thing I needed was to get even more hyped up.

“Did you get the chance to ask about the Polaroid?” Anything to avoid another unnerving gypsy warning.

“I spoke to a woman DS in Vice. She said she couldn't think of anyone off the top of her head, but she'd ask around. But the DCI
running Richard's case doesn't seem particularly interested in it, probably because in itself it isn't technically obscene.” Della lit another cigarette, but before she could say more, bodies started flowing through the doors leading from Domestic Arrivals. Judging by the high proportion of men in suits clutching briefcases that seemed as heavy as anchors after a hard day's meetings, the London shuttle was down. I stood up. “I think this is Davy's flight,” I said.

Della was at my side in a flash. She gave me a quick hug, threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't about to be accosted by a small boy, and said, “Stay in touch. I'll bell you if I hear anything.” And she was gone.

The first rush had subsided, leaving the stragglers who had had to wait for luggage from the hold. After what felt like a very long time, the double doors swung open on a woman in British Airways uniform, carrying a small holdall. By her side, Davy trotted, looking like he was auditioning for the moppet role in the next Spielberg film, hair flopping over his forehead in a slightly tousled fringe, big brown eyes eager. He was proudly wearing an outfit he'd chosen with his dad on his last visit, topped by the New York Mets jacket Richard had sent him from a recent trip to the States, still too baggy for his solid little frame. Then he saw me. All in a moment, he seemed puzzled, then disappointed. He looked around again, then realizing Richard really wasn't there, he waved uncertainly at me and half smiled. My heart sank. As far as Davy was concerned, I was clearly a poor substitute. As if I needed the confirmation.

 

It turned out a lot better than I expected. On the way to the car park, I told Davy the lie Richard and I had prearranged. Dad was in Bosnia; he'd had to fly off suddenly because he'd had an exclusive tip that Bob Geldof was out there organizing some sort of Bosnia Aid concert. I almost believed it myself by the time I'd finished the explanation. Davy took it very calmly. I suppose after eight years, he's grown accustomed to a dad who doesn't behave quite like other kids' fathers. At least he's not shy; that's one thing that being around Richard and his crazy buddies in rock and journalism has
cured him of. “You remember Chris and Alexis?” I asked him as we drove out of the airport towards the M56.

He nodded. “Alexis is funny. And Chris is good at drawing and painting and building things with Lego. I like them.”

“Well, they're going to help me look after you, because I've got some work to do over the weekend.”

“Can't I come with you to work, Kate?” he wheedled. “I want to be a private detective like you. I saw this film and it was in black and white and it had an American detective in it, Mum said he was called Humpty something, and he had a gun. Have you got a gun, Kate?”

I shook my head. Depressingly, he looked disappointed. “I don't need one, Davy.”

“What about if you were fighting a bad man, and he had a gun? You'd need one then,” he said triumphantly.

“If I was fighting someone who had a gun, and he knew I had a gun, he'd have to shoot me to win the fight. But if he knows I haven't got a gun, he only has to hit me. That way I stay alive. And, on balance, I think I prefer being alive.”

Chris was waiting when we got home. I'd rung ahead to give her ten minutes' warning, so she was just assembling home-made cheeseburgers as we walked in. I could have kissed her. The three of us sat round the breakfast bar scoffing and telling the sort of jokes that eight-year-olds like. You know: why do bees hum? Because they've forgotten the words.

After we'd pigged out, I showed Davy the latest Commander Keen game I'd got for us both. I extracted a promise from him that he'd go to bed in half an hour when Chris told him to, and left him bouncing on his pixel pogo stick through Slug Village. Ten minutes split between the bathroom and the bedroom was enough to knock me into shape for the night. My lightweight walking boots; my ripped denim decorating jeans over multi-colored leggings; a Bob Marley T-shirt I won at a rock charity dinner; and a baggy flannel shirt that belonged to my granddad that I keep for sentimental reasons. I tucked my auburn hair into a dayglo green baseball cap, and slapped on some make-up that made me look like an anemic refugee from Transylvania. Grunge meets acid house. I found Chris
in front of the television, watching the news. Bless her, she didn't turn a hair at the apparition. “I really appreciate this. And believe me, Richard will need a bank loan to express his appreciation when all this is over. I take it Alexis filled you in?” I said quietly, perching on the arm of the sofa.

“She did, and it's horrifying. What's happening? Any progress?” That's probably the shortest contribution to any conversation I've ever heard Chris make.

“Not really. That's why I'm going out now. I've got one or two leads to follow up. Are you OK to hang on here?”

Chris patted my knee. “We're staying till this is all sorted out. I brought a bag with me, and I've moved us into Richard's room, I hope that's all right, but it seemed the most sensible thing, because then Davy can sleep in his usual bed in Richard's house so you can come and go as and when you please without worrying about waking any of us, and then we're on hand to take over the child minding as and when you need us.” I swear she's the only person I know who can talk and breathe at the same time.

I gave Chris a swift hug and stood up. “Thanks. I'll see you in the morning then.” I walked out of the house, feeling a sense of purpose for the first time since I'd had Ruth's phone call.

I started off at the Delta, known to Richard and his cronies, for obvious reasons, as the “Lousy Hand.” That's where he'd been the night the car was stolen. The Lousy Hand occupies a handful of railway arches in a narrow cul-de-sac between the GMEX exhibition center and the Hacienda Club. Since it was only half past nine, there was no queue, so I sailed straight in.

The décor in the Lousy Hand has been scientifically designed to make you think you've dropped a tab of acid even when you're straight. God knows what it does to the kids who are really out of their heads. Everywhere I looked there were psychedelic fractals mingling at random with
trompe l'œil
Bridget Riley-style monochrome pop art extravaganzas. There were only a few dozen punters in that early, but most of them were already on the dance floor, mindlessly happy as only those high on Ecstasy can be. The dancing was something else, too. Scarcely coordinated, the dancers looked like a motley assortment of marionettes jerked around by a five-year-old puppet master with all the elegance and skill of Skippy the bush kangaroo. The music had the irritating insistence of a bluebottle at a window, the heavy bass beat so loud it seemed to thump inside my chest. I'd have sold my soul to be back home with a nice restful video like
Terminator 2
.