Crack Down (20 page)

Alexis shook her head. “I don't know. It's worse working for you than for my brain-dead newsdesk. So what else have you remembered?”

“That's it,” I promised. “Have you got anything?”

Alexis pulled a face. “Bits and pieces. Nothing really. But I've arranged to meet one of my contacts in half an hour, and he's promised me the full SP on Jammy. Oh, and by the way—Ruth's coming round at nine o'clock for a powwow. And so's Della.”

“What?” I howled.

Alexis shrugged. “Della rang up after Ruth had arranged to come round. I thought they might as well come together to save us having to go over everything twice.”

“Oh God,” I groaned. “I don't suppose it occurred to you that I might not want them to know the same things?”

Alexis looked amused. “Which one were you planning on lying to—the lawyer or the copper?”

 

I left Davy to Alexis and Chris, and headed for the office to develop the films I'd shot in Carlisle. In the cool silence of the darkroom, I concentrated on the job in hand, forcing myself to switch off from the ins and outs of the case. That way, I hoped, my subconscious would get on with processing the information in peace, and come up with some useful inspirations.

I shoved the finished prints into a folder, and headed downstairs to the Mexican restaurant to fortify myself for another souldestroying visit to the cells. The place was empty, except for one guy sitting alone at a table towards the rear of the restaurant. He gave me a brief glance as I entered, then returned to the magazine he had propped up beside his bowl of chili. With a jolt of surprise, I recognized the menacing bouncer from the Lousy Hand. If he was
a regular here—and I couldn't see any other reason for frequenting the place on a bank holiday Monday, since the food isn't that great—it explained why he'd seemed familiar at the club. Relieved to have cleared that one up, I settled into a window table with my back to his cold eyes and ordered some guacamole and a plate of frijoles. As I ate, I thought about the evening ahead.

Now I'd calmed down, I was pleased Alexis had fixed up the brainstorming session, because I suspected that the dynamic between the four of us might just spark off some fresh ideas. I was desperate for any insight that might take us a step nearer getting Richard out of jail. The hardest thing about being grown up is realizing there are no magic formulas to release the ones we love from pain. Maybe that's why I enjoy computer games so much; you get to be God.

 

The girls were ready and waiting when I got back from the nick. Alexis had taken charge in my absence. I found it hard to recognize my living room. A flip chart on an easel had materialized from somewhere, and she'd arranged the chairs so we could all see it. She'd also found my cache of Australian Chardonnay and distributed glasses to the other two. I mumbled that I'd stick with the vodka and disappeared into the kitchen to fix myself a lemon Absolut with freshly squeezed pink grapefruit juice. By the time I got back, Alexis was copying some complicated tree structure from her notebook on to the flip chart. Ruth and Della looked as bemused as I felt.

“Alexis, I don't want to be difficult, but …”

“Chris is putting Davy to bed, so you don't have to worry about him butting in, if that's what's bugging you,” she said, not even pausing.

“It wasn't, actually. I just wondered what you were doing.”

“I need the diagram to explain about Jammy's empire,” Alexis said in the condescending tones I use to small children and she uses to news editors.

“Maybe Kate could bring us up to date,” Ruth said. “Then perhaps we'd all have a clue what you're up to, Alexis.” Ever the diplomat.

It took a disturbingly short time to fill everyone in on my weekend activities. “I waited till James went into the house, then I came home,” I finished up. “Oh, and I've developed and printed up the films I shot in Carlisle.”

There was a slight pause. I could see Alexis gathering herself together to leap into the breach when Ruth said, “I'm impressed, Kate. When you told me how little we had to go on, I thought we had as much chance of establishing the identity of the real criminals as I have of becoming Lord Chief Justice.”

“You're right, Kate's done an impressive job, but the Drugs Squad are going to have mixed feelings about it,” Della said ruefully. “They've been chasing this crack epidemic for some time now, and while there are senior officers who are going to be bloody glad to get a solid handle on it, a lot of people are going to be very pissed off at being shown up by a private eye. And a woman private eye at that.”

“Tell me about it,” I sighed.

“And then there's the question of the accused,” Della went on. “I've only been in Manchester a matter of months, but that's long enough to know that Eliot James is a name that means money, power and influence.”

Alexis finally managed to get a word in. She jumped to her feet. “And that's where I come in,” she announced. “I've been doing some digging into Mr. Eliot James.” She picked up her marker pen and attacked the flip chart. For a full fifteen minutes she blinded us with science, taking us on a whirlwind tour of Jammy James's leisure and property empire, his constant efforts to muscle in on the Olympic bid consortium, the parlous state of his marriage and the debts, loans and mortgages that, added together, put him in what building societies euphemistically call a negative equity situation.

“It's like Maxwell,” she concluded with a flourish. “On the surface, it looks like everything's hunky-dory. But underneath, there's this huge iceberg of debt ready to smash into Jammy's hull and turn Tonik into the Titanic.”

“She's got a way with words, that girl,” I said. “Ever thought of becoming a writer, Alexis?”

Della was shaking her head in amazement. “I think I'll just go and shoot myself now,” she said. “This has been a bad evening for the police. First, Kate does the Drugs Squad's job. And now you do my job. From what you've said, it looks very like our Mr. James is trading while insolvent, so we're looking at one criminal offense at least. I think when the boys from the DS have finished with him, I'll be wanting a word.”

Ruth, who had been unusually quiet, said, “It certainly explains why he needs the kind of cash injection that the drugs trade can bring. It does, however, give me a slight problem.”

“You're not his brief, are you?” I asked, the cold hand of panic squeezing my chest.

“Thankfully, no,” Ruth said. “But he does play golf with Peter. My husband,” she added for Della's benefit. Peter hadn't been at Mortensen and Branningan's Christmas party, where the two women had first met. “And he's supposed to be coming to dinner on Saturday.”

“Who with?” Alexis demanded cheekily. “The wife or the mistress ? Both, incidentally, called Sue. I suppose that way he doesn't run the risk of using the wrong name in bed.”

“Ignore her; it's gone to her head, getting something right for once,” I said.

“Yo, wait till I break this little gem in tomorrow's paper!” Alexis exclaimed.

“No way!” Ruth shouted.

“Don't you
dare
!” Della thundered in unison. “We want Jammy James nailed down watertight, not leaping up and down about trial by media.”

“Never mind that,” I butted in. “Personally, I don't give a toss about nailing Jammy James. This is about getting Richard out of jail. And you printing daft stories in the
Chronicle
is not the way to do that, so forget it, Alexis, OK? What comes next, Ruth?”

Ruth spoke slowly, measuring what she said as she spoke. “Kate's right, Alexis. I know this must be burning a hole in your notebook, but I think it would be disastrous for Richard if you wrote a story about this.”

Alexis pulled a face. “All right,” she sighed. “But when I
can
write about it, I want all of you to talk to me on the record.”

We all nodded wearily. “Ruth?” I asked.

“Kate, you're going to have to talk to the police. You're also going to have to persuade them to move quickly; the sooner the better from Richard's point of view.”

Della interrupted. “On that point, they'll already be anxious about how current your information is. These days, most drug dealers alter their distribution patterns every few weeks. Eliot James's team might not be doing that, but as far as the Drugs Squad is concerned, stress that this is up-to-the-minute info and the situation could change any day. There is one significant gap in your evidence, however, which might make them cautious.”

“What's that? Something I've got time to fix?” I asked anxiously. I'd been right to decide I needed other people's eyes on this case.

Della pulled a face. “It's not exactly a matter of time. It's a matter of legality. We don't know what's inside this shed out at the airport. If it's just an empty shell, it's not going to be easy to establish a direct connection between James and Fitzgerald. A good brief would argue that James had gone there for reasons entirely unconnected with the drug trade; he could even postulate a hypothetical third party that they were both there to meet.”

I nodded, grateful for the advice. “Supposing I had that information, how quickly is quickly, in Drugs Squad terms?”

Della shrugged. “I don't know this lot well, but given your info they should be able to plug straight into the surveillance. If this team is as busy as your material suggests, they could have the bare bones of their evidence within twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

“Which means what, in terms of Richard's imprisonment?” I asked Ruth.

She bought time by lighting a cigarette. “Best case, you talk to the Drugs Squad first thing and they stand up in court and support my bail application. Chances of that: almost nil. Worse case, they use your information, make a bundle of arrests and refuse to accept Richard was an innocent bystander. Chances of that: probably low. Most likely scenario, if you get to the Drugs Squad tomorrow, when I argue for bail on Wednesday, it will be
refused but the magistrates will agree to a short remand, say till Thursday or Friday; to give the police the chance to evaluate the fresh evidence.”

My disappointment must have been obvious, for Alexis hugged me and Ruth shrugged apologetically. “Well, we'd better get you fixed up with an appointment to see the Drugs Squad, hadn't we?” Della said briskly. “Where's the phone?”

I pointed it out, and she wandered into the conservatory to make her call. I watched her through the patio doors. Her face was animated, her free hand expressive. Whatever she was saying, she wasn't pleading. As she ended the call, I remembered something else I wanted to talk to the Drugs Squad about. I turned to Alexis. “Do you know if Cherie Roberts has been around today? Or if she's left me a note?”

Alexis shook her head. “Not that I know of. Chris didn't say anything.”

Typical, I thought. Just as well I wasn't relying on Cherie to help get Richard out of jail.

It was midnight before I got the house to myself. Much as I enjoy their company, I couldn't wait for the three of them to go home. Ironically, they probably thought they were doing me a favor, keeping me from brooding over Richard's absence. And of course, I couldn't explain why I wanted rid of them, not with two of them being officers of the court. My impatience wasn't helped by the fact that I'd stopped drinking after my first vodka; if discovering what the shed contained was the key to releasing Richard, then I was going to have to get inside there. Preferably before my nine o'clock appointment with DCI Geoff Turnbull of the Drugs Squad.

I went through to my bedroom and changed into the black leggings and black sweatshirt I save for the sort of occasion when nobody I want to impress is likely to see me; illicit night forays, decorating, that sort of thing. I didn't have any black trainers, but I did have a pair of black canvas hockey boots which I'd bought in a moment of madness years before when they'd briefly looked set to be the next essential fashion item. I'd been a first-year student at the time, which is as good an excuse as any. I stuffed my hair inside a black ski cap, and I was all set. I know the Famous Five burned corks and rubbed their faces with the ash, but I couldn't bring myself to do anything that ridiculous. Besides, I had to drive right across town to get to the airport, and I didn't rate my chances of convincing any passing traffic cop that I was on my way to a Halloween party.

On my way out the door, I stopped in my study and picked up one of those compartmentalized mini-aprons that tradesmen stuff with obscure tools. Mine contains a set of lock picks, a glass cutter, a kid's arrow with a sucker on the end, a couple of pairs of
latex gloves, a Swiss Army knife, a small camera with a spare film, pliers, a high-powered pencil torch, a set of jeweler's screwdrivers, a couple of ordinary screwdrivers, a cold chisel, secateurs and a toffee hammer. Don't ask. Before I set off, I filled up a mini jug kettle that runs off the car cigarette lighter. Like I said, don't ask.

Less than half an hour later, I was cruising down the country lane I'd been in the night before. I pulled up in the same gateway and plugged in the kettle. As the water boiled, I lifted the lid and let the car fill up with steam. I got out and looked at the windows, satisfied. Anyone passing would be more likely to be jealous than suspicious.

I set off, hugging the infested hedgerows, just in case. I eased round the corner of the track, and saw with relief that there were no cars parked outside the shed. I crept slowly round the edge of the clearing till I was parallel to the big front doors. A quick look around, then I slipped across into the shadow of the shed. I took out my torch and shone it on the lower of the two padlocks. My heart sank. Some locks you can pick after ten minutes' training. Some locks give experts migraine. This wasn't one of the easy ones. I wished I'd brought Dennis with me. I gave it twenty minutes, by which time my hands were sweating so much inside the latex gloves that I couldn't manipulate the picks properly. In frustration, I kicked the door. It didn't swing open. I just got a very sore foot.