Crack Down (25 page)

Suddenly, I saw the flaw in Bill's theory. “It was
my
front door,” I said.

“Yes?” Bill said.

“Not Richard's. It was
my
front door. Don't you see?” I was excited now, banging the desk with my fist. “If they'd wanted to warn me off the case, they'd have blasted Richard's front door.
He's
the one that's vulnerable,
he's
the one that's banged up with a load of villains,
he's
the one with the eight-year-old pressure point. Besides, the only people who know there's any connection between me and Richard are the Drugs Squad.”

Bill slumped in his office chair and chewed a pencil. “And we trust the Drugs Squad not to have a leak? We think they don't have any bent officers who might just be in Eliot James's golf club?”

I sighed. “I don't exactly
trust
Geoff Turnbull. Not even on Della's say-so. But he's an ambitious man, and self-interest's one of the most powerful engines there is. I bet the thought of nailing a smooth operator like Eliot James is a bigger aphrodisiac than
oysters to a man like Turnbull. And he'll want all the credit for himself; I doubt very much if he's told a living soul he got his information from a private eye.”

“I can't argue with that,” Bill said, resignation all over his face. “So, what now?”

I told him. And since his only alternative was to betray me by going behind my back to the police, Bill reluctantly agreed to help where he could.

The main problem for me now was that I'd argued myself out of any chance of feeling secure. At least if I'd believed the shooting had anything to do with Jammy James and his merry men, I'd have known that the Drugs Squad were about to rob the gunman of any future playdays from that direction. Now, I had to live with the uncomfortable fact that some complete stranger out there wanted me to give up an inquiry so badly that they'd blown a hole in my front door. If I was going to stop them doing the same thing to me, I'd better find out who they were. And fast.

The rush-hour traffic had already started to build by the time I left the office. I sat smoldering in the jam at the top of Plymouth Grove, listening to GMR cheerily telling me where the traffic black spots were. I could have crossed town faster on foot than I was managing by car. I watched the seconds tick past on my watch, muttering darkly about what the transport policy would be when I ruled the world. It was twenty to five by the time I'd inched up Stockport Road and turned off into the car park behind the Longsight District Center. I parked illegally as near as I could get to the Social Services office. I wanted to make sure I didn't miss my target.

Like the rest of the city's social workers, the family placement officer theoretically knocks off work at half past four. But like most of her colleagues, Frankie Summerbee knows that the only way to come close to dealing with her workload is to stay at the office long after the town hall bureaucrats have gone home. So, like most of her colleagues, Frankie's chronically over-tired, over-stressed and prone to making decisions that don't always look too wonderful in the cool light of day under cross-examination. That's what I was relying on this afternoon.

I've known Frankie almost as long as I've known Richard. Before he moved in next door to me, he lived in Chorlton-cum-Hardy, that Manchester suburb whose trendiness quotient rises and falls in tandem with the Green Party's electoral share. He lived in the downstairs flat of an Edwardian terraced cottage. Frankie had the flat upstairs. Luckily for her, that included the attic. I don't know if that had always been her bedroom, but after Richard moved in downstairs I suspect that sleeping at least two floors away from his stereo became an imperative.

Of course, as a trained social worker, she couldn't avoid helping him out; cooking the odd meal, picking up his washing from the launderette, grabbing a stack of pizzas every now and again as she whizzed past the chill cabinet in the supermarket on her weekly shop. I don't expect she got any thanks, but he did take her out to dinner a few times, and so she became another victim of the Cute Smile.

The bonking bit didn't last too long. I suspect they both realized after the first time that it was a big mistake, but they're both much too kind to have hurt the other's feelings by saying so. Luckily, Frankie also has the good social worker's ruthless streak, otherwise they'd probably both still be hanging on till the last minute every Saturday night because nice people come second. Under normal circumstances, I was glad she'd forced a return to uncomplicated friendship so he was unencumbered when he met me. After the events of the past few days, I wasn't so sure.

I could have short-circuited the waiting period by picking up my mobile phone and dialling Frankie's direct line, but I was glad of a breathing space to try to organize my thoughts into something approaching order. I didn't get one.

I'd been sitting there less than ten minutes when Frankie's spiky black hair appeared like a fright wig on top of a stack of files. The files teetered forward above a pair of black leggings and emerald green suede hi-tops. I jumped out of the car and rushed forwards to help her. “Hi, Frankie,” I said, putting my arms out to steady the files as I stopped her in her tracks.

The hair tilted sideways and two interested brown eyes peered round the stack of files. Her granny glasses were slowly sliding down her nose, but not so far that she didn't recognize me. “Hi, Brannigan,” she said. She didn't sound surprised, but then she's been a social worker for the best part of ten years. Nothing surprises Frankie any more.

“Let me help,” I said.

“The car's over there,” she said, sounding slightly baffled as I grabbed the top half of her pile. “The red Astra.”

I carried the files over to the car and we did small talk while she fiddled with her keys and unlocked the hatchback. It wasn't easy,
avoiding the subject of Richard's incarceration, but I managed it by dragging Davy's visit into the conversation two sentences in. We loaded the boot, and Frankie slammed it shut, then leaned against it, catching me eye to eye. Not many people manage that, but Frankie and I are so alike physically that if I ever get signed up to star in a movie with nude scenes I could get her to be my body double. “This is not serendipity, is it?”

I shook my head sheepishly. “Sorry.”

She sighed. “You should know better.”

“It's not business, Frankie,” I said in mitigation. “It's personal, and it's not for me.”

She raised her eyebrows and looked skeptical. I can't say I blamed her. “I'm in a hurry,” she said. “I've got a meeting this evening. I was on my way to grab a quick curry since I skipped lunch. If you think there's any point in telling me what you're after, follow me to the Tandoori Kitchen. You're buying. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said. I've always liked the Tandoori Kitchen. The food's consistently good, but the best thing of all is the chocolate-flavored lollipops they give you when they bring you the bill. I wasn't particularly hungry, but I ordered some onion bhajis and pakora to keep me occupied while Frankie worked her way through the biggest mushroom biryani I've ever seen.

“So what's this favor you're after, Brannigan?”

“Who said anything about a favor?” I said innocently.

“A person doesn't need to have A-level Deduction to know you're after something more than a share in my poppadums when you turn up on the office doorstep. What are you after?” Frankie persisted.

So much for gently working round to it. I plunged in. “You took a couple of kids into care this afternoon. Daniel and Wayne Roberts. Their mum was shot in Brunswick Street?”

Frankie nodded cautiously. “Mmm?”

“I knew Cherie quite well, because Davy always plays with Daniel and Wayne when he's staying with Richard. Also, I helped her out when she was trying to get a divorce from Eddy, her ex.” I paused, but Frankie didn't lift her eyes from her curry.

Nothing for it but to soldier on. “I was driving home with Davy this afternoon just after Cherie had been shot. The place was
jumping with police and ambulance crews, and we saw the boys being taken away in a police car. Then when we got home, all the neighbors were talking about Cherie being shot. The bottom line is that Davy's in a hell of a state. He's terrified because Cherie's been shot, but he's even more frightened because Daniel and Wayne have been carted off in a police car.”

“Not particularly surprising,” Frankie said sympathetically. “Poor Davy. So what do you want me to do?”

“I just wondered if there was any chance you could fix up for me to take Davy to see Daniel and Wayne this evening. I know it's bending the rules and all that, but I don't see how I'm going to get him to sleep otherwise. He's climbing the walls. He thinks Daniel and Wayne have gone to prison, you see.” I sighed and shrugged. “I've tried to explain, but he won't believe me.”

“I wonder why not,” Frankie said drily. She gave me a shrewd look. “Are you sure you're asking for Davy and not for yourself?”

“Give me a break, Frankie,” I complained. “You know I don't do murders. Strictly white collar, that's Mortensen and Brannigan.”

She snorted, not a wise move when you're dealing with curry spices. After she'd finished spluttering and sneezing, she said, “And Patrick Swayze's strictly ballroom. OK. I believe you. God knows why. But if I find out you've been lying to me, Brannigan, I'll be really disappointed in you.”

Just as well I'm not a Catholic or I'd never get out of bed in the morning with the weight of guilt on my shoulders. I smiled meekly and said, “You won't regret this, Frankie.”

“Where is Davy now?” she asked. “Is he with Richard?”

“My friend Alexis is looking after him. She was going to take him to the pictures to see if she could take his mind off what's happened.” I glanced at my watch. “They should be back within the next half-hour or so.”

Frankie ran a hand through her spiky hair. “I hope for your sake I don't live to regret this, Brannigan. I'll tell you what would make me feel happier, though.”

“What's that?” I asked, willing to go along with anything halfreasonable so long as I still had the chance to hit the boys with a few questions.

“I'd be a lot happier if Richard brought Davy along rather than you. Then I could be sure there wasn't a hidden agenda,” Frankie said calmly.

I hoped the dismay I felt didn't reach the surface. I pulled a face and said, “You and me both. But the boy wonder is out of town tonight. He's gone to Birmingham to see some international superstar I've never heard of at the NEC. He went off this afternoon early. He doesn't even know about Cherie.”

Frankie sighed. “I'll just have to live with it, then. OK. We've placed Wayne and Daniel with emergency foster parents in Levenshulme. Normally, it would take a few days to organize a visit while we checked out the credentials of the person claiming to be friends or family, but in this case, I don't see why we shouldn't speed the wheels of bureaucracy since I know both you and Davy. Besides, it might just help the boys to settle, feel less abandoned. After we've eaten, I'll find a phone box and call the foster parents, see what time will fit in with their arrangements.”

I put my mobile phone on the table. “Have this one on me,” I said, nudging it towards her.

Frankie shook her head, smiling wryly. “Since I've known you, I've come to realize what the essential quality of a private investigator is,” she said, reaching across and picking up the phone.

“What's that?”

“You simply don't recognize the point where the rest of the world backs off,” she said. “Now, how do I work this thing?”

 

It was just after seven when Davy and I pulled up outside a trim between-the-wars semi off Slade Lane. The street was quiet; one of the few in the area that motorists driven demented by traffic don't think is a short cut to anywhere. I'd had a difficult half-hour with Davy, explaining what had happened to Cherie and the boys. I thought I should keep it low-key so I wouldn't frighten him, but I'd forgotten how small boys like things to be gory. He hadn't seen it happen right in front of his eyes, so it was no more real, no more frightening than a cartoon or a video. I was glad Frankie had gone off to her meeting; anything less like a terrified nervous wreck than Davy it would be hard to imagine.

You couldn't say the same for Daniel and Wayne. They sat huddled together on a settee in the front room. The television was on and their eyes were pointing at it, but they weren't watching. They didn't look up when the foster mother showed Davy and me into the room, but when she spoke, they both turned their heads towards us, a look of bafflement on their faces. They had the bewildered, desperate air we've all grown used to seeing in endlessly recurring TV film of refugees from disaster areas.

“Hi, lads,” I said. “Davy and I were wondering if you fancied going to the ice-cream parlor.”

Wayne got to his feet and, after a moment, Daniel joined him. I felt like a monster, dragging these two shattered kids out of the nearest thing they were going to have to a home, just to satisfy my curiosity. Then I looked at Davy and remembered my front door. That reminded me there was a lot more at stake than my nosiness. “Or we could go somewhere else, if you'd rather,” I said.

“It's good there,” Davy said anxiously, disturbed by his friends' silence.

“I want to go home,” Wayne said. “That's where I want to go.”

The foster mother, a bulky, comfortable-looking woman in her late thirties, stepped past me and gave Wayne a hug. “You've got to stay with us for a while, Wayne,” she said in a soothing voice. “I know it's not the same as home, but tomorrow we'll go back to your house and get your clothes and the rest of your stuff and you can be at home here, OK?”