have an innocent explanation, and that it might have been your son.’
‘So what does this kid look like?’ Richard said belligerently.
‘I’d say about ten, dark wavy hair, skinny.’
Richard let out a sigh. ‘Well, you can count Davy out. He’s only eight, average size for his age, and his hair’s straight like mine, and the same colour. Light brown.’ The colour of butterscotch, to be precise.
‘Fine. I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,’ Ruth said. ‘Any questions, Kate?’
I nodded. Not that I had any hopes of a useful answer. ‘Richard, when you were in Manto’s, did you see anyone you recognized from the club the other night? Anyone a bit flash, a bit hooky, the type that just might have nicked the motor?’
Richard screwed up his eyes in concentration. Then he shook his head. ‘You know me, Brannigan. I don’t go places to look at the punters,’ he said apologetically.
‘Did you do a number on anybody about the car?’
‘I didn’t mention it to a soul. I’d just have looked a dick-head next week, back with my usual wheels,’ he said, with rare insight.
‘I don’t suppose you know who’s doing the heavy-duty stuff round town these days?’
Richard leaned forward and stared into my eyes. I could feel his fear. ‘I’ve got no interest,’ he said, his face tense. ‘I bend over backwards to avoid taking any interest. Look, you know how much time I spend in the Moss and Cheetham Hill with new bands. Everybody knows I’m a journo. If I showed the slightest interest in the gangs and the drugs, I’d be a dead man, blown away on the steps of some newspaper office as a warning to other hacks not to get any daft ideas in their heads about running a campaign to clean up Manchester. You ask Alexis. She’s supposed to be the crime correspondent. You ask her the last time there was a heavy incident in Moss Side or Cheetham Hill where she did anything more than toddle along to the police press conference! Believe me, if I thought for one minute that the gang that owns these drugs knows it was me that drove off with them, I’d be begging for protective custody a long, long way from Manchester. No, Brannigan, I do not know who’s doing the heavy stuff, and for the sake of both our healths, I suggest that you remain in the same blissful state.’
I shrugged. ‘You want to walk away from this? The only way you’re going to do that is if we give them a body to trade,’ I turned to Ruth. ‘Am I right?’
‘Regardless of that, you’re probably going to have to spend another few days in police custody,’ Ruth warned him.
Richard’s face fell. ‘Is there no way you can get me out sooner? I’ve got to get out of here, double urgent,’ he said.
‘Richard, in my opinion, the police will charge you with possession of a Class A drug with intent to supply, which is not a charge on which magistrates are inclined to allow bail. I’ll do my best, but the chances are heavily stacked against us. Sorry about that, but there we go.’ Ruth paused to savour a last mouthful of smoke before regretfully stubbing out her cigarette.
‘Oh, shit,’ Richard said. He took off his glasses and carefully polished them on his paisley silk shirt. He sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go for it. But there’s one slight problem I haven’t mentioned that Brannigan seems to have forgotten about,’ he said sheepishly, looking short-sightedly in my direction.
My turn to sigh. ‘Give,’ I said.
‘Davy’s due on the seven o’clock shuttle tonight. Remember? Half-term?’
As his words sank in, I got to my feet, shaking my head. ‘Oh no, no way. Not me.’
‘Please,’ Richard said. ‘You know how much it means to me.’
‘There isn’t that much dosh in the world,’ I said, panicking.
‘Please, Kate. That bitch is just looking for an excuse to shut me out,’ he pleaded.
‘That’s no way to talk about the woman you married, the mother of your child, the former joy of your existence and fire of your loins,’ I said, slipping defensively into our routine banter. It was no use. I knew as I looked down at the poor sod that I’d already given in. A dozen years of efficient contraception, and what does it get you? Someone else’s kid, that’s what.
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
