Val McDermid - Crack Down

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 favour, 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 sweat shirt 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 Hallowe’en 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 jeweller’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.

I shone the torch on the other padlock, but it was another of the same. The steel bars didn’t look too promising either. Muttering the kind of words my mother warned me against, I skirted the corner of the shed and worked my way down the far side. Although it didn’t look much, it was actually a deceptively solid building. I’d have expected to find the odd loose board, perhaps even a broken window. But this shed looked like it had been given a good going over by the local crime prevention officer. There was one window on the airport side, but it was barred, and behind it was opaque, wire-reinforced glass. I reached the far corner, but I couldn’t get down the back of the shed at all because of the insidious creeping of the undergrowth. Frankly, I doubt if Mickey Mouse could have squeezed through that lot. With a sigh, I turned back. No chance. That was when the spotlight pinned me to the wall.

At least, that’s what I thought at first. I froze like a dancer in a strobe, not even daring to blink. Then, as the light swept over me and my brain clocked on, I realized it was only the cyclops headlight of a tow truck from the cargo area. I threw myself to the ground and wriggled back to the front of the shed. Not a moment too soon. As I reached the doors, a battery of floodlights snapped on, bathing an area fifty yards away with harsh bleaching light. A truck was towing a train of boxes from one cargo holding area to another. This wasn’t the time or place for burglary, I decided.

I inched backwards on my stomach towards the short drive leading to the road. And that’s when I spotted the skylight. Gleaming in the blackness of the roof, it reflected the lights like a mirror. Even though it was a good twelve feet above the ground, the really exciting thing about it was the two-inch gap at the bottom. I gauged the distances involved, and saw there was a way inside the shed.

Getting out again was going to be the problem, I realized as I hung from the edge of the skylight, torch between my teeth. I tried to direct the beam downwards, to see what I was going to land on when I let go. I saw what looked like a chemistry lab constructed by a bag lady. If I dropped from here, I was going to end up either impaled on a bunsen burner or shredded by the shards of a thousand test tubes. That probably explained why the skylight on the blind side of the roof was open. Even with fume hoods, cooking up designer drugs is a disgustingly smelly occupation. The chemists doubtless decided the need for fresh air was greater than the security benefit of being hermetically sealed. At least having a factory out in the middle of nowhere meant there weren’t any neighbours to complain about the pong.