Val McDermid - Crack Down

Richard opened the passenger door for me, and, smarting, I climbed in. ‘Oh, this is real luxury,’ I forced out for Darryl’s benefit, as I stroked the charcoal grey leather. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was anything other than brain-dead. Richard settled in next to me, closing the door with a solid clunk. He turned the key in the ignition, and pressed the button that lowered his window. ‘Thanks, Darryl,’ he said. ‘It’s been a pleasure doing the business.’

‘Pleasure’s all mine, Mr Barclay,’ Darryl smarmed, shuffling sideways as Richard let out the clutch and glided slowly forward. ‘Remember me when Mrs Barclay’s ready for a new luxury vehicle?’

In response, Richard put his foot down. In ten seconds, Darryl Day was just a bad memory. ‘Wow,’ he exclaimed as he moved up and down through the gears in the busy Bolton traffic. ‘This is some motor! Electric wing mirrors, electric sun roof, electric seat adjustment…’

‘Shame about the clockwork driver,’ I said.

By the time we got home, Richard was in love. Although the Gemini coupé was the twelfth Leo car we’d ‘bought’, this was the first example of the newly launched sporty superstar. We’d had to confine ourselves to what was actually available on the premises, and we’d tended to go for the executive saloons that had made Leo one of the major suppliers of fleet cars in the UK. As we arrived outside the pair of bungalows where we live. Richard was still raving about the Gemini.

‘It’s like driving a dream,’ he enthused, pressing the remote control that locked the car and set the alarm.

‘You said that already,’ I muttered as I walked up the path to my house. ‘Twice.’

‘No, but really, Kate, it’s like nothing I’ve ever driven before,’ Richard said, walking backwards up the path.

‘That’s hardly surprising,’ I said. ‘Considering you’ve never driven anything designed after Porsche came up with the Beetle in 1936. Automotive technology has moved along a bit since then.’

He followed me into the house. ‘Brannigan, until I drove that, I’d never wanted to.’

‘Do I gather you want me to talk to Andrew Broderick about doing you a deal to buy the Gemini?’ I asked, opening the fridge. I handed Richard a cold Jupiler and took out a bottle of freshly squeezed pink grapefruit juice.

He opened the drawer for the bottle opener and popped the cap off his beer, looking disconsolate. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. Can’t afford it, Brannigan.’

I didn’t even think about trying to change the mind of a man with an ex-wife and a son to support. I never poke my nose into his finances, and the last thing that would ever make the short journey across his mind is curiosity about my bank balance. We never have to argue about money because of the way we organize our lives. We own adjacent houses, linked by a conservatory built across the back of both of them. That way, we have all the advantages of living together and almost none of the disadvantages.

I opened the freezer and took out a bottle of Polish vodka. It was so cold, the sobs of spirit on the inside of the bottle were sluggish as syrup. I poured an inch into the bottom of a highball glass and topped it up with juice. It tasted like nectar. I put down my glass and gave Richard a hug. He rubbed his chin affectionately on the top of my head and gently massaged my neck.

‘Mmm,’ I murmured. ‘Any plans for tonight?’

‘’Fraid so. There’s a benefit in town for the girlfriend of that guy who got blown away last month in Moss Side. You remember? The innocent bystander who got caught up in the drugs shootout outside the café? Well, she’s four months pregnant, so the local bands have got together to put on a bit of a performance. Can’t not show, sorry.’

‘But you don’t have to go for a while, do you?’ I asked, running my fingers over his shoulder blades in a pattern that experience has demonstrated usually distracts him from minor things like work.

‘Not for ages,’ he responded, nuzzling my neck as planned. Nothing like exploiting a man’s weaknesses, I thought.

I wasn’t the only one into the exploitation game, though. As I grabbed my drink and we did a sideways shuffle towards the bedroom, Richard murmured, ‘Any chance of me taking the Gemini with me tonight?’

I jerked awake with the staring-eyed shock that comes when you’ve not been asleep for long. The light was still on, and my arm hurt as I peeled it off the glossy computer gaming magazine I’d fallen asleep over. I reached for the trilling telephone and barked, ‘Brannigan,’ into it, simultaneously checking the time on the alarm clock. 00:43.

‘Did I wake you?’ Richard asked.

‘What do you think?’

‘Sorry. That kind of answers the question,’ he said cryptically.

My brain wasn’t up to it. ‘What question, Richard?’ I demanded. ‘What question’s so urgent it can’t wait till morning?’

‘I just wondered if you were at the wind-up, that’s all. But you’re obviously not, so I’d better come home and call the cops.’

I was no further forward. I massaged my forehead with my spare hand, but before I could get any more sense out of him, the pips sounded and the line went dead. I contemplated going back to sleep, but I knew that was just the fantasy of a deranged mind. You don’t become a private eye because you lack curiosity about the doings of your fellow man. Especially when they’re as unpredictable as the man next door. Whatever Richard was up to, I was involved now too. Heaving a sigh, I got out of bed and struggled into my dressing gown. I went through to my living-room, unlocked the patio doors and walked through the conservatory to Richard’s house.

As usual, his living room looked like a teenager’s idea of paradise. A Nintendo console lay on top of a pile of old newspapers by the sofa. Stacks of CDs teetered on every available surface that wasn’t occupied by empty beer bottles and used coffee mugs. Rock videos were piled by the TV set. A couple of rock bands’ promotional T-shirts and sweat shirts were thrown over an armchair, and a lump of draw sat neatly on a pack of Silk Cut, next to a packet of Rizlas on the coffee table. If vandals ransacked the place, Richard probably wouldn’t notice for a fortnight. When we first got together, I used to tidy up. Now, I’ve trained myself not to notice.

Two steps down the hall, I knew what to expect in the kitchen. Every few weeks, Richard decides his kitchen is a health hazard, and he does his version of spring cleaning. This involves putting crockery, cutlery and chopsticks in the dishwasher. Everything else on the worktops goes into a black plastic bin liner. He buys a bottle of bleach, a pair of rubber gloves and a pack of scouring pads and scrubs down every surface, including the inside of the microwave. For two days, the place is spotless and smells like a public swimming pool. Then he comes home stoned with a Chinese takeaway and everything goes back to normal.

I opened the dishwasher and took out the jug from the coffee maker. I got the coffee from the fridge. Richard’s fridge contains only four main food groups: his international beer collection, chocolate bars for the dope-induced raging munchies, ground coffee and a half-gallon container of milk. While I was waiting for the coffee to brew, I tried not to think about the logical reason why Richard was coming home to call the police.

I realized the nightmare was true when I heard the familiar clatter of a black hack’s diesel engine in the close outside. I peeped through the blind. Sure enough, there was Richard paying off the cabbie. I had a horrible feeling that the reason he was in a cab rather than the Gemini had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he had consumed. ‘Oh shit,’ I muttered as I took a second mug from the dishwasher and filled it with strong Java. I walked down the hall and proffered the coffee as Richard walked through the front door.