Val McDermid - Crack Down

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 sceptical. 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-flavoured 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 favour you’re after, Brannigan?’

‘Who said anything about a favour?’ 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 neighbours 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 half-reasonable so long as I still had the chance to hit the boys with a few questions.