Crack Down

Chapter 15

Ruth hadn’t hung around waiting for me in reception. I spotted her behind the Independent on Sunday from the other side of the coffee lounge. There was already a basket of croissants and a selection of cold meats and cheeses on the table. Whipped cream in Alpine peaks was gently subsiding into her hot chocolate, and somehow she’d managed to get a whole jug of freshly squeezed orange juice all to herself. Luckily, she’d chosen a window table which commanded a view of the Quays. On the way to meet her, I’d swung round by Terry Fitz’s flat and been relieved to see the Supra sitting on the drive and the curtains still firmly closed. From the hotel, I’d be able to see if he left home.

I sat down and said, ‘If I rush off suddenly, it’s not because of something you’ve said.’

She lowered the paper and groaned. ‘Oh God, not melodrama over Sunday brunch? Frankly, I can see why you copped out of the law. Not nearly exciting enough to keep you going.’

‘I’m not grandstanding,’ I bristled. ‘I’m trying to get Richard out of jail.’

‘You and me both,’ Ruth said calmly, dumping her paper, reaching for a croissant and dunking it into her chocolate. I felt faintly sick. ‘Any progress?’ she asked.

I brought her up to speed. It didn’t even fill the gap between me ordering coffee and wholemeal toast and them arriving. Ruth listened attentively in between mouthfuls of soggy croissant. ‘How fascinating. It’s a novel way of distributing drugs. This sounds very promising for Richard,’ she said as I ground to a halt. ‘But you’re going to need a lot more than that before we can persuade the Drugs Squad that Richard was merely an innocent abroad.’

‘What are the next moves, from your point of view?’ I asked.

‘That depends to some extent on you. If you can come up with enough by Tuesday morning for the Drugs Squad to get going, then I’ve got a slight chance of getting bail on Wednesday.’

‘How slight?’ I asked.

Ruth studied the cold meat and speared a slice of smoked ham. ‘I’d be lying if I said it looked good. Failing that, what I can go for is a short remand, say an overnight or a couple of days, arguing that investigations are in progress which may produce a significantly different picture within twenty-four hours. If the Drugs Squad then mount a successful operation based on information received from you, the chances are we can then get Richard out on bail. It’ll take a little longer to get the charges dropped, but at least he won’t be languishing in the CDC while I’m working on it.’ She split a croissant and loaded it with ham, followed by a slice of cheese. I envied her appetite. I stared morosely at the toast and poured myself a coffee.

I didn’t even have time to add milk. A flash of light as the sun hit the windscreen of Terry Fitz’s car alerted me. He was turning out of his drive. I hit the ground running. ‘Sorry!’ I called back to Ruth. ‘Send me the bill.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll charge it to the client.’

And I thought I padded my bills. One thing about hanging out with lawyers: they don’t half make you feel virtuous.

This time, we headed up the M6. I had no trouble with the tail at first, since half of the North West of England had decided the only place to be on the sunny Sunday of a bank holiday weekend was in a traffic jam on the motorway. Things improved after Blackpool, but there were still a lot of families having the traditional bank holiday argument all the way to the Lakes. The Supra was an impatient outside-lane hogger and flasher of lights, but he had few chances to hammer it till the traffic thinned out after the Windermere turn-off. Then he was off. I prayed he was keeping a look-out for traffic cops up ahead as I watched the speedo creep up past a ton. The last thing I needed was a driving ban.

He slowed as we approached the Carlisle turning, and I hung back till the last minute before I shot off in his wake. His destination was only five minutes off the motorway, a sprawling concrete pillbox of a pub sandwiched between a post-war council estate of two-up two-down flats built to look like semis, and a seventies estate of little ‘executive’ boxes occupied by sales reps, factory foremen and retail managers struggling with their mortgages. I drifted past the Harvester Moon Inn, watching as he parked the Supra by the truck I recognized from the previous day. I slowed to a halt, twisted my rear-view mirror round and watched Terry Fitz climb out of his car, pick up a black bin liner from the rear seat well and head into the pub.

I parked round the corner from the pub and walked back. The blackboard stood outside the main entrance, announcing today’s sales at two p.m. and five p.m. in the pub’s upstairs function room. Depressed at the very thought of it, I dragged myself into the pub. It was a huge barn of a place, arbitrarily divided into bar and lounge by a wooden partition at head height. Well, head height for someone with a bit more than my five feet and three inches. The whole place was in dire need of a face-lift, but judging by the desperate tone of the notices on the walls, it wasn’t making enough to persuade the brewery to spend the necessary cash. Monday night was ‘the best trivia night in town’, Tuesday was ‘Darts Open Night, cash prizes’, Wednesday was ‘Ladies Night! With Special House Cocktails’, Thursday offered ‘Laser Karaoke, genuine opportunities for Talent!’, while Friday was ‘Disco Dancing! Do the Lambada with Lenny. The Harvester’s very own king of the turntables’. And people say Manchester’s provincial.

The clientele was marginally up-market of the down-at-heel decor. There were, naturally, more men than women, since somebody has to baste the chicken. I felt out of place, not because of my gender, but because I was the only person who wasn’t part of the locals’ tribal rituals. The customers sat or stood in tight groups, taking part in what was clearly a regular Sunday lunch-time session with unvarying companions. I carried on walking past the bar, gathering a few inquisitive stares on the way, and through a door at the rear marked ‘Harvest Home Lounge’. It led to a small foyer, with stairs climbing upwards, and a set of double doors leading out into the car park. With half an hour to go before the sale, I’d clearly beaten the Carlisle crowds to the draw.

I walked back to the car and headed into the town centre till I found a Chinese chippy next to a corner shop. I drove back crunching worryingly cubic sweet-and-sour chicken, with a bag of apples for afters to make me feel virtuous. I joined the queue for the sale with only a few minutes to go. This time, I hung back as we filed in so I could have a good view of the rest of the punters. The sale followed the same pattern as the previous evening’s. The only change was that Molloy, the top man, only offered forty bottles of perfume. I put that down to the slightly smaller crowd that they had drawn. When we got down to the pig-in-a-poke lots, I kept my eyes fixed on Terry Fitz.

The night before hadn’t been a fluke. Soon as Molloy announced the fifty-pound lots, Terry appeared with a black bin liner that looked identical to the others. But he took it straight over to a punter I’d already singled out as the man most likely to. Just like the previous night’s mark, he was wearing a black leather jacket and a red baseball cap. It was a different guy, there was no question about it. But the clothes were identical.

As soon as I saw the handover, I eased myself away from the audience and ran downstairs. I slipped inside the door leading to the pub and held it open a crack. As I’d expected, Red Cap was only moments behind me. He didn’t even pause to look around him, just headed straight out into the car park. I was behind him before he’d gone a hundred yards.

He wasn’t hard to tail. He bounced on his expensive hi-tops with a swagger, his red cap jauntily bobbing from side to side. Across the car park, over the road and into the council estate. We walked for half a mile or so through the estate until we came to three blocks of low-rise flats arranged in an H-shape. Red Cap went for the middle block, disappearing into a stairwell. Cautiously, I followed, keeping a clear flight below him as he climbed. I caught a glimpse of his jacket as he turned out of the stairs on the third floor, and I ran the last flight. I cleared the stairs and hit the gallery in time to see a door close behind him. Trying to look as if I belonged, I strolled along the gallery. His was the third door. The glass had been painted over and heavy curtains obscured the windows. I turned and walked back, my eyes flicking from side to side, desperately seeking a vantage point.

One of the legs of the H looked as if it was in the process of being refurbished or demolished. The windows were mostly boarded up and there was no sign of life. I hurried back down the stairs and across to the deserted block. Sure enough, the stairwell was boarded up. It had been padlocked, but the housing had been crowbarred off, some time ago, by the looks of it. I pulled the door open far enough to squeeze round it and cautiously made my way up the gloomy stairs. From what little I could see, it looked like HIV alley, condoms slithering and syringes crunching underfoot. Once I passed the first floor it became lighter and cleaner. I went all the way up to the fourth floor and emerged on the gallery at an oblique angle to Red Cap’s front door. Then I settled down to wait.

Half an hour later, there had been four visits to the flat: two separate youths, one couple in their teens and a pair of lads with a girl in tow. Red Cap had opened the door to all of them, and they’d slipped inside, only to emerge less than five minutes later looking a lot happier. I’ve seen chemists’ shops with fewer customers. After the fourth visit, I thought it was time to risk collecting some firm evidence, so I left my sentry post and jogged back to the car. I drove into the private housing estate and headed in the general direction of the flats. I didn’t want to leave the car in an exposed place like a pub car park once I’d revealed that it held more than yesterday’s newspapers. I parked in a quiet side-street and opened my photographic bag. I put on the khaki gilet Richard brought me back from a business trip to LA. It’s got more pockets than a snooker club. I put the Nikon body with the motor drive in one, and slipped my telephoto lens and doubler into inside pockets.

Within ten minutes, I was back on the fourth floor, the long lens resting on the edge of the balcony, focused on Red Cap’s front door, motor drive switched on. I didn’t have long to wait. In less than an hour, I had six separate groups on film. If I didn’t win the Drugs Squad’s Woman of the Year award, it wouldn’t be for want of trying.