Crack Down

Chapter 18

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.

With a groan, I flexed my complaining shoulder muscles and hauled myself back up and out again. I sat on the edge of the skylight and stared into the night. I’d only let myself over the edge in the first place because my torch hadn’t been powerful enough to reveal the contents of the shed. And if the torch wasn’t, the flash probably wouldn’t be either. I had to come up with another idea, and quickly. I’d already had to wait an hour for the cargo area to go dark again, and I didn’t know how long it would be before they took it into their heads to shuffle the packing crates again.

I could come up with only one possibility. Sighing, I eased myself off the skylight until my feet were in the guttering. Spread-eagled against the roof, I edged along until I came to the end of the roof. Slowly, cautiously, I slid down the corrugated asbestos until I was crouching, most of my weight on the guttering. I gripped the edge and half rolled off the roof, stretching my legs downwards as far as they would go. Then, thanking God for all the Thai boxing training I’d done, I gradually let myself down. I couldn’t feel the roof of the Peugeot under my toes. I’d just have to pray I was in the right place. I released my handholds.

The drop was only a few inches, but it seemed to last minutes. Gasping for the breath I’d been holding, I slithered down the hatch back on to blessedly solid ground and opened the boot. I lifted the carpet, and there, tucked into the spare wheel, was the answer to my prayers. I grabbed the tow rope, coiled it round me like a mountaineer, gently closed the hatch and clambered back up the car and on to the roof.

I fixed the rope to a downpipe that was conveniently near the skylight and dropped it through the hole. I bit on the torch again and slowly started the precarious descent. Needless to say, the tow rope wasn’t long enough to take me all the way to the floor, but it left an easy drop of a couple of feet, and I’d be able to reach it again if I moved a lab stool under it.

Getting in was the hard part. Doing the business with the camera was easy. I just started by the doors and worked my way through the shed, photographing the battered equipment, the jars of chemicals, the lists of instructions taped to the walls above the benches, and the plastic bags of white crystalline powder that made my gums numb. I don’t know a lot about the drug world, but it looked to me as if there was much, much more than a bit of crack coming out of Jammy James’s kitchen.

What there wasn’t was paperwork. No filing cabinets, no safe, nothing. Wherever Jammy James kept his records, it wasn’t here. I decided I paid enough in taxes. I’d done most of the work; it was time the Drugs Squad did their bit.

Wearily, I shifted a lab stool under the rope and climbed on top of it. My shoulder muscles were threatening to phone the cruelty man as I dragged myself up the rope and over the sill. I carefully lowered the skylight, restoring it to its previous position, give or take a millimetre or two. Then I untied the rope, did my crab imitation along the roof again. This time, the transfer of weight from feet to arms didn’t go quite so smoothly; my shoulders were too tired for a gradual lowering, and my arms jerked uncomfortably in their sockets, making me let go sooner than I should have. I wondered how I was going to explain the depression in the roof to the car-leasing company.

My body wanted to get into bed as soon as possible, but my head was singing a different song. I had two films from the shed that needed developing. It would help my case if I could show the prints to Turnbull. The devil on my shoulder told me to go home and crash out for a few hours, then go into the office early to develop my films. But I knew myself well enough to know what my reaction would be when the alarm shattered my sleep at seven. And it wouldn’t be to leap out of bed bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to rush to the office and fill my lungs with the noxious fumes of photographic chemicals. With a groan, I shoved The Best of Blondie into the cassette player and opened the window all the way. If cold air and Debby Harry’s frantic vocals couldn’t keep me awake, nothing would.

I managed nearly four hours’ sleep. Never mind what Richard owed me in fees; he owed me more sleep than I’d ever catch up on. For once, it wasn’t Davy who woke me. It was Chris. She stuck her head round the bedroom door, followed by a hand waving a mug of coffee like a white flag. ‘Come in,’ I grumbled. ‘Time is it?’ I would have rolled over to look at the clock, but I couldn’t find the energy.

‘It’s quarter past eight,’ she said apologetically, sliding round the door and holding out the mug at arm’s length. Alexis had obviously warned her I’m not at my sparkling best first thing.

‘Shit!’ I growled, as I leaped upright. Or rather, tried to. As soon as I moved, my shoulders went into spasm, and I let out a muffled screech of pain. I managed to shuffle up the bed enough to drink without a straw and seized the mug gratefully. ‘Sorry I yelled. I’m in pain, and I’ve got to be at Bootle Street nick first thing with my brain firing on all four cylinders. So far, it’s not looking good.’

Chris tried a smile that turned into a Spitting Image grimace. ‘I just thought I’d better tell you that I’m off to work now,’ she said. Belatedly, I noticed she was suited up, her hair dried and sprayed into the kind of neatly sculpted shape that Frank Lloyd Wright would have turned into an art gallery. ‘Davy’s had a shower and breakfast, and he’s dressed and sitting in front of breakfast telly, which should keep him quiet for approximately twelve minutes, which is when the next news bulletin is due.’

‘Has Alexis left?’ Pointless question. Alexis is invariably at work by seven.

‘’Fraid so,’ Chris apologized. ‘She said she expected to be finished by three, and that you should ring her at the office if you wanted her to pick up Davy later. I’m really sorry we can’t help out today.’

‘Don’t be,’ I said. The power of speech seemed to have returned with the second mouthful of coffee. ‘You two have done more than enough. Richard owes you.’

Chris smiled, a genuine one this time. ‘I know you’ll find it hard to believe, but we’ve enjoyed ourselves. I live with Alexis, don’t forget, so I’m used to dealing with the demands of small children, and she loves having someone to play with.’

‘You’re not getting broody, are you?’ I asked suspiciously. It’s bad enough that all my straight friends seem to be hellbent on repopulating the world without the lesbians joining in.

‘Building a house is more than enough to be going on with,’ Chris replied as she headed out the door. In the hall she turned back and gave me a mischievous smile. ‘Ask me again in a couple of years.’

If my neck hadn’t seized up, I’d have turned my face to the wall. As it was, I gulped the rest of the brew and slowly, excruciatingly, dragged my body out of bed and into an upright position. I walked to the bathroom stiff as a guardsman. Unfortunately, I’d slept too late to have a bath so had to settle for a shower. I tried to relax as the hot water did the business, but I’d only been under for a couple of minutes when I heard Davy’s voice outside the door.

‘Kate?’ he shouted. ‘Can I play with your computer?’

‘Not here, Davy. I’ve got to go to work in a minute, so I thought maybe you’d like to play on my machine in the office.’ I spluttered.

Silence. That was more unnerving than anything he could have said. I switched off the shower, wrapped myself in a bath sheet and opened the door. He leaned against the wall, looking dejected. My breath stuck in my chest. The line of his body, the angle of his head, the slight frown was so like his father it hurt. He looked up through his long lashes at the sound of the door opening. ‘When’s my dad coming home?’ he asked plaintively.

I managed to get my lungs working again. ‘Not for a couple of days, I don’t think. I spoke to him on the phone last night, after you’d gone to sleep. He said he misses you too and he’ll get back as soon as he can get a plane. I’m sorry, I know I’m not a lot of fun.’ I hugged him. Surprisingly, he didn’t pull a face and draw away. He hugged back. ‘It’s not that,’ he said. ‘I’m having great fun. I just wish he was here too.’

You and me both, pal, I thought but didn’t say.

I broke my personal land speed record getting out the door that morning. Dressed in under five minutes, second cup of coffee down the neck in less than a minute, breakfast one of the Pop Tarts I’d bought for Davy. It tasted like sugar-coated polystyrene, but at least it raised the blood sugar level. By the time I parked on the single yellow line round the corner from the office, I was almost functioning.

I hustled Davy up the stairs and into my office, checking the clock as I walked through the door. Seventeen minutes till deadline. Shelley was already at her desk, earphones in, fingers flying over the keyboard. I strode past her with a little wave, shooing Davy into my office. I switched on my PC, showed him the games directory and made him promise not to interfere with any of the other files on the machine. He dumped his backpack by the desk and was absorbed in Lemmings 2 before I’d had time to walk back out. I closed my office door behind me and perched on Shelley’s desk, nailing what I hoped was a pathetic and appealing smile on my face.

‘No, Kate.’ She hadn’t even looked up from her screen. ‘I am not a child-minder and this is an office, not a crèche.’

‘I know it’s not a crèche. A crèche is what happens when two BMWs collide in Sloane Street.’

‘Not funny,’ she retorted, not pausing long enough to let her sense of humour kick in.

‘Please, Shelley. He’ll be no trouble. Just for this morning. Just till I can get back from court. I promise I’ll sort something else out for tomorrow.’

‘There’s no such thing as an eight-year-old boy who’s no trouble. I’m a mother, don’t forget. I’ve told the same lies you’re telling now.’

‘Shelley, please? I have a meeting with the Drugs Squad in ten minutes. Richard’s freedom depends on it. I don’t think they’re going to be mega-impressed if I turn up with Davy in tow.’ I was practically begging. I’d done so much of it lately it was beginning to become second nature. Another bad habit to lay at Richard’s door. What’s worse is that it doesn’t work.

I got up from the desk and went into Bill’s office, where I helped myself to his portable TV, a gift from a grateful client who had Mortensen and Brannigan to thank for the ending of his little software piracy problem. I marched through the outer office, wrestled with the door handle and staggered into my office, where I put it down on one of my cupboards. ‘There’s the TV, in case you get fed up with the computer,’ I said to Davy. I can’t swear to it, but I don’t think he even looked up.

I stalked back into the office and gestured over my shoulder with my thumb. ‘Look at that. You’re telling me that’s more than you can cope with? God, Shelley, am I disappointed in you.’

When all else fails, go for the ego. The only trouble is, sometimes the ego bites back. Shelley smiled like Jaws and said sweetly, ‘Just this once, Kate. And by the way, Andrew Broderick’s been on again. He says if he doesn’t get his car back soon he’s going to have to come to some arrangement about reducing our fee.’

There’s nothing like keeping the customer satisfied. I checked the fax machine on the way out, but nothing had arrived from Julia. I hoped that didn’t mean it was going to be one of those days. Not when the next item on the agenda was a close encounter with the Drugs Squad.