Crack Down

Table of Contents

 

 

 

“Val McDermid is one of the bright lights of the mystery field.”

—
The Washington Post

 

“There is no one in contemporary crime fiction who has managed to combine the visceral and the humane as well as Val McDermid … She's the best we've got.”

—
The New York Times Book Review

 

“A cleanly written, fast-paced escapade. Cut from the same cloth as Kinsey Millhone … this tale jumps out of the gate at top speed.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“McDermid has a sharp ear for the dialogue and intrinsic humour of the Manchester dialect … She manages, as always, to combine her wit and exuberant writing with a careful and clever plot and oodles of perceptive social observation.”

—
The Times (London)

 

“McDermid, whose reputation and popularity are growing incrementally with each new book, is very like P. D. James in her masterful mixing of … brisk plots and in-depth characterization.

—
Booklist
(starred review)

 

“If you still haven't absorbed the fact that Val McDermid is writing at the top of anyone's game, here's another chance to join the celebration … Her clean, crisp writing … might just remind you of the early books of P. D. James.”

—
Chicago Tribune

 

“One of my favorite authors, Val McDermid is an important writer—witty, never sentimental, taking us through mean streets with the dexterity of a Chandler.”

—Sara Paretsky

 

“Val McDermid is one of the most important crime writers at work today … Her stuff will be around and be read for a long, long time.”

—Michael Connelly, author of
Trunk Music
and
The Black Echo

For more information on Val McDermid please visit her website at
www.valmcdermid.com

Also by Val McDermid

 

Tony Hill and Carol Jordan novels
The Mermaids Singing
The Wire in the Blood
The Last Temptation
The Torment of Others

 

Kate Brannigan novels
Dead Beat
Kick Back
Crack Down
Clean Break
Blue Genes
Star Struck

 

Lindsay Gordon novels
Report for Murder
Common Murder
Deadline for Murder
Conferences are Murder
Booked for Murder
Hostage to Murder

 

Non-fiction
A Suitable Job for a Woman

For my mother, with love and thanks

I couldn't have written this book without help from several sources. In particular: Diana Cooper, Paula Tyler and Jai Penna all contributed invaluable legal expertise and background information; Lee D'Courcy was generous with specialist knowledge in several key areas; Alison Scott provided me with medical information; Sergeant Cross at the Court Detention Centre kept me on the straight and narrow; Geoff Hardman of Gordon Ford (Horwich) filled in the gaps in my knowledge of the motor trade; and Brigid Baillie provided constructive criticism and encouragement throughout. It would have been a lot less fun without the Wisdom of Julia, the G & R team and the four-legged friends—Dusty, Malone, Molly, Macky, Mutton and Licorice.

Although the book is identifiably set in Manchester and other Northern cities, and many of the locations will be familiar to those who know the patch, all the places and people involved in criminal activities are entirely fictitious. In particular, there is no post office in Brunswick Street, nor any club quite like the Delta. Any resemblance to reality is only in the minds of those with guilty consciences.

If slugs could smile, they'd have no trouble finding jobs as car salesmen. Darryl Day proved that. Oozing false sincerity as shiny as a slime trail, he'd followed us round the showroom. From the start, he'd made it clear that in his book, Richard was the one who counted. I was just the bimbo wife. Now Darryl sat, separated from the pair of us by a plastic desk, grinning maniacally with that instant, superficial matiness that separates sales people from the human race. He winked at me. “And Mrs. Barclay will love that leather upholstery,” he said suggestively.

Under normal circumstances, I'd have got a lot of pleasure out of telling him his tatty sexism had just cost him the commission on a twenty-grand sale, but these circumstances were so far from normal, I was beginning to feel like Ground Control to Major Tom as far as my brain was concerned. So instead, I smiled, patted Richard's arm and said sweetly, “Nothing's too good for my Dick.” Richard twitched. I reckon he knew instinctively that one way or another, he was going to pay for this.

“Now, let me just check that we're both clear what you're buying here. You've seen it in the showroom, we've taken it on the test drive of a lifetime, and you've decided on the Gemini turbo super coupé GLXi in midnight blue, with ABS, alloy wheels …” As Darryl ran through the luxury spec I'd instructed Richard to go for, my partner's eyes glazed over. I almost felt sorry for him. After all, Richard's car of choice is a clapped-out, customized hot pink Volkswagen Beetle convertible. He thinks BHP is that new highquality tape system. And isn't ABS that dance band from Wythenshawe … ?

Darryl paused expectantly. I kicked Richard's ankle. Only gently,
though. He'd done well so far. He jerked back to reality and said, “Er, yeah, that sounds perfect. Sorry, I was just a bit carried away, thinking about what it's going to be like driving her.” Nice one, Richard.

“You're a very lucky man, if I may say so,” Darryl smarmed, eyeing the curve of my calf under the leopard skin leggings that I'd chosen as appropriate to my exciting new role as Mrs. Richard Barclay. He tore his gaze away and shuffled his paperwork. “Top of the range, that little beauty is. But now, I'm afraid, we come to the painful bit. You've already told me you don't want to part-ex, is that right?”

Richard nodded. “ 'S right. My last motor got nicked, so I've got the insurance payout to put down as a deposit. Which leaves me looking for six grand. Should I sort out a bank loan or what?”

Darryl looked just like the Duke of Edinburgh when he gets a stag in his sights. He measured Richard up, then flicked a casual glance over me. “The only problem with that, Richard, is that it's going to take you a few days to get your friendly bank manager in gear. Whereas, if we can sort it out here and now, you could be driving that tasty motor tomorrow tea time.” Classic sales ploy; take it off them.

Richard did his personal version of the Fry's Five Boys gamut, from disappointment to anticipation. “So can we do that, then, Darryl?” he asked eagerly.

Darryl already had the forms prepared. He slid them across the desk to show Richard. “As it happens, we have an arrangement with a finance company who offer a very competitive rate of interest. If you fill in the forms now, we can sort it with a phone call. Then, tomorrow, if you bring in a banker's draft for the balance, we'll be able to complete the paperwork and the car'll be all yours to drive away.”

I looked at the form, not so easy now Darryl had reclaimed it to fill in the remaining blanks. Richmond Credit Finance. Address and phone number in Accrington. It wasn't the first time I'd seen their footprints all over this investigation. I'd meant to check the company out, but I hadn't got round to it yet. I made a mental note to get on to it as soon as I had a spare moment. I tuned back in at the
bit where Darryl was asking Richard what he did for a living. This was always the best bit.

“I'm a freelance rock journalist,” Richard told him.

“Really?” Darryl asked. Interesting how his face opened up when he experienced a genuine emotion like excitement. “Does that mean you interview all the top names and that? Like Whitney Houston and Beverley Craven?”

Richard nodded glumly. “Sometimes.”

“God, what a great job! Hey, who's the most famous person you've ever interviewed? You ever met Madonna?”

Richard squirmed. It's the question he hates most. There aren't that many rock stars he has much respect for, either as people or as musicians, and only a handful of them are names that most members of the public would identify as superstars. “Depends what you mean by famous. Springsteen. Elton John. Clapton. Tina Turner. And yeah, I did meet Madonna once.”

“Wow! And is she really, you know, as, like, horny as she comes over?”

Richard forced a smile. “Not in front of the wife, eh?” I was touched. He was really trying to make this work.

Darryl ran a hand through his neat dark hair and winked. In an adult, it would have been lewd. “Gotcha, Richard. Now, your annual income. What would that be?”

I switched off again. Fiction, even the great stuff, is never as interesting when you're hearing it for the nth time. Darryl didn't hang about explaining little details like annual percentage interest rates to Richard, and within ten minutes, he was on to the finance company arranging our car loan. Thanks to the wonders of computer technology, credit companies can check out a punter and give the thumbs up or down almost instantaneously. Whatever Richmond Credit Finance pulled up on their computer, it convinced them that Richard was a sound bet for a loan. Of course, when you're relying on computers, it's important to remember that what you get out of them depends entirely on what someone else has put in.

Twenty minutes later, Richard and I were walking out of the showroom, the proud possessors, on paper at least, of the flashest
set of wheels the Leo Motor Company puts on the road. “I do all right, Mrs. Barclay?” Richard asked eagerly, as we walked round the corner to where I'd parked the Peugeot 205 Mortensen and Brannigan had been leasing for the six months since my last company car had ended up looking like an installation from the Tate Gallery.

“You wish,” I snarled. “Don't push your luck, Barclay. Let me tell you, the longer I spend pretending to be your wife, the more I understand why your first marriage didn't go the distance.”

I climbed in the car and started the engine. Richard stood on the pavement, looking hangdog, his tortoise-shell glasses slipping down his nose. Exasperated, I pushed the button that lowered the passenger window. “Oh for God's sake, get in,” I said. “You did really well in there. Thank you.”