Crack Down (11 page)

Feeling about a hundred and five, I crossed to the bar. As well as the usual designer beers, the optics of spirits and the Tracy-and-Sharon specials like Malibu and Byzance, the Lousy Hand boasted possibly the best range of soft drinks outside Harrods Food Hall. From carrot juice to an obscure Peruvian mineral water, they had it all, and most of it was carbonated. No, officer, of course
we don't have a drug problem here. None of our clients would dream of abusing illegal substances. And I am Marie of Romania.

The bar staff looked like leftovers from the club's previous existence as a bog-standard eighties yuppie nightclub. The women and the men were dressed identically in open-necked, wing-collar white dress shirts and tight-fitting black dress trousers. The principal differences were that the men probably had marginally more gel, wax and mousse on their hair, and their earrings were more stylish. I leaned my elbows on the bar and waited. There weren't enough customers to occupy all the staff, but I still had to hang on for the obligatory thirty seconds. God forbid I should think they had nothing better to do than serve me.

The beautiful youth who halted opposite me raised his eyebrows. “Just a Diet Coke, please,” I said. He looked disappointed to be asked for something so conventional. He swivelled on one toe, opened the door of a chill cabinet and lifted a can off the shelf, all in one graceful movement. I don't know why he bothered. I couldn't have looked less like a talent scout from MTV.

“Wanna glass?” he asked, dumping the can in front of me. I shook my head and paid him.

When he came back with my change, I said, “You know the street outside? Is it safe to park there? Only, I'm parked right up near the dead end and there's no streetlights, and I wondered if a lot of cars get nicked from out there?”

He shrugged. “Cars get nicked. Outside here's no worse than anywhere else in town. A thousand cars a week get stolen in Manchester, did you know that?” I shook my head. “And two-thirds of them are never recovered. Bet you didn't know that.” Never mind the Mr. Cool image, this guy had the soul of a train spotter in an anorak.

Ignoring him, I went on, “Only, it's not really my car, it's my boyfriend's and he'd kill me if anything happened to it.”

“What kind is it?” he asked.

“Peugeot 205. Nothing fancy, just the standard one.”

“You're probably all right, then.” He leaned his elbows on the bar and elegantly crossed his legs. I prepared myself for a lecture. “Six months ago, you couldn't park a hot hatch anywhere between
Stockport and Bury and expect to find it there when you went back to it. But with these new insurance weightings, the bottom's dropped out of the second-hand market for boy-racer cars. So the professionals gave up on the sports jobs and started nicking boring old family cars instead. Less risk as well. I mean, if you was the Old Bill, would you think the Nissan Sunny cruising past you was being driven by any self-respecting car thief?”

I giggled. Not because he was funny, but because he clearly expected it. “Only,” I persisted, “my boyfriend's mate had his car nicked from outside here the other night, and he was really pissed off because he'd only bought it that day. And it was a beauty. A brand new Leo Gemini turbo super coupé.”

“I heard about that,” he said, pushing himself upright again. “That was the night they had the benefit, wasn't it?”

“I dunno.”

“Yeah, that's right. The gig was finished, because we'd shut up the bar and the lights were up. The guy came storming back in, ranting about his precious motor and demanding a phone.” So much for not mentioning the car to a soul. “Mate of yours then, was he?” the barman asked.

I nodded. “Mate of my boyfriend's. He reckoned somebody saw him parking it up and coming in here. He said he thought they must have been coming to the club too, or else why would they be down the cul-de-sac?”

The barman grinned, unselfconscious for the first time. “Well, he'd have plenty thieves to choose from that night. Half Moss Side was in here. Drug barons, car ringers, the lot. You name it, we had them.”

With a flick of his ponytail, he was gone to batter someone else's brain with his statistics. I swigged the Coke and looked around me. While I'd been standing at the bar, there had been a steady stream of punters arriving behind me. Already, the place looked a lot fuller than it had when I entered. If I was going to have a word with the bouncers before they had more important things to think about, I'd better make a move.

There were two of them in the foyer, flanking the narrow doorway that had been cut in the huge wooden door that filled the end
of one of the arches occupied by the club. They both wore the bouncer's uniform: ill-fitting tux; ready-made velvet bow tie that had seen better days. As I approached, the older and bulkier one slipped through the door and into the street. Intrigued, I got my hand stamped with a pass-out and followed him. He walked about fifty yards up towards the dead end. I slipped into the shadows beyond the club and watched him. He looked around, then simply turned and walked back, carrying on past the club for another fifty yards or so before strolling back inside.

I stuck my head round the door and said, “Where's the best place to park around here? Only, I don't want to get the car nicked. It's my boyfriend's.”

The smaller bouncer flashed a “Right one we've got here” look at his oppo. “Darling, you don't look like the kind of girl who'd have a boyfriend with a car worth nicking,” he said, smoothing back his hair with a smirk.

“Mind you don't wear out the rug,” I snarled back, pointing to his head. Although he was only in his early twenties, his dark hair was already thinning so it was a fair bet that would be a tender spot.

Right on the button. He scowled. “Piss off,” he quipped wittily.

“Does the management know you're this helpful to customers who only want to avoid giving the club a worse name than it's already got?” I asked sweetly.

“Don't push it,” the bouncer with the wanderlust said coldly, glowering down at me. Now I could see him in the light, he seemed familiar, but I couldn't place him, which surprised me. I don't often forget guys that menacing. He was a couple of inches over six feet, thick dark hair cut in an almost military short back and sides. He wasn't bad looking if you ignored the thread-thin white scar that ran from the end of his left eyebrow to just underneath his ear lobe. But his eyes wrecked any illusion of attractiveness. They were cold and blank. They showed as much connection to the rest of humanity as a pair of camera lenses.

“Look, I just don't want to get my car nicked, OK?” I gabbled. “It seems to happen a lot around here, that's all.”

The big bouncer nodded, satisfied I'd backed down. “You want
to be safe, leave it on one of the main drags where there's decent street-lighting.”

“You want to be really safe, don't bring the car into town. In fact, why don't you do us all a favor and leave yourself at home as well?” the balding Mr. Charm sneered.

I winked and cocked one finger at him like a pistol. “I might just take your advice.” I let the door bang shut behind me and walked back to my car. Even if anyone at the Lousy Hand knew anything about the coupé's disappearance, I couldn't see a way of getting them to talk to me. It had been a long shot anyway. Sighing, I climbed into the car and started cruising the city center streets. There were plenty of clubs for the dedicated seeker of pleasure to choose from, and even more restaurants catering to the late-night trade, which gave me plenty of curbs to crawl. I prayed the Vice Squad weren't doing one of their occasional random trawls of the red-light zones. The last thing I needed was to have to explain to a copper why I was doing an impersonation of a dirty old man.

I drove systematically down the streets and back alleys for a good couple of hours without spotting a single red-and-white trade plate. If I'd been working for a client, I'd have given up right then. But this was different. This was personal, and the man lying in a cell worrying about the charges he was facing was the man I'd chosen to share my life with. I might not be getting anywhere out on the streets, but I could no more jack it in and go home to bed than I could set Richard free with one mighty bound.

Just before midnight, I realized I was ravenous. I'd been so hyped up on adrenaline all evening that I was suddenly right on the edge of a low blood sugar collapse. I phoned an order through, then drove back through Chinatown, double parked outside the Yang Sing and picked up some salt and pepper ribs, paper wrapped prawns and pork dumplings. I couldn't help a pang of guilt, thinking about prison food and Richard's conviction that if it didn't come out of China or Burger King it can't be edible.

I drove back to the Lousy Hand. If the car thief plied a regular patch, I might just catch him at it. It was as good a place to eat my takeaway as any. I drove slowly up the cul-de-sac, looking for a space. Nothing. I turned round in the dead end and drove back
down. I got lucky. Someone was pulling out just as I passed. I tucked the car in against the curb and opened the sun roof so the smell of the Chinese wouldn't linger in the car for the next six months. I started on the prawns, wanting to polish them off before they became soggy.

I looked around as I ate. Nothing much was moving. There was a short queue outside the Lousy Hand, but it seemed to be static. The only car I could see worth stealing was a new Ford Escort Cosworth, but its ridiculous spoiler, like the tail of a blue whale, was so obvious that I couldn't imagine many thieves having the bottle to go for it. Besides, it was bright red and you know what they say about red cars and male sexual problems …

In my wing mirror, I noticed the man mountain bouncer emerging from the Lousy Hand again. Clearly time for another walkabout. As he reconnoitered the street, I thought he still looked nigglingly familiar, but I couldn't think where from, unless we'd had a brief encounter one night when I'd been on the town with Richard. After all, bouncers shift around the clubs about as fast as cocktail waitresses, and I wasn't always one hundred percent
compos mentis
when we crawled out of clubs in the small hours.

He headed in my direction. Instinctively, I slid down in my seat till I was below window level. I heard his footsteps on the pavement, then, when he was level with me, he stopped. I held my breath. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't the familiar bleating of a mobile phone being dialled. I inched carefully up till I could just see him. He had his back to me and a slimline phone to his ear.

“Hiya,” he said, his voice low. “Ford Escort Cosworth. Foxtrot alarm system. Been in about ten minutes … No problem.” The phone beeped once as he ended the call. I slid back down below eye level as he turned back towards the club. Valet parking I'd heard of. But valet stealing?

I watched in the wing mirror till he was safely back indoors, then I pulled off the dayglo cap and got out of the Peugeot, still clutching my Chinese. I melted into the shadows of one of the railway arches which had a deep door recess. I could hardly believe it wasn't already occupied by one of the city's cardboard-box kids.
I didn't have long to wait. I still had half my spare ribs left when a black hack coughed up the cul-de-sac. It stopped outside the Lousy Hand, and a man got out. In the lights of the club entrance, I got a quick look. Thirtyish, medium height, slim build. He walked into the club, fast, like a man with a purpose other than a dance, a drink and a legover.

He was out again in seconds, carrying a small holdall. He walked briskly towards the Cosworth. As he came closer, I clocked a heavy thatch of dark hair, high cheekbones, hollow cheeks, surprisingly full lips, a double-breasted suit that hung like it was made to measure. He stopped a few feet away from the Cosworth, flashed a quick, penetrating glance around him then crouched down. Through the gap between cars, I could just see him take something out of the holdall. It looked a bit like an old-fashioned TV remote, bulky, with buttons. I couldn't see any details, but he seemed to be hitting buttons and moving a slider switch on the side. This routine lasted the best part of a minute. Then, three sharp electronic exclamations came from the Cosworth, the hazard lights flashed twice and I heard the door locks shift to “open.” He dropped the black box back into the holdall and took out a pair of trade plates.

The man stood up and gave that quick, frowning glance round again. Still clear, he thought. One plate went on the back of the car, hiding the existing number. He fastened the other over the front plate, then almost ran to the driver's door. He was in the car in seconds. It took less than a minute for the engine to roar into life. The car shot out of the parking space. Rather than drive to the end of the cul-de-sac and do a time-wasting three-point turn, as I'd expected, he simply shot back down the street in reverse.

Caught flat-footed, I leapt for the Peugeot. By the time he'd reversed on to the main drag and headed off towards Oxford Road, I was behind him, just far enough for him not to get twitchy. Interestingly, he didn't drive the Cosworth like a boy racer. If anything, he drove like my father, a man who has never had an accident in twenty-three years of driving. Mind you, he's seen dozens in his rear-view mirror … The speedo didn't rise above twenty-eight, he stopped on amber and he didn't even attempt any traffic-light grand prix stuff. We crossed Oxford Road and carried
on sedately down Whitworth Street, into Aytoun Street and past Piccadilly station. Then it was time for a quick whizz through the back doubles before he pulled up outside Sacha's nightclub and blasted the horn. Luckily I was far enough behind him to stay tucked away on the corner. I cut my lights and waited.

Not for long. If the speed of her response was anything to go by, patience wasn't her boyfriend's strong suit. Depressingly, she looked like she'd walked straight off the bottle-blonde production line. Expensive bimbo, but bimbo nevertheless. Bimbos are the last women in the world wearing crippling high heels and make-up that could camouflage a Chieftain tank. This one must have had enough hair spray on her carefully tumbled locks to lacquer a Chinese cabinet, since it didn't even move in the chill wind that had sprung up in the last hour.