Crack Down (29 page)

I opened my mouth. My brain said, “Della?” but my mouth was too dry to play along. All I managed was a sort of strangulated croak.

She must only have been catnapping, for her eyes opened at once. Momentarily, she had the startled look of someone who has lost track of where she is. Then her conscious mind checked in and she sat bolt upright, staring at me with undisguised relief. “Kate?” she said softly. “Can you hear me?”

I tried to nod, but it wasn't in my repertoire yet. I waved my arm in the direction of the locker, where there was a jug of water and a bottle of orange juice. “Drink?” I mouthed.

Della jumped up and poured a glass of water. She leaned over me and tipped the glass to my lips. Most of the water went down my cheeks and on to the pillow, but I didn't care. All I was concerned about was getting some in my parched mouth. The water was warm and stale and blissful. I didn't want to swallow, just hold it there in my mouth. Della gave me a concerned, anxious look as I waved her away.

Finally, I let the water trickle down my throat. “Thanks,” I said in something approaching my normal voice. “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be down the cells beating a confession out of that mad bastard with the shotgun?” She gave me an odd look. “You did
catch
him, didn't you,” I demanded, panic gripping my chest and turning my stomach over.

“We caught him,” Della said grimly. “The officers from Longsight got slightly over-enthusiastic with their truncheons when they
realized he had a gun. Your assailant has a broken collar bone and a shattered wrist, you'll be sorry to hear.”

“Is that why you're here and not down the nick taking a statement?” I asked.

Della looked awkward. “Actually, no,” she said, shifting in her seat. “Kate, this isn't the same day,” she said in a rush.

I frowned. “Not the same day? What do you mean?”

“You called me in the early hours of Wednesday morning.” She glanced at her watch. “It's now four forty-seven a.m. on Thursday. You've been out cold for over a day.”

“Over a day?” I echoed foolishly. I couldn't take it in. I had no sense of having lost a day of my life. I felt like I'd woken up from a strange dream after a brief spell of unconsciousness. Did people feel like this when they came out of comas that lasted weeks or years? No wonder they felt dislocated. I'd only lost a day and I felt like I'd stumbled into an episode of the
Twilight Zone
. I managed a twisted grin. “You know it's a bad case when the only way you can catch up on your sleep is to get unconscious.”

“I'm glad you can joke about it. We were starting to get really worried. The doctors gave you a brain scan and said there seemed to be no damage, but they couldn't say how long you'd be out.”

“Does Richard know?” I asked.

“I discussed it with Bill and Ruth, and we decided not to tell him before this morning's hearing. It seemed the best solution.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “He couldn't have done anything, and they wouldn't have let him out unless I was really at death's door. It would only have had him climbing the walls. The last thing he needs right now is to be charged with assaulting a police officer.” The only good thing I could see about having lost an entire day was that I wouldn't have to wait so long to see Richard again. With luck, he'd be out on bail by lunchtime.

“How are you feeling?” Della asked.

“Took your time asking, didn't you?” I teased.

Della looked hurt for a few seconds, before it sank in that I was at the wind-up. “Listen, Brannigan,” she said, pretending to be stern, “I don't have to be here. I'm not on duty. I'm here out of the goodness of my heart, you know.”

“Thanks,” I said, meaning it. “I'm impressed. I've never known you go this long without a cigarette voluntarily. Actually, I don't feel too bad. A bit woozy, that's all. And my head's throbbing. And now I'm awake, they'll probably give me something for that. At least I know I'll be out of here in a few days. How's Crazy Eddy handling it, being locked up in a cell?”

Della stiffened to attention again. Her face shifted from concerned friend to alert copper. “You
know
who this guy is?”

“Why? Don't you?”

She looked faintly embarrassed. “As it happens, we don't. He won't say a word. He had nothing on him that would identify him, and his prints don't seem to be on record. Who is he?”

“His name's Eddy Roberts. He's an ex-Para. He got invalided out a couple of years after the Falklands war because he was out to lunch and not coming back. He's supposedly been working all over the globe as a mercenary. He's been back in Manchester since Easter. Apparently working as a hired gun. Among other things.” I stopped, suddenly exhausted.

“Kate, I know you've been through it, and I'm sorry to have to keep on at you. This isn't the time to take a formal statement, but this is really important information. How do you know all this? Have you been chasing him?” She had the good grace to look ashamed of herself.

I gave one of those laughs that turns into a cough halfway through. “No, Della. He was chasing me, remember? The reason I know so much about Crazy Eddy is because his wife and kids told me. Eddy Roberts used to be married to Cherie Roberts. The woman he blew away outside the post office on Tuesday.”

That was revelation enough to shatter Della's official cool. “You mean, that wasn't a professional hit job? It was a domestic?”

“It was a hit job all right. Cherie had found out about the child porn racket. And I expect she threatened that she'd spill the beans to me. The fact that Eddy used to be married to her was, I suspect, totally irrelevant. If anything, it probably made it more exciting.”

“And that's how you got involved? Through Cherie?”

I was growing wearier by the second, but I forced a smile. “I thought you weren't taking a statement?” Della started to apologize
but I waved it aside. “Only joking, honest. No, I got involved because Davy came home stoned out of his mind.” I gave Della the thirty-second version of events around Oliver Tambo Close. I'd just got to the bit about interviewing Wayne and Daniel when we were interrupted.

She was only in her mid-twenties, but the night sister was fierce. “Is the patient awake?” she demanded. “Chief Inspector, I gave you strict instructions to ring for a nurse if the patient showed signs of coming round. You've got no right to interrogate her on my ward without my permission.”

“It's my fault,” I butted in. “I wanted to know what had happened.”

The sister busied herself with my pulse. “You're in no fit state to discuss it,” she said firmly. “Chief Inspector, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. You can come back after Mr. Rocco has seen the patient and if he decides she's fit to be interviewed.”

Della got to her feet meekly and winked. “See you soon, Kate,” she said.

“I hope so,” I sighed. “Oh, Della—before you go … Sister, can I ask the officer one question?”

The sister smiled, unexpectedly. “If you must. But keep it short,” she added, frowning pointedly at Della.

“The van. What sort of state is it in?”

“Amazingly enough, it's just superficial damage. You'll be relieved to hear it's not a write-off, according to Bill last night.” She edged towards the door. “Thanks for your help, Kate.”

I watched her retreating back while the sister bustled about doing sisterly things to my reflexes. She asked me who the Prime Minister was, and I told her about the pain, so she gave me some pills once she'd finished her neurological observations. The last thing I remembered as I drifted into sleep was being grateful that I hadn't written off the Little Rascal. It was only seven months since another homicidal nutter had sent my last company car to the great scrapyard in the sky. Any more of that, and the insurance premiums were going to be higher than the price of a new set of wheels.

The next time my eyes flickered open, I thought I was hallucinating. There, sitting on the uncomfortable chair, brown hair flopping across his forehead, eyes intent behind his glasses, was Richard. Seeing me waken, a slow, joyful smile spread across his face. I'd never seen a more welcome sight. “Hiya, Brannigan,” he said. “You're not fit to be let out on your own, are you?” He stretched out an arm and gripped my right hand tightly. The bruises sent out a protest bulletin on all frequencies, but I didn't care.

“You're a fine one to talk,” I said. “This is all your fault anyway.”

“I had a funny feeling it was going to be,” he said, grinning. “I see the blow to your head hasn't improved your grasp of logic. They tell me you've not got brain damage, but I told the consultant different. He said there was nothing they could do about the state you were in before the accident. So I'm just going to have to live with it.”

“Did you get bail, or was it Group 4 that escorted you to court this morning?”

“The police withdrew their objections to bail, and they let me go without conditions. Ruth says they'll drop charges once they've nailed the real guys in the black hats and cleared me. I came straight here, you know. I didn't even go home for fresh clothes and a joint. You did a great job, Brannigan.” He released my hand and dropped to his knees, hands clenched in supplication. “How can I ever repay you?”

“I'll think of something,” I said. “You can start by giving me a kiss.”

He jumped to his feet. “I'll have to close my eyes,” he said, mockseriously.

“I look that bad?” I demanded, suddenly discovering a new anxiety. I put my hand up to my head, discovering a thick turban of bandage that extended halfway down my forehead.

“Two lovely black eyes, two lovely black eyes,” he sang. “And a whopping great bruise on your jaw. Linda Evangelista won't be worrying about you taking her place on the catwalk for a while.” Before I could say anything more, he stooped over me and kissed me gently on the lips.

“Call that a kiss?” I snarled.

It got better after that.

When he finally came up for air, he said softly, “I love you, Brannigan.”

“Don't go getting soft on me,” I murmured. “You're only saying that because I got you out of jail.”

“And you took care of my kid. I've heard all about what went on. Bill came to court this morning and told me how you'd ended up in here.”

“Speaking of which,” I interrupted before he got hopelessly sentimental in the way that only cynical journos can. “Where is Davy?”

“Alexis took the day off to look after him. They've gone off to some fun palace this morning. She told Bill she'd meet me here …” he glanced at his watch. “In about ten minutes, actually.”

“God, you'd better not let him in here if I'm as much of a sight as you seem to think I am. He'll have nightmares for weeks.”

“Brannigan, you're talking about a kid who thought
Dracula
was a fun movie. I don't think a couple of bruises and a heavy-duty headscarf are going to freak him out. He knows you were in a car crash. The only thing I'm worried about is what he's going to tell his mother.”

On the first day of Davy's summer holidays, the three of us giggled our way along Blackpool prom on the open top deck of a tram. I was wearing a baseball cap that said “Kiss me slow.” Tacky, I know, but it covered the uneven hair growth. At least it wasn't stubble any more. I'd been less than thrilled to discover I had a bald patch where they'd had to shave me when they stitched up the hole that Mustache's tripod had made in the back of my head. The hair seems to be coming back just fine over the scar, but it's knackered my attempts at growing my hair. I'm back to short and spiky.
Passé
, sure, but I hadn't had a lot of choice. And I didn't look too much like a punk now the deep bruising had finally faded.

Davy had insisted on coming back north for part of the summer because he'd had such a good time at half-term. I can only presume he gave his mother a highly edited version of events, since she made no objection. We'd spent most of the day at the Pleasure Beach, only giving up on the white-knuckle rides when Richard dumped his lunch down the drain after a spectacular trip round the Grand National.

Now we were heading for the tower. Richard had decided that physically being on top of the world was the best way to symbolize the fact that as of tomorrow he'd officially be a free man. “I can't wait,” he said as we queued for the lift.

“I didn't think you were into views,” I said.

“No, for tomorrow, stupid. I can't wait to hear the prosecuting solicitor saying they're dropping all the charges against me.”