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.
16
I called it a day on the surveillance at half past four and walked back to the car. I swapped cameras, choosing a miniature Japanese one that slots into a pocket in the gilet. The pocket has a hole in it that corresponds to the lens of the camera. I loaded the camera with superfast film so it would capture an image without the need for flash, plugged in the remote shutter release cable and threaded it through the lining so the button sat snugly in the pocket I’d have my hand stuffed into. Before I set off for the five o’clock sale, I called home. There was no reply, either at my house or Richard’s, so I assumed everybody was having a good time.
The five o’clock sale ran to the same formula. If I had to do this many more times, I’d be able to take over the top man’s job. This time, I’d got near the front of the queue and waited till the red cap and the black leather jacket appeared. This time, it wasn’t a man. Nice to see that equal opps is finally making its way into criminal circles. She was about my age, taller, bottle blonde and pale as Normandy butter. I manoeuvred my way through the crowd till I was standing at an angle to her, perfectly positioned for my camera to do the business. The handover came right on cue, the bulky envelope exchanged for a black bin liner. This time, Terry Fitz winked. I’m not sure if it was because she was a woman, or because he knew her, but it was the first time I’d seen him display any kind of recognition towards the happy recipients of his little parcels.
I thought about following the woman, but decided I’d rather stay with Terry Fitz. I knew where the drugs were going now; what I didn’t know was where they were coming from. With his record, I couldn’t see Terry Fitz standing on for having them stashed in his house. I waited till the woman in the red baseball cap was well clear, then I nipped out ahead of the masses and got my car in position between the pub and the motorway.
Just before eight, Terry Fitz shot past me at a disgraceful speed. On the way back, the bank holiday traffic trapped us again, but in spite of that we were still back in Salford by half past nine. As we turned into the Quays, I hung back. I was a good half-mile away when he pulled up on the street outside his house. He jumped out of the car, trotted up the path and opened the garage, re-emerging seconds later behind the wheel of the Escort Cosworth, still with its trade plates.
I waited till it zoomed past me sounding like Concorde with a frog in its throat before I spun the Peugeot round and sped off in its wake. Back down the motorway, on to the M63, this time heading south towards Stockport. As we drove over Barton Bridge, the elevated section above the Manchester Shit Canal (so called because of the sewage works that huddle along its banks), I stayed right over in the fast lane. I came rather too close to checking out whether or not there’s an afterlife one night on Barton Bridge, and it left me more than a little wary of trusting in the crash barriers.
As we descended the long curve of the bridge, I let my breath out again. I stayed with his tail-lights past Trafford Park and Sale, but I nearly missed him as he cut across three lanes of traffic to shoot off on the slip road for the M56 and the airport. We didn’t stay on the motorway for long. He came off at the junction for the sprawling council estate of Wythenshawe, bypassed the shopping centre and made for the far side of the airport, over towards the cargo holding areas. The job suddenly got awkward.
The Cosworth turned right down a narrow lane that wound alongside the perimeter fence of the airport. Following it down there was a risky venture. Sighing, I doused my lights and turned right. My car was black, which meant I had less chance of being spotted. The downside was that anything coming in the opposite direction wouldn’t see me either. The things we do for love.
The lane was fairly straight, so I managed easily to keep the lights of the Cosworth in sight for a mile or so, then, abruptly, they disappeared sharply on the right. Time for a gamble. Since that was the airport side of the road, I didn’t think Terry Fitz had turned off on to another minor road. I decided he’d arrived at a rendezvous. I spotted a field gateway a couple of hundred yards ahead on the left, and pulled into it, killing the engine fast. I got out of the car and pushed the door gently to. The click of the lock made me jump, but I told myself it wouldn’t carry far, not so close to the airport.
I took a good look round before I crossed the road and moved cautiously towards the spot where the Cosworth had vanished. There was a narrow gap in the hedgerow, and I edged my head round. A rutted, stony track led a few yards off the road, angling round sharply to the double doors of a wooden building. Small barn, large garage, take your pick. The Cosworth was outside, parked next to a Mercedes 300SL with the personalized plate TON 1K. I could see a thin line of yellow light along the top of the door, but nothing more. The side of the lock-up was only feet away from the airport fence.
I felt seriously exposed where I was, so I slipped across the track and inched up to the corner, checking the hedge as I went. Just on the corner, there was a bit of give and I wriggled into the bushes, trying not to think of all the nocturnal creatures that lurk in the English countryside. If you ask me, extinct is quite the best state for mice and rats and most other small furry animals with sharp teeth. Not to mention all the creepy insects that would take one look at my hair and decide it was a better habitat than the filthy maze of the hedgerow.
I gave an involuntary shudder that rippled through the hedge with a noise like Wuthering Heights meets The Wind in the Willows. ‘Get a grip, Brannigan,’ I muttered under my breath. I took a deep breath and my nose filled with dust. Predictably, just like the worst kind of wimpy heroine, I felt a sneeze welling up inside. I pinched the bridge of my nose so tight my eyes watered, but not so much that I missed the garage door opening. Terry Fitz appeared in the doorway, called back, ‘No problem, speak to you in the week,’ and walked briskly to the Cosworth.
He was carrying three Sainsbury’s carrier bags, but I didn’t think he’d come all the way out to the airport to pick up some groceries. He opened the boot, and in the glow of the courtesy light, I saw him lift the carpet and stow the carrier bags underneath. From the loo
k of it, they were packed into the well where the spare wheel should be. Fitzgerald slammed the boot shut, then got into the Cosworth. He bounced the car round in a tight three-point turn, then he was off, leaving a cloud of dust hanging in the moonlight. I didn’t even think about trying to follow him.
Instead, I waited to see who else was lurking inside the garage. I didn’t think that anyone who owned a motor like that was likely to be spending the night there. Besides, with Richard behind bars, I had nothing better to do with my Sunday evening.
It was a long half-hour before there was any sign of life. With no warning, the door swung open. Before I had the chance to see who emerged, the inside light snapped off. A tall, burly man in an overcoat came out and turned his back to me as he fastened a couple of big padlocks that closed the heavy steel bars protecting the doors. Then, still with his back to me, he headed towards the Mercedes. I backed out of the hedge, coming out on the track out of his sight, and raced back towards the road as his engine started. I reckoned I had a couple of minutes while he turned the big car around. With a bit of luck, he’d be heading the way my car was facing and I might be able to pick him up. If I lost him, at least I had the car registration number to go at.
I dived behind the wheel of the Peugeot just as his headlights swept the hedge opposite the gap. The gods were smiling. He drove away from me, so I started the engine, left the lights off and followed. I was beginning to feel like I’d got the sucker role in a very bad road movie.
We were only a mile from the main road. I let him glide off before I switched my lights on and rejoined the respectable. I hoped this wasn’t going to be a long chase, because my fuel gauge told me I’d soon be running on fumes. At least Mercedes Man didn’t drive like a speed freak. I suppose when you’re driving round in that much money you don’t need to prove anything to anybody.
We cruised through Wilmslow, the town where car dealers aren’t allowed to sell anything that costs less than five figures. They’re all here – Rolls Royce, Porsche, BMW, Mercedes, Jaguar, even Ferrari. Just before the town centre, the Merc turned right and, a couple of hundred yards down the road, he pulled on to the forecourt of a small car pitch. EMJ Car Sales. Even the second-hand motors were all less than three years old.
The driver got out of the car and let himself into the car showroom. A light came on inside. Now at least I knew where Terry Fitz had come by his trade plates. And why he seemed to go for seriously expensive motors. Five minutes later, the interior light snapped off and the driver got back into his Merc. I still hadn’t had a good enough look at him to attempt identification. We drove back into the town centre. It was quiet; not even the designer clothes shops had attracted late-night browsers. We passed the station and headed out of town. By now, I had a shrewd suspicion where we might be headed.
Prestbury has more millionaires per head of population than any other village in England, according to the media-hype types. The only way you’d guess from hanging round in the main street is from the motors parked outside the deli and the chocolatier. They don’t have sweetie shops run by Asians in places like Prestbury. They don’t have anything that isn’t one hundred per cent backed up by centuries of English Conservative tradition. But then, in Prestbury, you don’t get the kind of nouveau millionaire celebs that give the paparazzi palpitations. We’re talking captains of industry, backroom boys and girls, the high rollers whose names mean nothing to anyone outside a very select circle. You can tell it’s posh, though. They haven’t got pavements or streetlights. After all, who needs them when you go everywhere by car or horse?
About a mile from the centre of the village, the Merc signalled a left turn. I signalled right, then killed my lights and pulled on to the verge. Someone was going to have a major tanturm when they saw my tyre marks in the morning. I jumped out of the car and sprinted towards the gateway he’d entered. I crouched behind the gatepost. The deeply incised letters told me I was outside Hickory Dell, the land that taste forgot. The house was built on the side of a slope, a split-level monstrosity that could have housed half Manchester’s homeless and still have had room for a wedding reception. A four-car garage bigger than any house on my estate stood off to one side. One garage door was open, the drive outside it spotlit with high-wattage security lights. I heard the soft slam of a car door, then the heavy-set man emerged. As he swung round to check the door was closing behind him, I got a good look at his face.
I’d seen him before, no question about it. The problem was, I didn’t have a clue where or when.
17
I stopped running and took a couple of seconds to work out exactly where I was. I could feel the prickle of sweat under my helmet as I swivelled my head from side to side. I turned sharp right and started running again. As I rounded the next corner, my heart sank. I’d hesitated too long. The tank was heading straight for me, blocking the entire width of the street. Desperately, I turned back, in time to see the helicopter closing off my retreat by dropping a block of what looked remarkably like granite into the street.
Resigned to defeat, I pulled off my helmet and glove. In the next playing area, Davy was still inside his helmet, one hand on the joystick that controlled the tank, the other punching the air triumphantly. I hate kids. They’re always better at the computer games where hand–eye coordination is vital.
I tapped the top of his helmet and undid the straps. Reluctantly, he let go the joystick and climbed out of the seat. ‘Time up, cybernaut,’ I said. I glanced at my watch. ‘They’ll be closing soon.’ The brand new VIRUS Centre (Virtual Reality UniverSe, I kid you not) had proved to be the best possible way of amusing Davy without doing my head in. It had only opened a month before, and secretly I’d been dying to try out the twenty game scenarios promised in their lavish brochure. I’d been wary about coming on a bank holiday Monday, but it had been surprisingly quiet. I blame the parents. Not that I’m complaining – their absence gave me and Davy a lot more scope for enjoying ourselves.
I suppose I should have felt guilty, indulging myself with swords and sorcery while Richard was still languishing, but he seemed to think that his son’s enjoyment was just as important as my attempts to get him released. Besides, Alexis had had to go into the office anyway to do some last-minute work on the child porn exposé that would launch the Chronicle’s latest campaign. At least I’d pitched her into trying to find out who lived at Hickory Dell.
We headed back to the car via the souvenir shop. ‘Enjoy yourself?’ I asked. Pretty redundant question, really.
‘It was boss. Top wicked.’ I took that to mean approval. ‘It was a lot better than Ice World,’ he said judiciously. ‘Skating gets boring after a while. Your ankles get sore. And the other stuff was pretty boring. You know, all that discovering the South Pole stuff. The models are really naff, and they don’t do anything. ’S not surprising there was hardly anybody there,’ he added, dismissing Alexis’s attempts to entertain him.
‘Wasn’t there?’ I asked, more for something to say than out of interest.
‘There was no queues,’ he said indignantly. ‘Anything worth doing always has queues.’ He looked around the souvenir shop, where we were the only customers. ‘Except this place,’ he qualified.
How bizarre to be part of a generation where queues are a sign of approval. Me, I’d pay money to avoid standing in line. I’m the driver everyone hates, the one who jumps the queue of standing traffic on the motorway and sneaks in just as the three lanes narrow to two. I nearly said something, but Davy was already delving through a box of transfers.
I left him to his browsing and ambled over to the ego board by the door. It displayed five-inch by three-inch colour photographs of the creators and senior staff of the VIRUS Centre, captioned with their names and executive titles. They all looked interchangeable with the mugshots on the board down the local supermarket. I turned back to check on Davy, and suddenly my subconscious swung into action. No queues at Ice World, coupled with the ego board, had finally woken my memory. The answer had
been there all the time, only I’d been too dozy to spot it.
* * *
When we got back, Alexis was sitting in my conservatory, trying to look like she was engrossed in the evening paper. I knew she was only pretending; Chris gave the game away. ‘You were right,’ she said to Alexis in a surprised voice. ‘It was Kate’s car. Hello, you two. Have a good day?’
That was all the encouragement Davy needed. He launched into a blow-by-blow account of the VIRUS Centre. Like an angel, Chris steered him off towards the kitchen, seducing him with promises of fish fingers and baked beans. I collapsed on the sofa and groaned. ‘Thank God for contraception,’ I muttered.
‘I don’t know what you’re going on about,’ Alexis said. ‘He’s good as gold. You want to spend a day looking after my nephew. He’s hyperactive and his mother’s the kind of divvy who fills him up with E numbers. Any more complaints from you and I won’t tell you what I’ve found out today.’
I closed my eyes and leaned back. ‘The occupant of Hickory Dell is Eliot James,’ I intoned. ‘Boss man at Tonik Leisure Services. Owners of, among other things, Ice World. Which, if what Davy says is right, must be struggling. If you’re half-empty on a cold bank holiday Sunday morning, you’re not going to weather the recession indefinitely.’ I sneaked an eyelid half-open. Alexis’s expression moved from fury to disappointment to amusement. Luckily for me, it stopped there.
‘Nobody loves a smartass,’ she growled. ‘OK, clever clogs. So what else have you dug up about Jammy James while you’ve supposedly been off entertaining me laddo? I mean, I don’t know why I bother putting myself out when you just bugger off and do it yourself anyway!’