PI Kate Brannigan Series Books 1-3: Dead Beat, Kick Back, Crack Down. Val McDermid

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СКАЧАТЬ car right into a narrow side street and doubled back towards the lights. At the junction, I paused, eyes flicking from side to side, trying to spot Kevin’s contact. I caught sight of him as he rounded the arcade of shops opposite, heading for the leisure centre car park. An impatient driver behind me sounded his horn, so I committed myself to a left turn, then turned off for the leisure centre. I reversed the car into a side turn and waited. I’d made the right gamble, not keeping my quarry in sight every inch of the way. A couple of minutes later, a red XJS shot past my turning. The driver was unmistakably Kevin’s contact. I waited till he’d moved out into the traffic heading back towards Manchester, then I slipped out behind him and took up station a couple of cars behind.

      The guy was the worst kind of driver to tail. He was a show-off, determined that everyone sharing the same bit of road as him would see he was a big man with a flashy Jag. Never mind that it was four years old, it was the real thing, not some souped-up piece of Jap crap. I could just hear him laying down the law in the wine bar. I reckoned he and Kevin were probably a pair out of the same box.

      He drove like a man with serious sexual problems, cutting people up, overtaking in the craziest places, flashing his lights like the Blackpool illuminations. Interestingly, I drove no differently from normal, and I was never in any danger of losing him. As we shot through the lights on the dual carriageway at Cheadle, he made a kamikaze run across three lanes of traffic to hit the motorway intersection. I said one of those words that men like my dad think women shouldn’t know and followed, praying he wasn’t keeping too close an eye on his rear-view mirror.

      Out on the motorway he let rip. He either wasn’t a local or he didn’t give a toss about the video cameras mounted every couple of miles along the motorway to catch the speeders. I was forced into the kind of driving that terrifies me, never mind the rest of the drivers on the road, zooming right up behind lorries, nipping into the outside lane to overtake, then cutting back in as soon as I was clear of their front bumper. It made for an interesting journey.

      Then the volume of traffic built up and things got a little less traumatic. By the time we were heading east on the M62, I had stopped sweating and started breathing again. I slid Sinead O’Connor into the cassette deck and had a little wonder to myself about my friend in the XJS with the envelope full of readies. He looked definitely iffy to me, but not the sort of bad lad who carries out hits. On the other hand, he might well know a man who could … As we headed up Hartshead Moor, I checked my fuel gauge and started sweating again. I’d be OK if Bradford was the destination. I might just make Leeds. But if we were heading for Wakefield or Hull, I’d be making the acquaintance of the AA man.

      For once, my luck was holding well. He repeated his suicide run across the lanes again to take the Bradford exit. But this time I was prepared, hiding in the inside lane. I stayed with him in the heavy traffic round the ring road, skirting the city centre and out towards Bingley. Then I lost him. He jumped an amber as it turned red and shot off, leaving me law abiding at the lights. I watched helplessly as he hung a right about half a mile ahead. Of course, by the time I made it to that corner, he was long gone. I drove back to the nearest petrol station in a seriously bad mood and filled up.

      I signalled to turn back in the direction of the motorway, then I changed my mind. What the hell was I playing at? I’d schlepped all the way over the Pennines, taken more risks behind the wheel in one morning than I normally handle in a week, and I was even thinking about leaving it at that? I swear to God, two days in the world of sax ‘n’ drugs ‘n’ rock ‘n’ roll and my brain was getting as soft as theirs.

      I went straight back to the street corner where I’d lost him and started the slow cruise. Within a few yards of the main road, I was in the kind of tangle of narrow streets where the wide-boys operate. Terraced houses, small warehouses, the odd little sweatshop factory, corner grocers converted into auto spares shops, lock-up garages filled with everything except cars. It was the kind of district I’d become familiar with recently, thanks to the Smart brothers. I didn’t need a map to have a pretty clear idea of how the streets would be laid out, and I carefully started to quarter them, eyes peeled for the scarlet Jag.

      As it was, I nearly missed it. I was taking it slowly when I caught a flash of red on the edge of my peripheral vision. I’d overshot the narrow alley before it registered properly. I parked up and strolled back along the street. On the corner of the alley, I stopped and glanced down. The Jag blocked the whole alleyway, barely leaving enough room for someone to sidle past it. It was parked outside the back entrance to a two-storey building. I counted from the end of the alleyway down to it, then walked on to the next corner.

      The building had once been a double-fronted shop. Now, the windows were whitewashed over, and the signboards over them were weathered illegible. A Transit van with its doors open was parked outside. I turned the corner and continued my leisurely stroll. Before I drew level, the door opened and a youth waddled uncomfortably in the general direction of the van. He couldn’t actually see it since he was struggling to balance four cardboard cartons stacked on top of each other. ‘Left a bit,’ I suggested.

      He threw a grateful half-smile at me, sidestepped and swivelled on one heel. The top box started to slide, and I moved forward to grab it as it fell.

      ‘Cheers, love,’ he gasped as he leaned forward to tip the boxes into the van. He stepped back, hands on hips, head dropping forward.

      ‘What you got in there anyway? Bricks?’ I said as I stowed the other box for him.

      He looked up at me and gave me the once over. ‘Designer gear, love. Top-class stuff. None of your market stall rubbish. Hang on a minute, I’ll get you a sample. Just a little thank you.’ He winked and headed back to the door. I followed him and stood in the doorway. To my right, cardboard boxes were stacked ceiling high. Beyond them, a couple of women stood at long tables, folding shell suits, putting them in plastic bags and filling more boxes with the bags.

      On my left, two machines clattered. The further one seemed to be printing t-shirts, while the other was embroidering shell suits. Before I could get a closer look, the van driver drew everyone’s attention to me. ‘Oy, Freddy,’ he shouted.

      From a small office at the back of the warehouse, my quarry emerged. ‘Do what, Dazza?’ he asked in a deep voice, the cockney revealing itself even in those couple of words.

      ‘T-shirt for the lady,’ Dazza said, waving an arm at me. ‘Saved my stock from the gutter.’

      ‘Pity she couldn’t do the same for you,’ Freddy grunted. He gave me an appraising look, then picked out a white t-shirt from a pile on a trestle table by his cubbyhole. He threw it at Dazza, then turned on his heel and pulled his flimsy door shut behind him.

      ‘I see he’s been to the Mike Tyson school of charm and diplomacy,’ I remarked as Dazza returned.

      ‘Don’t pay no never mind to Fat Freddy,’ he said. ‘He don’t take to strangers. Here you are, love.’

      I reached out for the t-shirt. I picked it up by the neck and let the folds drop out. His face gazed moodily into mine. Across the chest, in vivid electric blue was the Midnight Stranger logo, straight from the last album and the tour promotional posters. Jett was alive and well and being ripped off in Bradford.

Chapter 20

      I sat in the car and stared at the t-shirt. I wasn’t quite sure what it amounted to. If Kevin was responsible for official merchandising, there was no reason why he shouldn’t farm it out to Fat Freddy, even if some of the guy’s other business was well on the wrong side of the legal borderline. What I needed to find out was whether this particular t-shirt was the real thing.

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