Crack Down

VAL McDERMID

Crack Down

For my mother, with love and thanks

COVER

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY

COPYRIGHT

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

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 high-quality 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.’