‘Who with?’ Alexis demanded cheekily. ‘The wife or the mistress? Both, incidentally, called Sue. I suppose that way he doesn’t run the risk of using the wrong name in bed.’
‘Ignore her; it’s gone to her head, getting something right for once,’ I said.
‘Yo, wait till I break this little gem in tomorrow’s paper!’ Alexis exclaimed.
‘No way!’ Ruth shouted.
‘Don’t you dare!’ Della thundered in unison. ‘We want Jammy James nailed down watertight, not leaping up and down about trial by media.’
‘Never mind that,’ I butted in. ‘Personally, I don’t give a toss about nailing Jammy James. This is about getting Richard out of jail. And you printing daft stories in the Chronicle is not the way to do that, so forget it, Alexis, OK? What comes next, Ruth?’
Ruth spoke slowly, measuring what she said as she spoke. ‘Kate’s right, Alexis. I know this must be burning a hole in your notebook, but I think it would be disastrous for Richard if you wrote a story about this.’
Alexis pulled a face. ‘All right,’ she sighed. ‘But when I can write about it, I want all of you to talk to me on the record.’
We all nodded wearily. ‘Ruth?’ I asked.
‘Kate, you’re going to have to talk to the police. You’re also going to have to persuade them to move quickly; the sooner the better from Richard’s point of view.’
Della interrupted. ‘On that point, they’ll already be anxious about how current your information is. These days, most drug dealers alter their distribution patterns every few weeks. Eliot James’s team might not be doing that, but as far as the Drugs Squad is concerned, stress that this is up-to-the-minute info and the situation could change any day. There is one significant gap in your evidence, however, which might make them cautious.’
‘What’s that? Something I’ve got time to fix?’ I asked anxiously. I’d been right to decide I needed other people’s eyes on this case.
Della pulled a face. ‘It’s not exactly a matter of time. It’s a matter of legality. We don’t know what’s inside this shed out at the airport. If it’s just an empty shell, it’s not going to be easy to establish a direct connection between James and Fitzgerald. A good brief would argue that James had gone there for reasons entirely unconnected with the drug trade; he could even postulate a hypothetical third party that they were both there to meet.’
I nodded, grateful for the advice. ‘Supposing I had that information, how quickly is quickly, in Drugs Squad terms?’
Della shrugged. ‘I don’t know this lot well, but given your info they should be able to plug straight into the surveillance. If this team is as busy as your material suggests, they could have the bare bones of their evidence within twenty-four to forty-eight hours.’
‘Which means what, in terms of Richard’s imprisonment?’ I asked Ruth.
She bought time by lighting a cigarette. ‘Best case, you talk to the Drugs Squad first thing and they stand up in court and support my bail application. Chances of that: almost nil. Worse case, they use your information, make a bundle of arrests and refuse to accept Richard was an innocent bystander. Chances of that: probably low. Most likely scenario, if you get to the Drugs Squad tomorrow, when I argue for bail on Wednesday, it will be refused but the magistrates will agree to a short remand, say till Thursday or Friday; to give the police the chance to evaluate the fresh evidence.’
My disappointment must have been obvious, for Alexis hugged me and Ruth shrugged apologetically. ‘Well, we’d better get you fixed up with an appointment to see the Drugs Squad, hadn’t we?’ Della said briskly. ‘Where’s the phone?’
I pointed it out, and she wandered into the conservatory to make her call. I watched her through the patio doors. Her face was animated, her free hand expressive. Whatever she was saying, she wasn’t pleading. As she ended the call, I remembered something else I wanted to talk to the Drugs Squad about. I turned to Alexis. ‘Do you know if Cherie Roberts has been around today? Or if she’s left me a note?’
Alexis shook her head. ‘Not that I know of. Chris didn’t say anything.’
Typical, I thought. Just as well I wasn’t relying on Cherie to help get Richard out of jail.
Chapter 18
It was midnight before I got the house to myself. Much as I enjoy their company, I couldn’t wait for the three of them to go home. Ironically, they probably thought they were doing me a favour, keeping me from brooding over Richard’s absence. And of course, I couldn’t explain why I wanted rid of them, not with two of them being officers of the court. My impatience wasn’t helped by the fact that I’d stopped drinking after my first vodka; if discovering what the shed contained was the key to releasing Richard, then I was going to have to get inside there. Preferably before my nine o’clock appointment with DCI Geoff Turnbull of the Drugs Squad.
I went through to my bedroom and changed into the black leggings and black sweat shirt I save for the sort of occasion when nobody I want to impress is likely to see me; illicit night forays, decorating, that sort of thing. I didn’t have any black trainers, but I did have a pair of black canvas hockey boots which I’d bought in a moment of madness years before when they’d briefly looked set to be the next essential fashion item. I’d been a first-year student at the time, which is as good an excuse as any. I stuffed my hair inside a black ski cap, and I was all set. I know the Famous Five burned corks and rubbed their faces with the ash, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything that ridiculous. Besides, I had to drive right across town to get to the airport, and I didn’t rate my chances of convincing any passing traffic cop that I was on my way to a Hallowe’en party.
On my way out the door, I stopped in my study and picked up one of those compartmentalized mini-aprons that tradesmen stuff with obscure tools. Mine contains a set of lock picks, a glass cutter, a kid’s arrow with a sucker on the end, a couple of pairs of latex gloves, a Swiss Army knife, a small camera with a spare film, pliers, a high-powered pencil torch, a set of jeweller’s screwdrivers, a couple of ordinary screwdrivers, a cold chisel, secateurs and a toffee hammer. Don’t ask. Before I set off, I filled up a mini jug kettle that runs off the car cigarette lighter. Like I said, don’t ask.
Less than half an hour later, I was cruising down the country lane I’d been in the night before. I pulled up in the same gateway and plugged in the kettle. As the water boiled, I lifted the lid and let the car fill up with steam. I got out and looked at the windows, satisfied. Anyone passing would be more likely to be jealous than suspicious.
I set off, hugging the infested hedgerows, just in case. I eased round the corner of the track, and saw with relief that there were no cars parked outside the shed. I crept slowly round the edge of the clearing till I was parallel to the big front doors. A quick look around, then I slipped across into the shadow of the shed. I took out my torch and shone it on the lower of the two padlocks. My heart sank. Some locks you can pick after ten minutes’ training. Some locks give experts migraine. This wasn’t one of the easy ones. I wished I’d brought Dennis with me. I gave it twenty minutes, by which time my hands were sweating so much inside the latex gloves that I couldn’t manipulate the picks properly. In frustration, I kicked the door. It didn’t swing open. I just got a very sore foot.
I shone the torch on the other padlock, but it was another of the same. The steel bars didn’t look too promising either. Muttering the kind of words my mother warned me against, I skirted the corner of the shed and worked my way down the far side. Although it didn’t look much, it was actually a deceptively solid building. I’d have expected to find the odd loose board, perhaps even a broken window. But this shed looked like it had been given a good going over by the local crime prevention officer. There was one window on the airport side, but it was barred, and behind it was opaque, wire-reinforced glass. I reached the far corner, but I couldn’t get down the back of the shed at all because of the insidious creeping of the undergrowth. Frankly, I doubt if Mickey Mouse could have squeezed through that lot. With a sigh, I turned back. No chance. That was when the spotlight pinned me to the wall.