Suddenly, I saw the flaw in Bill’s theory. ‘It was my front door,’ I said.
‘Yes?’ Bill said.
‘Not Richard’s. It was my front door. Don’t you see?’ I was excited now, banging the desk with my fist. ‘If they’d wanted to warn me off the case, they’d have blasted Richard’s front door. He’s the one that’s vulnerable, he’s the one that’s banged up with a load of villains, he’s the one with the eight-year-old pressure point. Besides, the only people who know there’s any connection between me and Richard are the Drugs Squad.’
Bill slumped in his office chair and chewed a pencil. ‘And we trust the Drugs Squad not to have a leak? We think they don’t have any bent officers who might just be in Eliot James’s golf club?’
I sighed. ‘I don’t exactly trust Geoff Turnbull. Not even on Della’s say-so. But he’s an ambitious man, and self-interest’s one of the most powerful engines there is. I bet the thought of nailing a smooth operator like Eliot James is a bigger aphrodisiac than oysters to a man like Turnbull. And he’ll want all the credit for himself; I doubt very much if he’s told a living soul he got his information from a private eye.’
‘I can’t argue with that,’ Bill said, resignation all over his face. ‘So, what now?’
I told him. And since his only alternative was to betray me by going behind my back to the police, Bill reluctantly agreed to help where he could.
The main problem for me now was that I’d argued myself out of any chance of feeling secure. At least if I’d believed the shooting had anything to do with Jammy James and his merry men, I’d have known that the Drugs Squad were about to rob the gunman of any future playdays from that direction. Now, I had to live with the uncomfortable fact that some complete stranger out there wanted me to give up an inquiry so badly that they’d blown a hole in my front door. If I was going to stop them doing the same thing to me, I’d better find out who they were. And fast.
Chapter 22
The rush-hour traffic had already started to build by the time I left the office. I sat smouldering in the jam at the top of Plymouth Grove, listening to GMR cheerily telling me where the traffic black spots were. I could have crossed town faster on foot than I was managing by car. I watched the seconds tick past on my watch, muttering darkly about what the transport policy would be when I ruled the world. It was twenty to five by the time I’d inched up Stockport Road and turned off into the car park behind the Longsight District Centre. I parked illegally as near as I could get to the Social Services office. I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss my target.
Like the rest of the city’s social workers, the family placement officer theoretically knocks off work at half past four. But like most of her colleagues, Frankie Summerbee knows that the only way to come close to dealing with her workload is to stay at the office long after the town hall bureaucrats have gone home. So, like most of her colleagues, Frankie’s chronically over-tired, over-stressed and prone to making decisions that don’t always look too wonderful in the cool light of day under cross-examination. That’s what I was relying on this afternoon.
I’ve known Frankie almost as long as I’ve known Richard. Before he moved in next door to me, he lived in Chorlton-cum-Hardy, that Manchester suburb whose trendiness quotient rises and falls in tandem with the Green Party’s electoral share. He lived in the downstairs flat of an Edwardian terraced cottage. Frankie had the flat upstairs. Luckily for her, that included the attic. I don’t know if that had always been her bedroom, but after Richard moved in downstairs I suspect that sleeping at least two floors away from his stereo became an imperative.
Of course, as a trained social worker, she couldn’t avoid helping him out; cooking the odd meal, picking up his washing from the launderette, grabbing a stack of pizzas every now and again as she whizzed past the chill cabinet in the supermarket on her weekly shop. I don’t expect she got any thanks, but he did take her out to dinner a few times, and so she became another victim of the Cute Smile.
The bonking bit didn’t last too long. I suspect they both realized after the first time that it was a big mistake, but they’re both much too kind to have hurt the other’s feelings by saying so. Luckily, Frankie also has the good social worker’s ruthless streak, otherwise they’d probably both still be hanging on till the last minute every Saturday night because nice people come second. Under normal circumstances, I was glad she’d forced a return to uncomplicated friendship so he was unencumbered when he met me. After the events of the past few days, I wasn’t so sure.
I could have short-circuited the waiting period by picking up my mobile phone and dialling Frankie’s direct line, but I was glad of a breathing space to try to organize my thoughts into something approaching order. I didn’t get one.
I’d been sitting there less than ten minutes when Frankie’s spiky black hair appeared like a fright wig on top of a stack of files. The files teetered forward above a pair of black leggings and emerald green suede hi-tops. I jumped out of the car and rushed forwards to help her. ‘Hi, Frankie,’ I said, putting my arms out to steady the files as I stopped her in her tracks.
The hair tilted sideways and two interested brown eyes peered round the stack of files. Her granny glasses were slowly sliding down her nose, but not so far that she didn’t recognize me. ‘Hi, Brannigan,’ she said. She didn’t sound surprised, but then she’s been a social worker for the best part of ten years. Nothing surprises Frankie any more.
‘Let me help,’ I said.
‘The car’s over there,’ she said, sounding slightly baffled as I grabbed the top half of her pile. ‘The red Astra.’
I carried the files over to the car and we did small talk while she fiddled with her keys and unlocked the hatchback. It wasn’t easy, avoiding the subject of Richard’s incarceration, but I managed it by dragging Davy’s visit into the conversation two sentences in. We loaded the boot, and Frankie slammed it shut, then leaned against it, catching me eye to eye. Not many people manage that, but Frankie and I are so alike physically that if I ever get signed up to star in a movie with nude scenes I could get her to be my body double. ‘This is not serendipity, is it?’
I shook my head sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’
She sighed. ‘You should know better.’
‘It’s not business, Frankie,’ I said in mitigation. ‘It’s personal, and it’s not for me.’
She raised her eyebrows and looked sceptical. I can’t say I blamed her. ‘I’m in a hurry,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a meeting this evening. I was on my way to grab a quick curry since I skipped lunch. If you think there’s any point in telling me what you’re after, follow me to the Tandoori Kitchen. You’re buying. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ I said. I’ve always liked the Tandoori Kitchen. The food’s consistently good, but the best thing of all is the chocolate-flavoured lollipops they give you when they bring you the bill. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I ordered some onion bhajis and pakora to keep me occupied while Frankie worked her way through the biggest mushroom biryani I’ve ever seen.
‘So what’s this favour you’re after, Brannigan?’
‘Who said anything about a favour?’ I said innocently.
‘A person doesn’t need to have A Level Deduction to know you’re after something more than a share in my poppadums when you turn up on the office doorstep. What are you after?’ Frankie persisted.
So much for gently working round to it. I plunged in. ‘You took a couple of kids into care this afternoon. Daniel and Wayne Roberts. Their mum was shot in Brunswick Street?’