‘It’s my fault,’ I butted in. ‘I wanted to know what had happened.’
The sister busied herself with my pulse. ‘You’re in no fit state to discuss it,’ she said firmly. ‘Chief Inspector, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You can come back after Mr Rocco has seen the patient and if he decides she’s fit to be interviewed.’
Della got to her feet meekly and winked. ‘See you soon, Kate,’ she said.
‘I hope so,’ I sighed. ‘Oh, Della — before you go…Sister, can I ask the officer one question?’
The sister smiled, unexpectedly. ‘If you must. But keep it short,’ she added, frowning pointedly at Della.
‘The van. What sort of state is it in?’
‘Amazingly enough, it’s just superficial damage. You’ll be relieved to hear it’s not a write-off, according to Bill last night.’ She edged towards the door. ‘Thanks for your help, Kate.’
I watched her retreating back while the sister bustled about doing sisterly things to my reflexes. She asked me who the Prime Minister was, and I told her about the pain, so she gave me some pills once she’d finished her neurological observations. The last thing I remembered as I drifted into sleep was being grateful that I hadn’t written off the Little Rascal. It was only seven months since another homicidal nutter had sent my last company car to the great scrap yard in the sky. Any more of that, and the insurance premiums were going to be higher than the price of a new set of wheels.
The next time my eyes flickered open, I thought I was hallucinating. There, sitting on the uncomfortable chair, brown hair flopping across his forehead, eyes intent behind his glasses, was Richard. Seeing me waken, a slow, joyful smile spread across his face. I’d never seen a more welcome sight. ‘Hiya, Brannigan,’ he said. ‘You’re not fit to be let out on your own, are you?’ He stretched out an arm and gripped my right hand tightly. The bruises sent out a protest bulletin on all frequencies, but I didn’t care.
‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ I said. ‘This is all your fault anyway.’
‘I had a funny feeling it was going to be,’ he said, grinning. ‘I see the blow to your head hasn’t improved your grasp of logic. They tell me you’ve not got brain damage, but I told the consultant different. He said there was nothing they could do about the state you were in before the accident. So I’m just going to have to live with it.’
‘Did you get bail, or was it Group 4 that escorted you to court this morning?’
‘The police withdrew their objections to bail, and they let me go without conditions. Ruth says they’ll drop charges once they’ve nailed the real guys in the black hats and cleared me. I came straight here, you know. I didn’t even go home for fresh clothes and a joint. You did a great job, Brannigan.’ He released my hand and dropped to his knees, hands clenched in supplication. ‘How can I ever repay you?’
‘I’ll think of something,’ I said. ‘You can start by giving me a kiss.’
He jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll have to close my eyes,’ he said, mock-seriously.
‘I look that bad?’ I demanded, suddenly discovering a new anxiety. I put my hand up to my head, discovering a thick turban of bandage that extended halfway down my forehead.
‘Two lovely black eyes, two lovely black eyes,’ he sang. ‘And a whopping great bruise on your jaw. Linda Evangelista won’t be worrying about you taking her place on the catwalk for a while.’ Before I could say anything more, he stooped over me and kissed me gently on the lips.
‘Call that a kiss?’ I snarled.
It got better after that.
When he finally came up for air, he said softly, ‘I love you, Brannigan.’
‘Don’t go getting soft on me,’ I murmured. ‘You’re only saying that because I got you out of jail.’
‘And you took care of my kid. I’ve heard all about what went on. Bill came to court this morning and told me how you’d ended up in here.’
‘Speaking of which,’ I interrupted before he got hopelessly sentimental in the way that only cynical journos can. ‘Where is Davy?’
‘Alexis took the day off to look after him. They’ve gone off to some fun palace this morning. She told Bill she’d meet me here…’ he glanced at his watch. ‘In about ten minutes, actually.’
‘God, you’d better not let him in here if I’m as much of a sight as you seem to think I am. He’ll have nightmares for weeks.’
‘Brannigan, you’re talking about a kid who thought Dracula was a fun movie. I don’t think a couple of bruises and a heavy-duty headscarf are going to freak him out. He knows you were in a car crash. The only thing I’m worried about is what he’s going to tell his mother.’
Epilogue
On the first day of Davy’s summer holidays, the three of us giggled our way along Blackpool prom on the open top deck of a tram. I was wearing a baseball cap that said ‘Kiss me slow’. Tacky, I know, but it covered the uneven hair growth. At least it wasn’t stubble any more. I’d been less than thrilled to discover I had a bald patch where they’d had to shave me when they stitched up the hole that Moustache’s tripod had made in the back of my head. The hair seems to be coming back just fine over the scar, but it’s knackered my attempts at growing my hair. I’m back to short and spiky.
Passé, sure, but I hadn’t had a lot of choice. And I didn’t look too much like a punk now the deep bruising had finally faded.
Davy had insisted on coming back north for part of the summer because he’d had such a good time at half-term. I can only presume he gave his mother a highly edited version of events, since she made no objection. We’d spent most of the day at the Pleasure Beach, only giving up on the white-knuckle rides when Richard dumped his lunch down the drain after a spectacular trip round the Grand National.
Now we were heading for the tower. Richard had decided that physically being on top of the world was the best way to symbolize the fact that as of tomorrow he’d officially be a free man. ‘I can’t wait,’ he said as we queued for the lift.
‘I didn’t think you were into views,’ I said.
‘No, for tomorrow, stupid. I can’t wait to hear the prosecuting solicitor saying they’re dropping all the charges against me.’
I squeezed his hand. ‘Me too.’ It had been an interesting few weeks. In spite of his misgivings about my information, Geoff Turnbull had put full surveillance on Terry Fitz, Jammy James and the chemical kitchen. They’d swooped in the early hours of Friday morning. They’d actually caught Terry Fitz red-handed in a stolen Mazda MX5 halfway down the M40 with trade plates and five kilos of crack in the boot. A dozen bodies had been remanded in custody at Saturday morning’s Magistrates’ Court. According to Ruth, nothing had come up in the interviews that even remotely implicated Richard or me. The police had even managed to establish that James and his team of dealers still had no idea who had driven off in a ‘stolen’ car with a boot full of crack. Best of all, the police seemed to think they wouldn’t need me to testify in court, which I reckoned significantly increased my chances of celebrating my thirtieth birthday. After all, Crazy Eddy wasn’t the only hit man in Greater Manchester.
Speaking of Crazy Eddy, he’d been charged with murdering Cherie and attempting to murder me. According to Della, it looked like he was also going to be charged with a couple of other street shootings in Moss Side just after Easter. He was still doing the Trappist monk routine with all of the coppers who’d done their brains in trying to interview him. He hadn’t even asked for a solicitor. Interestingly, it turned out that Terry Fitz had been in the Paras with Crazy Eddy, which was how Eddy had got involved as spotter for the car stealing racket. The police also suspected that Jammy James’s outfit was responsible for recommending him to the child-porn merchants as a hit man.