‘I take it that response means you don’t want to share the child-minding?’
‘Correct. Count me out. Look, I’ll dig up all I can and meet you at Domestic Arrivals in Terminal I, at the coffee counter, just as you come in. Around quarter to seven, OK?’
I didn’t want to wait that long, but Della wasn’t the sort to hang around either. If quarter to seven was when she wanted to meet, then quarter to seven was the soonest she could see me with the information I needed. ‘I’ll see you then. Oh, one other thing. I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the drugs, but there was a Polaroid picture of a young kid in handcuffs, you know, bondage-style, in the car. Probably just dropped by one of the villains. But maybe you could ask around and see if there’s anybody that Vice have in the frame for paedophilia who’s also got form for drugs.’
‘Can do.’
‘And Della?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Thanks.’
‘You know what they say. A friend in need…’
‘Is a pain in the ass,’ I finished. ‘See you.’ I put the phone down. At last I felt things were starting to move.
The conversation with Della had reminded me of the part of the problem I’d deliberately been ignoring. Davy. Not that he was in himself a problem. It’s just that I wasn’t very good at keeping eight-year-old boys happy when I was eight myself, and I haven’t improved with age. According to Richard, Davy was the only good thing to come out of his three-year marriage, and his ex-wife Angie seemed more determined with each passing year to reduce his contact with the only child he was likely to have if he stayed with me. So it was imperative that Davy didn’t go back from his half-term holiday with lurid tales of Daddy in the nick.
Which sounded simple if you said it very fast. Unless we could spring Richard in the next day or two, however, it was going to be extremely complicated. Richard and I had agreed an initial lie, which should hold the fort for a day or two. After that, it was going to get complicated. While Davy might just believe his dad had had to dash abroad on an urgent, chance-in-a-lifetime job, it wasn’t going to be easy to explain why Richard couldn’t get home again. There may be parts of the world where the transport isn’t too reliable on account of wars and famine, but unfortunately most of them don’t run to major rock venues. Either way, whether it took hours or days, I was going to need some assistant minders, if only to baby-sit while I rambled the city centre streets looking for fast cars with trade plates. And there aren’t very many people I’d trust to do that.
I picked up the phone again and tapped in Alexis Lee’s office number. ‘
‘Alexis, please.’
‘Sh’not’ere,’ came the snippy reply.
‘I need to speak to her in a hurry. You wouldn’t happen to know where I can get hold of her?’ I asked, clinging to my manners by my fingernails. My Granny Brannigan always said politeness cost nothing. But then, she never had to face the humiliation of dealing with lads who still think a yuppie is something to aspire to.
‘’Zit’bout’story?’ he demanded. ‘You c’n tell me if it is.’
‘Not as such,’ I said through clenched teeth. I could hear my Oxford accent becoming more Gown than Town by the second. ‘Not yet, anyway. Look, I know you’re a very busy person, and I don’t want to waste any of your precious time, but it’s awfully important that I speak to Alexis. Do you know where she is?’
There’s a whole generation of young lads who are either so badly educated or so thick skinned they don’t even notice when they’re being patronized. The guy on the phone could have featured in a sociology lecture as an exemplar of the type. ‘Sh’s a’ lunch,’ he gabbled.
‘And do we know where?’
‘Gone f’r a curry.’
That was all I needed to know. There might be three dozen curry restaurants strung out along the mile-long stretch of Wilmslow Road in Rusholme, but everybody has their favourite. Alexis’s current choice was only too familiar. ‘Thanks, sonny,’ I said. ‘I’ll remember you in my letter to Santa.’
I was out of my seat before I’d put the phone back. I crossed my office in five strides and walked into the main office. ‘Shelley, I’m off to the Golden Ganges. And before you ask how I can eat at a time like this, don’t. Just don’t.’
Chapter 7
If the gods had struck me blind the moment I entered the Golden Ganges, I’d still have had no problem finding Alexis. That unmistakable Liverpudlian voice, a monument to Scotch and nicotine, almost drowned out the twanging sitar that was feebly trickling out of the restaurant’s speakers, even though she was seated a long way from the door. The volume told me she wasn’t working, just routinely showing off to her companion. When she’s doing the business with one of her contacts, the sound level drops so low that even MI5 would have a job picking it up. I walked towards the table.
Alexis spotted me two steps into the room, though there was no pause in the flow of her narrative to indicate it. As I approached, she held up one finger to stop me in my tracks a few feet away, interrupting her story to say, ‘Just a sec, Kate, crucial point in the anecdote.’ She turned back to her companion and said, ‘Thomas Wynn Ellis, a good Welsh name, you’d think you’d cracked it, yeah? I mean, she’s not
Alexis’s companion giggled. I couldn’t find a laugh, not just because I’d heard her ridicule the casual racism of her colleagues before. I sat down at the table. Luckily they’d progressed to the coffee. I don’t think I could have sat at the same table as a curry, never mind eaten one. I didn’t recognize the young woman sharing the table, but Alexis didn’t leave me in the dark too long. ‘Kate, this is Polly Patrick, she’s about to take up a post at the university, doing research into psychological profiling of serial offenders. Polly, this is my best mate, Kate Brannigan, PI.’
Polly looked interested. I winced. I knew what was coming. ‘You’re a private investigator?’ Polly asked.
‘No,’ Alexis butted in, unable to resist her joke of the month. ‘She’s Politically Incorrect!’ She hooted in mirth. In anyone else, it would wind me up to some tune, but Alexis’s humour is so innocently juvenile she somehow manages to be endearing, not infuriating.
This time, I managed to dredge up a smile. ‘Actually, I am a private investigator. And I’d be fascinated to have a chat with you some time about what you do.’
‘Ditto,’ said Polly. Unusually for a psychologist, she had some people skills, for she took the barely indicated hint. ‘But it’ll have to be another time. I’ve got to dash. Perhaps the three of us could do lunch some time soon?’
We all made the appropriate farewell and let’s-get-together-soon noises, and a few minutes later, Polly was just a memory. Alexis had ordered more coffee somewhere during the goodbyes, and I sat staring at the froth on mine as she lit a cigarette and settled into her seat. ‘So, Sherlock,’ she said. ‘What’s the problem?’
I reckoned I was about to ask her something that would test our friendship to the limits. But then, the last time she’d asked me a major favour, it had nearly got me killed, so I figured I didn’t need to beat myself up about it too much. I took a deep breath and said, ‘I need to talk to you about something important. It’s personal, it’s big and it’s got to be off the record. Can you live with that?’
‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’
‘Yeah, and one good turn deserves the lion’s share of the duvet.’
‘Go on, girl, spill it,’ Alexis said. She opened a shoulder bag only marginally smaller than mine and ostentatiously pressed the button that switched off her microcassette recorder. ‘Your secret is safe with me.’
