Kitabı oku: «Crack Down»

VAL McDERMID

Crack Down

DEDICATION

For my mother, with love and thanks

CONTENTS

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

KEEP READING

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY

COPYRIGHT

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

1

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.’

‘Wow! And is she really, you know, as, like, horny as she comes over?’

Richard forced a smile. ‘Not in front of the wife, eh?’ I was touched. He was really trying to make this work.

Darryl ran a hand through his neat dark hair and winked. In an adult, it would have been lewd. ‘Gotcha, Richard. Now, your annual income. What would that be?’

I switched off again. Fiction, even the great stuff, is never as interesting when you’re hearing it for the nth time. Darryl didn’t hang about explaining little details like annual percentage interest rates to Richard, and within ten minutes, he was on to the finance company arranging our car loan. Thanks to the wonders of computer technology, credit companies can check out a punter and give the thumbs up or down almost instantaneously. Whatever Richmond Credit Finance pulled up on their computer, it convinced them that Richard was a sound bet for a loan. Of course, when you’re relying on computers, it’s important to remember that what you get out of them depends entirely on what someone else has put in.

Twenty minutes later, Richard and I were walking out of the showroom, the proud possessors, on paper at least, of the flashest set of wheels the Leo Motor Company puts on the road. ‘I do all right, Mrs Barclay?’ Richard asked eagerly, as we walked round the corner to where I’d parked the Peugeot 205 Mortensen and Brannigan had been leasing for the six months since my last company car had ended up looking like an installation from the Tate Gallery.

‘You wish,’ I snarled. ‘Don’t push your luck, Barclay. Let me tell you, the longer I spend pretending to be your wife, the more I understand why your first marriage didn’t go the distance.’

I climbed in the car and started the engine. Richard stood on the pavement, looking hangdog, his tortoiseshell glasses slipping down his nose. Exasperated, I pushed the button that lowered the passenger window. ‘Oh for God’s sake, get in,’ I said. ‘You did really well in there. Thank you.’

He smiled and jumped in. ‘You’re right, you know.’

‘I usually am,’ I said, only half teasing, as I eased the car out into the busy stream of traffic on the Bolton to Blackburn road. ‘About what in particular?’

‘That being a private eye is ninety-five per cent boredom coupled with five per cent fear. The first time we did that routine, I was really scared. I thought, what if I forget what I’m supposed to say, and they suss that we’re setting them up,’ he said earnestly.

‘It wouldn’t have been the end of the world,’ I said absently, keeping an eye on the road signs so I didn’t miss the turn off for Manchester. ‘We’re not dealing with the Mafia here. They wouldn’t have dragged you out kicking and screaming and kneecapped you.’

‘No, but you might have,’ Richard said. He was serious.

I laughed. ‘No way. I’d have waited till I got you home.’

Richard looked worried for a moment. Then he decided I was joking. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘now when we do it, I’m not nervous any more. The only danger is that it’s so repetitious I’m afraid I’ll blow it out of boredom.’

‘Well, I’m hoping we won’t have to go through it many more times,’ I said, powering down the ramp on to the dual carriageway. The little Peugeot I chose has a 1.9 litre engine, but since I got the dealership to take the identifying badges off it, it looks as innocuous as a housewife’s shopping trolley. I’d be sorry to see the back of it, but once I’d finished this job, I’d be in line for a brand new sporty Leo hatchback. Freemans.

‘That’s a shame, in some ways. I hate to admit it, Brannigan, but I’ve quite enjoyed working with you.’

Wild horses wouldn’t have got me to admit it, but I’d enjoyed it too. In the two years that we’d been lovers, I’d never been reluctant to use Richard as a sounding board for my investigations. He’s got one of those off-the-wall minds that sometimes come up with illuminating insights into the white collar crime that makes up the bulk of the work I do with my business partner Bill Mortensen. But the opportunity to get Richard to take a more active part had never arisen before this job. I’d only gone along with Bill’s suggestion to involve him precisely because I felt so certain it was a no-risk job. How could I expose to danger a man who thinks discretion is a fragrance by Calvin Klein?

This job was what we call in the trade a straight up-and-downer. The only strange thing about it was the way we’d got the job in the first place. A two-operative agency in Manchester isn’t the obvious choice for an international car giant like the Leo Motor Company when they’ve got a problem. We’d got lucky because the new head honcho at Accredited Leo Finance was the brother-in-law of a high-class Manchester jeweller. We’d not only installed Clive Abercrombie’s security system, but we’d also cracked a major gang of counterfeiters who were giving the executive chronometer brigade serious migraine. As far as Clive was concerned, Mortensen and Brannigan were the people to go to when you wanted a slick, discreet job.

Of course, being an arm of a multi-national, ALF couldn’t bring themselves to knock on the door and pitch us the straight way. It had all started at a reception hosted by the Manchester Olympic Bid organization. Remember the Olympic Bid? They were trying to screw dosh out of local businesses to support their attempt to kick off the new millennium by holding the Games in the Rainy City. Bill and I are such a small operation, we were a bit bewildered at being invited, but I’m a sucker for free smoked salmon, and besides, I reckoned it would do no harm to flash my smile round a few potentially lucrative new contacts, so I went off to fly the flag for Mortensen and Brannigan.

I was only halfway through my first glass of Australian fizz (as good a reason as any for awarding the Olympics to Sydney) when Clive appeared at my elbow with a strange man and a sickly grin. ‘Kate,’ he greeted me. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

I was on my guard straight away. Clive and I have never been buddies, probably because I can’t bring myself to be anything more than professionally polite to social climbers. So when the Edmund Hillary of the Cheshire set accosted me so joyously, I knew at once we were in the realms of hidden agendas. I smiled politely, shook his hand, counted my fingers and said, ‘Nice to see you too, Clive.’

‘Kate, can I introduce my brother-in-law, Andrew Broderick? Andrew, this is Kate Brannigan, who’s a partner in Manchester’s best security company. Kate, Andrew’s the MD and CEO of ALF.’ I must have looked blank, for Clive added hurriedly, ‘You know, Kate. Accredited Leo Finance. Leo Motor Company’s credit arm.’

‘Thanks, Tonto,’ I said.

Clive looked baffled, but Andrew Broderick laughed. ‘If I’m the loan arranger, you must be Tonto. Old joke,’ he explained. Clive still didn’t get it. Broderick and I shook hands and weighed each other up. He wasn’t a lot taller than my five feet and three inches, but Andrew Broderick looked like a man who’d learned how to fight his battles in a rugby scrum rather than a boardroom. It was just as well he could afford to have his suits hand-stitched to measure; he’d never have found that chest measurement off the peg. His nose had been broken more than once and his ears were as close to being a pair as Danny De Vito and Arnold Schwarzenegger. But his shrewd grey eyes missed nothing. I felt his ten-second assessment of me had probably covered all the salient points.

We started off innocuously enough, discussing the Games. Then, casually enough, he asked what I drove in the course of business. I found myself telling him all about Bill’s new Saab convertible, the workhorse Little Rascal van we use for surveillance, and the nearly fatal accident that had robbed me of the Nova. I was mildly surprised. I don’t normally talk to strangers.

‘No Leos?’ he asked with a quirky smile.

‘No Leos,’ I agreed. ‘But I’m open to persuasion.’

Broderick took my elbow, smiled dismissively at Clive and gently steered me into a quiet corner behind the buffet. ‘I have a problem,’ he said. ‘It needs a specialist, and I’m told that your organization could fit my spec. Interested?’

Call me a slut, but when it comes to business, I’m always open to offers. ‘I’m interested,’ I said. ‘Will it keep, or do you want to thrash it out now?’

It turned out that patience wasn’t Andrew Broderick’s long suit. Within five minutes, we were in the lounge of the Ramada, with drinks on their way. ‘How much do you know about car financing?’ he asked.

‘They always end up costing more than you think,’ I said ruefully.

‘That much, eh?’ he said. ‘OK. Let me explain. My company, ALF, is a wholly owned subsidiary of the Leo Motor Company. Our job is to provide loans for people who want to buy Leo cars and haven’t got enough cash. But Leo dealerships aren’t obliged to channel all their customers through us, so we have to find ways to make ourselves sexy to the dealerships. One of the ways we do this is to offer them soft loans.’

I nodded, with him so far. ‘And these low-interest loans are for what, exactly?’

‘Dealerships have to pay up front when they take delivery of a car from Leo. ALF gives them a soft loan to cover the wholesale cost of the car for ninety days. After that, the interest rate rises weekly. When the car is sold, the soft loan is supposed to be paid off. That’s in the contract.

‘But if a dealership arranges loans for the Leos it sells via a different finance company, neither ALF nor Leo is aware that the car’s been sold. The dealer can smack the money in a high-interest account for the remains of the ninety days and earn himself a tidy sum in interest before the loan has to be paid off.’ The drinks arrived, as if on cue, giving me a few moments to digest what he’d said.

I tipped the bottle of grapefruit juice into my vodka, and swirled the ice cubes round in the glass to mix the drink. ‘And you obviously hate this because you’re cutting your own margins to supply the low-interest loans, but you’re getting no benefit in return.’

Broderick nodded, taking a hefty swallow of his spritzer. ‘Leo aren’t crazy about it either because it skews their market share figures, particularly in high turnover months like August,’ he added.

‘So where do I come in?’ I asked.

‘I’ve come up with an alternative distribution system,’ he said simply. Now, all I know about the car business is what I’ve learned from my dad, an assembly line foreman with Rover in Oxford. But even that little is enough for me to realize that what Andrew Broderick had just said was on a par with the Prime Minister announcing he was going to abolish the Civil Service.

I swallowed hard. ‘We don’t do bodyguard jobs,’ I said.

He laughed, which was the first time I’d doubted his sanity. ‘It’s so simple,’ he said. ‘Instead of having to fill their showrooms with cars they’re then under pressure to sell asap, dealers would carry only one sample of the model. The customer would specify colour, engine size, petrol or diesel, optional extras, etc. The order would then be faxed to one of several regional holding centres where the specific model would be assembled from Leo’s stock.’

‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. Leo are fighting it tooth and nail because it involves them in initial expenditure of more than threepence ha’penny,’ I said resignedly.

‘And that’s where you come in, Ms Brannigan. I want to prove to Leo that my system would be of ultimate financial benefit to both of us. Now, if I can prove that at least one of our bigger chains of dealerships is committing this particular fraud, then I can maybe start to get it through Leo’s corporate skulls that a helluva lot of cash that should be in our business is being siphoned off. And then maybe, just maybe, they’ll accept that a revamped distribution service is worth every penny.’

Which is how Richard and I came to be playing happy newly-weds round the car showrooms of England. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Three weeks into the job, it still seemed like a good idea. Which only goes to show how wrong even I can be.

2

The following afternoon, I was in my office, putting the finishing touches to a routine report on a fraudulent personal accident claim I’d been investigating on behalf of a local insurance company. As I reached the end, I glanced at my watch. Twenty-five to three. Surprise, surprise, Richard was late. I saved the file to disc, then switched off my computer. I took the disc through to the outer office, where Shelley Carmichael was filling in a stationery supplies order form. If good office management got you on to the Honours List, Shelley would be up there with a life peerage. It’s a toss-up who I treat with more respect – Shelley or the local pub’s Rottweiler.

She glanced up as I came through. ‘Late again, is he?’ she asked. I nodded. ‘Want me to give him an alarm call?’

‘I don’t think he’s in,’ I said. ‘He mumbled something this morning about going to a bistro in Oldham where they do live rockabilly at lunch time. It sounded so improbable it has to be true. Did you check if today’s draft has come through?’

Shelley nodded. Silly question, really. ‘It’s at the King Street branch,’ she said.

‘I’ll pop out and get it now,’ I said. ‘If Boy Wonder shows up, tell him to wait for me. None of that “I’ll just pop out to the Corner House for ten minutes to have a look at their new exhibition” routine.’

I gave the lift a miss and ran downstairs. It helps me maintain the illusion of fitness. As I walked briskly up Oxford Street, I felt at peace with the world. It was a bright, sunny day, though the temperature was as low as you’d expect the week before the spring bank holiday. It’s a myth about it always raining in Manchester – we only make it up to irritate all those patronizing bastards in the South with their hose-pipe bans. I could hear the comic Thomas the Tank Engine hooting of the trams in the distance. The traffic was less clogged than usual, and some of my fellow pedestrians actually had smiles on their faces. More importantly, the ALF job had gone without a hitch, and with a bit of luck, this would be the last banker’s draft I’d have to collect. It had been a pretty straightforward routine, once Bill and I had decided to bring Richard in to increase the credibility of the car buying operation. It must be the first time in his life he’s ever been accused of enhancing the credibility of anything. Our major target had been a garage chain with fifteen branches throughout the North. Richard and I had hit eight of them, from Stafford to York, plus four independents that Andrew also suspected of being on the fiddle.

There was nothing complicated about it. Richard and I simply rolled up to the car dealers, pretending to be a married couple, and bought a car on the spot from the range in the showroom. Broderick had called in a few favours with his buddies in the credit rating agencies that lenders used to check on their victims’ creditworthiness. So, when the car sales people got the finance companies to check the names and addresses Richard gave them, they discovered he had an excellent credit rating, a sheaf of credit cards and no outstanding debt except his mortgage. The granting of the loan was then a formality. The only hard bit was getting Richard to remember what his hooky names and addresses were.

The next day, we’d go to the bank and pick up the banker’s draft that Broderick had arranged for us. Then it was on to the showroom, where Richard signed the rest of the paperwork so we could take the car home. Some time in the following couple of days, a little man from ALF arrived and took it away, presumably to be resold as an ex-demonstration model. Interestingly, Andrew Broderick had been right on the button. Not one of the dealers we’d bought cars from had offered us finance through ALF. The chain had pushed all our purchases through Richmond Credit Finance, while the independents had used a variety of lenders. Now, with a dozen cast-iron cases on the stocks, all Broderick had to do was sit back and wait till the dealers finally got round to admitting they’d flogged some metal. Then it would be gumshields time in the car showrooms.

While I was queueing at the bank, the schizophrenic weather had had a personality change. A wind had sprung up from nowhere, throwing needle-sharp rain into my face as I headed back towards the office. Luckily, I was wearing low-heeled ankle boots with my twill jodhpur-cut leggings, so I could jog back without risking serious injury either to any of my major joints or to my dignity. That was my first mistake of the day. There’s nothing Richard likes better than a dishevelled Brannigan. Not because it’s a turn-on; no, simply because it lets him indulge in a rare bit of one-upmanship.

When I got back to the office, damp, scarlet-cheeked and out of breath, my auburn hair in rats’ tails, Richard was of course sitting comfortably in an armchair, sipping a glass of Shelley’s herbal tea, immaculate in the Italian leather jacket I bought him on the last day of our winter break in Florence. His hazel eyes looked at me over the top of his glasses and I could see he was losing his battle not to smile.

‘Don’t say a word,’ I warned him. ‘Not unless you want your first trip in your brand new turbo coupé to end up at the infirmary.’

He grinned. ‘I don’t know how you put up with all this naked aggression, Shelley,’ he said.

‘Once you understand it’s compensatory behaviour for her low self-esteem, it’s easy.’ Shelley did A Level psychology at evening classes. I’m just grateful she didn’t pursue it to degree level.

Ignoring the pair of them, I marched through my office and into the cupboard that doubles as darkroom and ladies’ loo. I towelled my hair as dry as I could get it, then applied the exaggerated amounts of mascara, eye shadow, blusher and lipstick that Mrs Barclay required. I stared critically at the stranger in the mirror. I couldn’t imagine spending my whole life behind that much camouflage. But then, I’ve never wanted to be irresistible to car salesmen.

We hit the garage just after four. The gleaming, midnight blue Gemini turbo super coupé was standing in splendid isolation on the concrete apron at the side of the showroom. Darryl was beside himself with joy when he actually touched the bank draft. The motor trade’s so far down in the doldrums these days that paying customers are regarded with more affection than the Queen Mum, especially ones who don’t spend three days in a war of attrition trying to shave the price by yet another fifty quid. He was so overjoyed, he didn’t even bother to lie. ‘I’m delighted to see you drive off in this beautiful car,’ he confessed, clutching the bank draft with both hands and staring at it. Then he remembered himself and gave us a greasy smile. ‘Because, of course, it’s our pleasure to give you pleasure.’

Richard opened the passenger door for me, and, smarting, I climbed in. ‘Oh, this is real luxury,’ I forced out for Darryl’s benefit, as I stroked the charcoal grey leather. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was anything other than brain-dead. Richard settled in next to me, closing the door with a solid clunk. He turned the key in the ignition, and pressed the button that lowered his window. ‘Thanks, Darryl,’ he said. ‘It’s been a pleasure doing the business.’

‘Pleasure’s all mine, Mr Barclay,’ Darryl smarmed, shuffling sideways as Richard let out the clutch and glided slowly forward. ‘Remember me when Mrs Barclay’s ready for a new luxury vehicle?’

In response, Richard put his foot down. In ten seconds, Darryl Day was just a bad memory. ‘Wow,’ he exclaimed as he moved up and down through the gears in the busy Bolton traffic. ‘This is some motor! Electric wing mirrors, electric sun roof, electric seat adjustment …’

‘Shame about the clockwork driver,’ I said.

By the time we got home, Richard was in love. Although the Gemini coupé was the twelfth Leo car we’d ‘bought’, this was the first example of the newly launched sporty superstar. We’d had to confine ourselves to what was actually available on the premises, and we’d tended to go for the executive saloons that had made Leo one of the major suppliers of fleet cars in the UK. As we arrived outside the pair of bungalows where we live. Richard was still raving about the Gemini.

‘It’s like driving a dream,’ he enthused, pressing the remote control that locked the car and set the alarm.

‘You said that already,’ I muttered as I walked up the path to my house. ‘Twice.’

‘No, but really, Kate, it’s like nothing I’ve ever driven before,’ Richard said, walking backwards up the path.

‘That’s hardly surprising,’ I said. ‘Considering you’ve never driven anything designed after Porsche came up with the Beetle in 1936. Automotive technology has moved along a bit since then.’

He followed me into the house. ‘Brannigan, until I drove that, I’d never wanted to.’

‘Do I gather you want me to talk to Andrew Broderick about doing you a deal to buy the Gemini?’ I asked, opening the fridge. I handed Richard a cold Jupiler and took out a bottle of freshly squeezed pink grapefruit juice.

He opened the drawer for the bottle opener and popped the cap off his beer, looking disconsolate. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. Can’t afford it, Brannigan.’

I didn’t even think about trying to change the mind of a man with an ex-wife and a son to support. I never poke my nose into his finances, and the last thing that would ever make the short journey across his mind is curiosity about my bank balance. We never have to argue about money because of the way we organize our lives. We own adjacent houses, linked by a conservatory built across the back of both of them. That way, we have all the advantages of living together and almost none of the disadvantages.

I opened the freezer and took out a bottle of Polish vodka. It was so cold, the sobs of spirit on the inside of the bottle were sluggish as syrup. I poured an inch into the bottom of a highball glass and topped it up with juice. It tasted like nectar. I put down my glass and gave Richard a hug. He rubbed his chin affectionately on the top of my head and gently massaged my neck.

‘Mmm,’ I murmured. ‘Any plans for tonight?’

‘’Fraid so. There’s a benefit in town for the girlfriend of that guy who got blown away last month in Moss Side. You remember? The innocent bystander who got caught up in the drugs shootout outside the café? Well, she’s four months pregnant, so the local bands have got together to put on a bit of a performance. Can’t not show, sorry.’

‘But you don’t have to go for a while, do you?’ I asked, running my fingers over his shoulder blades in a pattern that experience has demonstrated usually distracts him from minor things like work.

‘Not for ages,’ he responded, nuzzling my neck as planned. Nothing like exploiting a man’s weaknesses, I thought.

I wasn’t the only one into the exploitation game, though. As I grabbed my drink and we did a sideways shuffle towards the bedroom, Richard murmured, ‘Any chance of me taking the Gemini with me tonight?’

I jerked awake with the staring-eyed shock that comes when you’ve not been asleep for long. The light was still on, and my arm hurt as I peeled it off the glossy computer gaming magazine I’d fallen asleep over. I reached for the trilling telephone and barked, ‘Brannigan,’ into it, simultaneously checking the time on the alarm clock. 00:43.