Free Crack Down by Val McDermid Page B

but at least you’ve got a fair chance that he’s going to speak English, yeah? So she fills in all the forms to be taken on as a patient, then makes an appointment to see him about her back problem. She walks into the surgery, and what does she find? Straight from Karachi, Dr. Thomas Wynn Ellis, product of the Christian orphanage, color of a bottle of HP sauce! She was sick as a parrot!”
    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.
    â€œNo,” 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 humor 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.”
    â€œDitto,” 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-togethersoon 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 favor, 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?”
    â€œWe’re friends, aren’t we?”
    â€œYeah, and one good turn deserves the lion’s share of the duvet.”
    â€œGo 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.”
    â€œWhy d’you suppose that line terrifies me?” I said, in a weak attempt at our usual friendly banter.
    Alexis ran a hand through her wild black hair. Coupled with her pale skin and the dark smudges under her eyes, I sometimes think she looks worryingly like one of Dracula’s victims in the Francis Ford Coppola version. Luckily, her linguistic vigor usually dispels such ethereal notions pretty damn quick. “Shit, KB, if that’s the best you can do, there’s clearly something serious going down here,” she said. “C’mon, girl, spit it out.”
    â€œRichard’s been arrested,” I said. “He was technically driving a stolen car that not-so-technically had two kilos of crack in the boot.”
    Alexis just stared at me. She even ignored her burning cigarette. The woman who had heard it all could be shaken after all. “You’re at the wind-up,” she finally said.
    I shook my