Crack Down (PI Kate Brannigan)
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'Crime writing of the very highest order ...Kate Brannigan has turned into the most interesting sleuthess around' The Times There was only one reason Manchester-based private eye Kate Brannigan was prepared to let her boyfriend help out with the investigation into a car sales fraud - nothing bad could happen. But by now Kate should know that with Richard you have to expect the unexpected. With the unexpected being Richard behind bars, Kate seems to be the obvious choice to look after his eight-year-old son - who proves even more troublesome than his father. Kate finds herself dragged into a world of drug traffickers, child pornographers, fraudsters and violent gangland enforcers...bringing her face to face with death in the most terrifying investigation of her career.
enough to knock me into shape for the night. My lightweight walking boots; my ripped denim decorating jeans over multi-colored leggings; a Bob Marley T-shirt I won at a rock charity dinner; and a baggy flannel shirt that belonged to my granddad that I keep for sentimental reasons. I tucked my auburn hair into a dayglo green baseball cap, and slapped on some make-up that made me look like an anemic refugee from Transylvania. Grunge meets acid house. I found Chris in front of the television,
thousand cars a week get stolen in Manchester, did you know that?” I shook my head. “And two-thirds of them are never recovered. Bet you didn’t know that.” Never mind the Mr. Cool image, this guy had the soul of a train spotter in an anorak. Ignoring him, I went on, “Only, it’s not really my car, it’s my boyfriend’s and he’d kill me if anything happened to it.” “What kind is it?” he asked. “Peugeot 205. Nothing fancy, just the standard one.” “You’re probably all right, then.” He leaned his
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 Honors 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
a lab stool under it. Getting in was the hard part. Doing the business with the camera was easy. I just started by the doors and worked my way through the shed, photographing the battered equipment, the jars of chemicals, the lists of instructions taped to the walls above the benches, and the plastic bags of white crystalline powder that made my gums numb. I don’t know a lot about the drug world, but it looked to me as if there was much, much more than a bit of crack coming out of Jammy James’s
against the wall, on a level with my hips. Then, gritting my teeth, I leaned back, taking my weight on my arms again, and swung my other leg up, bracing it against the wall on the other side of the pipe. With all my strength, I straightened my legs, pulling back against the handcuffs as hard as I could, my weight lending maximum force to my efforts. At first, nothing happened. The cuffs dug into my hands, thankfully in a different place to the weals from my earlier suspension, but nothing moved.