Crunch Time (3 page)

For a few seconds, his jaw rotating, Jagger seemed as though he would still drive his fist into the woman's face, but then the fight went out of him with a hiss and a flare of the nostrils. ‘Twats,' he uttered.

The cellmate patted him on the back and moved away from the fray. Jagger was still shaking with anger, but he controlled himself by gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

A man in an ASDA suit appeared behind the custody officer. He had a supercilious smirk on his face. He was late thirties, slightly overweight, with a florid, drink-ravaged face. Jagger pinned him as a career detective. Cheap suit, with a know-it-all expression, tie an inch too short.

‘And not only that' – the guy forced a victorious grin on to his face that lasted about a second, one of those ‘gotcha' expressions – ‘you wouldn't have a car to go home in anyway. It's been impounded.'

‘You what? What's—?' Jagger uttered, then his face drained as he realized something and tried to bluff it out, having shot a worried glance in his cellmate's direction which he then tried to cover up with a bit of bluster. ‘There's nowt wrong with that car.'

The detective laughed mirthlessly. ‘Other than the fact it's made up of two other XJSs, both of which were stolen fifteen years ago – so long ago they're not even on the computer anymore … but as you know, that doesn't bother us half as much as the stuff in the boot, does it?' He winked at Jagger, whose shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

‘There wasn't anything in the boot,' Jagger said, his voice a little hoarse.

The ASDA shopper sniggered, then held up a key which he waved in front of Jagger's nose. ‘Well, we can talk about that later, can't we? First things first … I've just got the inspector's authorization to spin your drum, search your hovel, and then I'm one hundred per cent sure we'll have a lot more things to chat about. Would you like me to bring you a change of clothes while I'm there? Or would you rather go to court in a paper suit – or really impress the bench with your sick- and piss-stained suit? Your choice, matey.'

The two cellmates did not see very much of each other over the next four hours, other than to pass shoulder-to-shoulder as they entered and exited interview rooms accompanied by detectives and solicitors. Eventually, just after one o'clock in the afternoon, they found themselves back in their original cell, sitting side by side on the bed with plastic plates on their knees, eating spam fritters and chips, each served with a huge plastic mug of sweet tea and a piece of Swiss roll.

Jagger ate as though he'd been on a starvation diet. The alcohol had more or less cleared from his system to be replaced by a constantly banging head and dry mouth. He was regaining his true self step by step and the food, crap though it was, tasted amazingly wonderful.

His cellmate, on the other hand, simply pushed his food around with his plastic fork.

They had eaten in silence until Jagger – to whom silence seemed intolerable – blurted, ‘I never knew about that Jag … fuck!'

His companion gave him a contemptuous, but amused look. ‘Bollocks,' he said, ‘and I've never exceeded the speed limit.'

‘It's fuckin' true, I tell ya.'

‘Pull the other one,' he said tiredly. ‘Got my own worries.'

Jagger's attention returned to his thin, salty, lukewarm chips. He packed a couple into his mouth and ate with relish.

‘Can have mine if you want.' His cellmate offered his plate.

Jagger stopped chomping. ‘You haven't gozzed on 'em, have you?' he asked, bringing a laugh from the other man. A slight chink in the armour. Jagger took the plate and tipped the food on to his, then proffered his right hand. ‘Frank Jagger … and thanks for this morning, by the way.'

‘Which bit?'

‘Calmin' me down … I was still feeling nasty from the drink, I reckon. I'd've been in real shit if I'd've smacked the bitch one, I suppose.'

‘Deep, deep pooh.'

The man still hadn't shaken Jagger's hand, so Jagger waved it again, encouragingly, and reluctantly they shook. ‘And your name is?'

‘Ingram,' he admitted. ‘Ryan Ingram.' The handshake continued, but Ingram seemed keen to detach himself from the grip. He looked sideways at Jagger. ‘Do I know you? Your face looks a bit familiar.'

‘Been about a bit, I suppose. Seen a bit, done a bit … now it's all gone shit-shaped.'

‘Hence the bender to end all benders?'

‘Blew a hundred and eight, which is pretty good going, I'm told. Well worth a three-year ban and a grand's fine … which I'll never be able to pay, which means I'll never get the cunts off my back.' He exhaled, a woozy sensation coming over him again. ‘Still a bit pissed, I think. Four days does that to a bloke, especially one my age with no friggin' prospects and a real hard cunt breathin' down my neck.' He emitted an exaggerated whump of a sigh, wondering if he should go on to burden Ingram with further tales of woe. Or would it be too much? Would Ingram just close down? The building of a relationship, as Jagger knew, was a delicate thing. Too much, too soon could destroy something even before it began.

However, Ingram asked, ‘What was in the “not-stolen” car that the detective was so interested in?'

Jagger froze. He tapped his nose, put his plate down on the bed, stood and crossed to the stainless steel toilet in the corner.

‘Actually,' he said, pointing around the cell, then to his ears, to indicate the possibility of hidden listening devices, ‘I've no idea. Whatever it is' – he placed his forefinger on the recessed toilet flush button in the wall – ‘they must've planted it.' He pushed and the toilet flushed. He went back and sat next to Ingram and whispered three words into his ear, using his hands and the running water as a sound barrier.

Even when they were handcuffed and waiting in the holding cage in readiness for court, Ingram still did not divulge the reason for his own arrest to Jagger, remaining tight-lipped and mysterious. All Jagger had learned was that Ingram had been interviewed and charged with a minor offence and had bail refused by the custody officer for some spurious reason. Two other prisoners were also in the cage and Jagger did not get further opportunity to speak to Ingram as they were herded out into a van and conveyed to court. They were then placed in another holding cell to await their appearance, their handcuffs removed. This time Jagger managed to ease himself on to the bench seat next to Ingram, who looked disdainful at this invasion of his personal space and shuffled a couple of inches away from him.

‘I reckon the cops'll give me bail after I've been dealt with for this drink-drive shit.'

‘Did they find anything at your address?'

‘Nope, just my clothes.' Jagger indicated his change of attire, out of the zoot suit and into a real one. He gave Ingram a sly look.

‘But there is more stuff?' he guessed.

‘Yeah, and that's one of my problems …' Jagger's trap shut tight as the cell door opened and a Group 4 security guard beckoned to him. ‘Mega cash-flow problems, coupled with an angry man.' He shrugged and stood up. ‘Maybe I could do with being sent down. At least I'd be out of circulation. See ya, mate – all the best, whatever you're in for.'

The court appearance was short, sharp and shocking, not assisted by the fact that, according to court records, this was Jagger's third drink-driving conviction in ten years.

He sat quietly in the dock and let it all happen, allowing the duty solicitor to argue his case – pretty weakly – for him. In the end the magistrates banned him from driving for five years, fined him £1,200 and ordered him to attend an alcohol rehabilitation programme, the details of which he would be informed of in due course. If he failed or refused to attend this, he was told sternly, he would be returned to court and a custodial sentence would be considered instead.

He meekly promised to attend.

Then, shell-shocked by the severity of the judgement, a muted Jagger was led back down to the holding area and pushed back into the cell with Ingram. He sat down heavily and put his head in his hands, emitting a loud groan. The other two prisoners were beckoned out, leaving Jagger alone with Ingram.

‘Shit,' he breathed. ‘Five years' ban and twelve hundred smackers. Utter, utter bastards.'

‘Doesn't mean you really have to stop driving, does it?'

Jagger's eyes appeared from behind his hands and he grinned. ‘Just don't get caught, eh? The fine's an issue, though … as well as my other monetary problems and the associated, er, personal issues.' He was attempting to come up with some sort of nicety to call the people who were baying for his blood and money.

‘Who are those issues?'

‘Nah, rather not say. Sorry, mate.'

‘OK.' Ingram shrugged. There was a pause, during which Jagger became aware that Ingram wanted to say something. Jagger didn't push it, simply allowed nature to take its course. ‘I might be able to help you out,' Ingram said in a low voice. ‘I'll need your mobile number, though.'

‘How could you help me out?' Jagger responded glumly. ‘Shit creek baaht paddle, me,' he said, playing the victim.

‘Give me your number, OK?'

Jagger spread his hands. ‘Pen? Paper? Business card? Don't see any of those things on me.'

Ingram leaned forwards and reached down to his feet, his fingers sliding down the inside of one of his socks, reappearing with a small ballpoint pen of the type usually found in betting shops or Argos stores. Jagger smirked. ‘Got anything stashed up your nose?'

‘Kitchen sink … what's your mobile?'

‘Don't you want me to call you?'

‘I do the calling.'

‘Fair enough.' Jagger recited his number. Ingram jotted it down on the palm of his hand.

‘I'll be in touch. Don't know where, don't know when.'

The cell door creaked open. The detective who had earlier spoken to Jagger in the custody area, the one possibly dressed in the fifteen-quid ASDA suit, stood in the frame. He beckoned Jagger with a stumpy finger and the expression a headmaster might have displayed before inflicting pain on a student. Jagger rose reluctantly, nodded at Ingram and followed the jack out.

The evening was cold. A bitter wind blew through the streets of Salford. Jagger stood outside the police station waiting for the taxi the custody officer had been cajoled into calling for him. He shivered, but grinned inwardly. It had been a good day, all told. Things could have gone wrong and he could so easily have ended up in detention, but it had worked out as planned – so far.

A black cab pulled up. ‘Jagger?'

‘That's me,' said the released prisoner, and climbed into the back of it.

‘Any relation?' the cabby asked. He twisted around and looked at Jagger's face. ‘No, guess not … where to, pal?'

‘Deansgate, please. Drop me off near Waterstone's.'

The pub was in a tight side street off Deansgate. It was a narrow building, bustling with a cross-section of clientele, and offered rooms by the hour. Jagger edged in and eased past the punters, emerging at the bar where, after an interminable wait, he ordered a large Coke and a bag of crisps. He was thirsty and famished, but he could not have faced another beer or wine. In fact his liver felt like a brick lodged just below his ribcage. It would probably need a few weeks of convalescence before it became pliable again.

As he paid for his goods, a woman sidled up beside him, blonde, about five-seven, trim, her nicely bobbed hair framing her face. She deliberately barged against him in a gentle way, almost causing him to spill his drink. He turned in a huff, ready to unleash a mouthful, but his annoyance morphed into pleasure on seeing who it was. They caught each other's eyes, but neither spoke. She did not apologize, but ordered herself a drink – white wine and soda – then turned to Jagger, who was placing a huge crinkle-cut crisp into his mouth, grilled steak flavour.

‘I've got a room upstairs for an hour,' she said, leaning against the bar.

‘Will that be long enough?' His tongue pushed out his cheek suggestively, causing her to laugh.

‘How long do you need?'

‘I can go on for ever once I get started,' he boasted.

‘So I've heard. Room two, up the stairs, second right. I'm sure you'll like it. It's very tasteful given the nature of its general usage.' She pushed herself off the bar and disappeared through the crowd. Jagger popped another crisp into his mouth and washed it down with a gulp of Coke.

Room two was furnished nicely, for the price. It had a four-poster bed with a very flowery quilt and curtains; a table and two chairs; an en-suite bathroom for the necessary clean up, pre- or post whatever activity might be taking or have taken place. There was also a strong medicinal tang to the atmosphere.

The woman from the bar was sitting at the table set with two dinner places. She stood up as Jagger entered, extended her hand and they shook.

‘Thought you might like a decent meal,' she said, indicating the place settings. ‘The food is basic, but pretty good here.'

Jagger took a very deep breath, then exhaled. He was, and looked, exhausted. He plonked down at the table and regarded the blonde woman. She was in her late thirties, extremely good-looking now that her hair had been attended to. Last time he'd seen her was when it had been pinned sharply back off her face and she had been regarding him with harsh eyes across a custody desk whilst he had threatened to punch her lights out.

‘I could do with a meal and a very long sleep, actually.'

‘Actually, I've booked the room for the night. Thought you'd need a heads-down.'

‘Thoughtful.' Jagger eyed the room, wondering how much action it had seen over the years. His mind boggled, then he looked back at the blonde, who was watching him with a half-smile, a million miles away from her earlier expression.