Crack Down by Val McDermid

run-around.” I swallowed the last of my coffee. I should have gone for camomile tea. The last thing I needed was to get even more hyped up.
    â€œDid you get the chance to ask about the Polaroid?” Anything to avoid another unnerving gypsy warning.
    â€œI spoke to a woman DS in Vice. She said she couldn’t think of anyone off the top of her head, but she’d ask around. But the DCI
running Richard’s case doesn’t seem particularly interested in it, probably because in itself it isn’t technically obscene.” Della lit another cigarette, but before she could say more, bodies started flowing through the doors leading from Domestic Arrivals. Judging by the high proportion of men in suits clutching briefcases that seemed as heavy as anchors after a hard day’s meetings, the London shuttle was down. I stood up. “I think this is Davy’s flight,” I said.
    Della was at my side in a flash. She gave me a quick hug, threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t about to be accosted by a small boy, and said, “Stay in touch. I’ll bell you if I hear anything.” And she was gone.
    The first rush had subsided, leaving the stragglers who had had to wait for luggage from the hold. After what felt like a very long time, the double doors swung open on a woman in British Airways uniform, carrying a small holdall. By her side, Davy trotted, looking like he was auditioning for the moppet role in the next Spielberg film, hair flopping over his forehead in a slightly tousled fringe, big brown eyes eager. He was proudly wearing an outfit he’d chosen with his dad on his last visit, topped by the New York Mets jacket Richard had sent him from a recent trip to the States, still too baggy for his solid little frame. Then he saw me. All in a moment, he seemed puzzled, then disappointed. He looked around again, then realizing Richard really wasn’t there, he waved uncertainly at me and half smiled. My heart sank. As far as Davy was concerned, I was clearly a poor substitute. As if I needed the confirmation.
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    It turned out a lot better than I expected. On the way to the car park, I told Davy the lie Richard and I had prearranged. Dad was in Bosnia; he’d had to fly off suddenly because he’d had an exclusive tip that Bob Geldof was out there organizing some sort of Bosnia Aid concert. I almost believed it myself by the time I’d finished the explanation. Davy took it very calmly. I suppose after eight years, he’s grown accustomed to a dad who doesn’t behave quite like other kids’ fathers. At least he’s not shy; that’s one thing that being around Richard and his crazy buddies in rock and journalism has
cured him of. “You remember Chris and Alexis?” I asked him as we drove out of the airport towards the M56.
    He nodded. “Alexis is funny. And Chris is good at drawing and painting and building things with Lego. I like them.”
    â€œWell, they’re going to help me look after you, because I’ve got some work to do over the weekend.”
    â€œCan’t I come with you to work, Kate?” he wheedled. “I want to be a private detective like you. I saw this film and it was in black and white and it had an American detective in it, Mum said he was called Humpty something, and he had a gun. Have you got a gun, Kate?”
    I shook my head. Depressingly, he looked disappointed. “I don’t need one, Davy.”
    â€œWhat about if you were fighting a bad man, and he had a gun? You’d need one then,” he said triumphantly.
    â€œIf I was fighting someone who had a gun, and he knew I had a gun, he’d have to shoot me to win the fight. But if he knows I haven’t got a gun, he only has to hit me. That way I stay alive. And, on balance, I think I prefer being alive.”
    Chris was waiting when we got home. I’d rung ahead to give her ten minutes’ warning, so she was just