Crunch Time Read Online Free Page A

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.
    â€˜I reckon the cops’ll give me bail after I’ve been dealt with for this drink-drive shit.’
    â€˜Did they find anything at your address?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜But there is more stuff?’ he guessed.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Shit,’ he breathed. ‘Five years’ ban and twelve hundred smackers. Utter, utter bastards.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Who are those issues?’
    â€˜Nah, rather not say. Sorry, mate.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜How could you help me out?’ Jagger responded glumly. ‘Shit creek baaht paddle, me,’ he said, playing the victim.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Kitchen sink … what’s your mobile?’
    â€˜Don’t you want me to call you?’
    â€˜I do the calling.’
    â€˜Fair enough.’ Jagger recited his number. Ingram jotted it down on the palm of his hand.
    â€˜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