by Jane Ryan
Chris cocked an eye in my direction. ‘He were an evil bugger, Flannery.’
I couldn’t disagree.
‘Reckon we’ve gone as far as we can on our own,’ said Chris. ‘Why don’t we go and visit our old friend Mr Burgess? See if he can corroborate any of this?’ He rubbed his hands together.
‘In Winson Green?’ I said.
‘No.’ Chris shook his head. ‘Strangeways.’
Even the name was terrifying.
Chapter 59
Strangeways was a fitting name. A maximum-security prison with layers and levels of security behind imposing Victorian architecture. A purpose-built prison. The architect dreamed of six prisoner wings converging on a centre tower, in imitation of a snowflake. The centre was a tower known as the Rotunda. There’s nothing like a self-deluded Victorian for building cages of public misery and calling them art.
Amina stayed in Holloway Circus. There was no need for law-abiding civilians to be exposed to maximum-security male prisons. Few prisons bothered me, truth be known, but Strangeways was different. Unhappiness and discontent boiled through those wings and belched out of the seventy-one-metre-high ventilation tower. The November sky was bruised from its fumes.
Chris had organised for Mike Burgess to be brought up from the cells and we waited in a room embedded in the Governor’s wing.
‘Why is Burgess here?’ I said.
‘Keep him safe, they’ve got some of the best segregation units in Britain.’
I raised an eyebrow.
‘You’ll see.’
The door rattled and Mike Burgess came in. He wasn’t cuffed as he presented no threat.
The prison officer nodded at Chris and they exchanged pleasantries about their families. ‘Back in twenty minutes, Chris,’ he said and closed the door.
If I was surprised at the shortness of the interview it dissolved at the sight of Mike Burgess. I was shocked.
The big, blustering fool I’d pegged Burgess for was gone, in its place was a scared man living inside his former husk. Mike Burgess looked as scraped out in the inside as he was scarred on the outside. He sat down and folded in on himself.
I indicated to the side of his face – the skin was raw and smeared.
‘One of the prisoners in Winson Green threw a kettle of boiling water on him,’ said Chris. ‘Bastard put sugar in it. Makes it stick and burn deeper. You all right, Mike, lad?’
Chris’s tone was kind and the way an emasculated Mike Burgess put his face up as though feeling sunshine, was pitiful.
‘Thanks for putting me here, Chris.’
‘You’re all right, lad. Not long to go, last two years of your sentence is suspended so you’ll be out in no time.’
Chris looked at me, signalling questions should be brief and to the point.
‘Why’s she here?’ said Mike. An old badger, who’d known too many teeth in its hide.
‘Just over visiting Chris, Mike, nothing to alarm you.’
‘I’ll not talk to anyone but you, Chris.’
There was no comfort Mike Burgess could get from my words, so I kept quiet.
‘Mike’s had a rough old road. Managed to get through those first couple of attacks, but this last one were the end, weren’t it? You tried to top yourself, didn’t you? Got a bit of washing line from an obliging prisoner. Might’ve been the end if one of the prison officers hadn’t found you, right, Mike?’
He nodded, his once raven hair the colour of city snow.
‘Took you here, I did. Kept you out of harm’s way, pulled in a favour or two to do it, but you’re all right now? Aren’t you, Mike?’
Chris tried to get Burgess to engage. Which he did, by lifting his eyes for a fraction of a second each time Chris ended with a question. A frightened smile on his mouth.
‘But you never told me the truth, did you, Mike? Why you were attacked so many times? You said it was money, they were looking for cash off you, for their friends on the outside. And it were a credible enough story. But it’s not true.’
Mike’s eyes flickered.
‘Oh, I’m sure money’s at the root of it, but it’s not local lads giving the orders, is it?’
Mike’s muscle memory kicked in and he shook, a trembling of old pleated skin dangling on a coat hanger.
‘Come on, lad, don’t have me change this situation.’ Chris circled a hairy finger at his surroundings. ‘It’s not what either of us want and I’ve shown I can keep you safe, eh?’
Mike Burgess sucked on a nicotine-stained finger – somewhere in his memory he was puffing one of the Havana cigars he was so fond of and trying to conjure the sweet cherry tobacco smell.
‘You’ve kept me safe, Chris. And I’m grateful, but you can’t keep Lydia safe.’
‘We can, but from who?’
Mike’s milky eyes sharpened. ‘Fuentes cartel. I’m not testifying against them. They’ll kill her, they’ve said as much.’
‘OK, lad, but fill in a few gaps for me. This is off the record.’ Chris looked around and put both his hands out. ‘We need to know what we’re up against.’
Mike gave a morbid laugh, wheezy from prison cigarettes.
‘You’ve no clue what you’re up against. They’ve said the same to Anne, told her to stay put and do her time or Lydia will pay the price.’
‘You correspond?’ I said. Surprise had the words out of my mouth before my brain could shut it down – the bitterness between Anne and Mike Burgess at their sentencing was acidic.
‘What’s it to do with you? The Judge never said we couldn’t and I know why you’re here.’ He poked a bent finger at me. ‘You’ve found out Fuentes were Flannery’s supplier and he were my supplier. Thought you were so smart, didn’t you, lady? Thought you saw through us all with what happened to Emer, but you knew nothing. I’d have given anything to get the case closed. Fuentes lurking around watching everything. Flannery informing on me every step of the way. He’s an ambitious bastard, always wanted me out of the way so he could take over the Data Centre operation. Suits him I’m banged up.’
Mike wasn’t in the loop. I chanced a side glance at Chris and he read it.
‘Flannery’s dead,’ said Chris. ‘Fuentes had him shot in Barcelona.’
Mike’s dog-eared body crumpled in on itself. ‘Can you keep me here, Chris?’
‘Course I will, lad, but you have to help me. How did this start?’
‘It was never me who started this. Fuentes found Richie Corrigan in the seventies. He worked for some dodgy banker and they set up money-laundering on a big scale. The cartels were always looking for ways to clean their money. Richie was in this business a long time before me. It was his idea to buy the Data Centre. Don’t let them get me, Chris.’
Fear dissolved holes in Mike Burgess, and he babbled his daughter’s name over and over.
It pelted rain as we drove out of Strangeways. The urgent rhythm of the drops matched my desire to put as much distance as possible between myself and the prison. Chris fixed his front mirror and toggled the wing mirror on my side a fraction. It was a sign of nerves.
‘Well? What now?’ he said.
Chris was good at reading body language and putting people at their ease – it was his nature. So I was sure he knew what was coming.
‘We’ve a lot of intel. Much of it unactionable in isolation,’ I said.
‘Meaning we’ve not got the firepower to go after Fuentes.’
‘No, but we can work with Interpol, try and get on their task force in-country or at least put a case together for our evidence and claims.’
‘Christ! It could take years! No chance you’d leave it?’ Chris looked at me with searing eye contact.
‘Can’t do that, Chris.’
‘What about your pal, Richie Corrigan?’
‘With the stuff Amina’s got we can take every penny off him and I believe money’s his motivator. Do you remember his wife? She took off to the South of France?’
‘Sort of, something about her wanting your da
d to join her.’
I snorted. ‘In her dreams. But you should see the place, size of a hotel and renovated top to bottom. It’s stunning, yet I never twigged how Richie paid for it. I believed his business covered it. Still I’ll be letting CAB know all about Mrs Corrigan’s chateau. They can add it to the pile of confiscated assets.’
‘Who’ll head up the investigation? Will you get a chance to be on it?’
‘No, I’ll be a witness, as will my father – we’ll be helping with enquiries – due to Mum’s unwitting involvement, but I trust DCS Graham Muldoon. Our problem is time. We may not have enough of it. Corrigan’s a flight risk. At least we’ve found Fuentes’ informant in the DOCB, so that channel’s closed off.’
‘You had an informer?’ said Chris.
Chapter 60
The sky was full of grey wool treaded together and drenched in rain, you could smell it straining at the edges. I had asked to meet Paul at his house, not having any desire to bring my personal business into the Square before I was forced to. Paul’s home was a sandy coloured brick mews at the back of Waterloo Road. It was near the centre of town, but an expensive leafy hamlet with huge beech trees, now denuded of leaves. My sense of smell had been in overdrive the last couple of weeks – I had read somewhere it was to do with pregnancy and could be the reason I was so sick in the mornings.
When Paul opened the door the musky male scent that was his alone greeted me, weakening my resolve.
‘Come in,’ he said. His mouth was open in a grin reaching his eyes. ‘How was Birmingham?’
‘Good, we got back late last night. I won’t stay long.’
‘OK, but at least come in. Have a coffee?’
He walked down his hall, the soft carpet stealing his steps. He was barefoot and the house was warm so I shut the door against the stinging cold outside. I could smell fresh coffee and warm bread, and my stomach churned. I’d had a couple of gingernut biscuits and although nothing would have suited my taste buds more than toast with marmalade, my stomach wasn’t going to allow anything else for a couple of hours.
‘You said it was important?’ said Paul.
I stood in his neat kitchen – wooden floors and stone sink – it didn’t strike me as a family kitchen. I checked out his notice board.
‘You’re still diving?’
Something passed over his face I couldn’t name – it might have been surprise at my blatant nosy-parkering.
‘Not so much, those pictures are old. Can I get you coffee?’ He was smiling and tamping down a shot of ground coffee from Darboven. ‘You got me hooked on this stuff.’
I gave a small smile. ‘I won’t have coffee today.’
His look of surprise would have been comical if I weren’t so keyed up.
‘Bridge, you’re pacing around and it’s a pretty tight space,’ he said.
Small talk was never my forte and the more I tried to slide something into a conversation the less it succeeded.
‘I’m pregnant.’
He stopped mid-tamp.
‘I wanted you to know, but it’s important you understand I don’t want anything from you. In fact, if you have any role in my baby’s life, it will be at my behest.’
There was an imprecise, broken piece of time where neither of us knew which end we were holding, so let it roll away.
His body language was unreadable.
‘Is it . . . ? You’re sure you’re pregnant?’
What he wanted to say was too gauche and he’d tapered it off into another question.
‘I’m just over twenty weeks.’
‘Jesus!’ His eyes flicked back and forth trying to calculate, but we hadn’t slept together often. ‘The time in the stationery cupboard?’
‘Yes, end of June. We were halfway finished with those stupid evaluations O’Connor had me doing after the Emer Davidson case. We were a bit reckless.’
There was no point in continuing, he got the picture.
His face softened at the edges and he pressed his hand to his chest. ‘Are you OK? Do you feel tired? How come you’re not showing?’ His eyes scanned my body. ‘I can’t see anything, apart from being a bit pale you’re no different. Maybe around the eyes?’
‘What? Wrinkled and wrecked-looking?’
We laughed and it was a wrench releasing a compacted bolt.
‘Why didn’t you say something before now? Why didn’t you let me come to the scans? I would’ve helped. I want to help.’ Realisation light-switched across his face. ‘What were you doing chasing that mongrel Flannery? You could have been killed . . .’
‘This is why I didn’t tell anyone. And you should know I haven’t been to see any obstetrician yet.’
‘Then how do you know you’re pregnant? Might it be the menopause?’
I looked at him. ‘No, apart from the obvious of my period being months late I did a couple of chemist tests. I’m pregnant, Paul. There’s no doubt. You’re the only person I’m involved with. But this is a courtesy call. I’ll be doing this on my own.’
A fear, from a much younger, frightened version of myself came to contradict me.
He crossed over and held me close. His body radiated heat. ‘It’s OK, Bridge, we can do this together. You’re not on your own.’
I took his arms away from me. The comfort came too easy and I distrusted a thing not fought or worked for.
‘I’m fine, Paul. I had a bit of a challenge to accept the pregnancy.’
How much to tell of my feelings of inadequacy?
‘If I have what’s needed to be a mother. I’m not sure I have, but I love and want this baby. All we’ve had is a series of one-night stands.’
‘Ah Bridge! When you say it like that it sounds awful! This changes everything. I want to be in a relationship with you. I care about you.’
This was costing him. He leaned on the countertop, white bones pressed out from the flesh of his knuckles.
‘I haven’t been so hot on the whole relationship thing. My divorce was a mess and I didn’t want a relationship with someone at work in case I messed it up.’ He gave a self-effacing laugh. ‘So now that I have messed it up, please don’t shut me out. Not if we’re having a child.’
My emotions were a dizzy mess and letting me down. I had expected a terse nod and to be sent on my way, not a do-over because of our baby.
‘Paul, I have no expectations of you. We haven’t had the best of starts and a baby’s not going to suddenly make it better.’
‘Yes, but what will your colleagues think! That bog bastard O’Shea will beat me to a pulp.’
He was laughing, but underneath the humour a nub of panic.
‘You think the lads will have a pop at you if you don’t stand by me? What year is it? 1980?’
‘No! No, that’s not it, but I’m older than you, Bridge. I’ve been married before. People will blame me and we’re at an age now where we need to do things right.’
‘Christ, you sound like Richie Corrigan!’
‘What?’
I swiped his question away. ‘Paul, you need to respect my wishes. And you can take that worried look off your face. Do I strike you as the type of woman who invites questions on her private life?’
He gave a tight laugh.
‘Well then, I’ll leave you to your breakfast and we’ll carry on as usual,’ I said.
‘What about scans and the safety of the baby, where are you –’
He got the flat of my palm. ‘I’ll let you know my plans in due course.’
I left in a hurry. I didn’t have a whole lot of plans and needed to research how to give my baby the best start. The first twenty weeks were hardly textbook. My phone rang and Amina’s number flashed on my dial.
‘Hi, Amina.’
‘Hey, Bridge. You on your way in? Muldoon’s looking for you.’
‘Yes, I’m on my way in.’
I paused, unsure of my next line.
‘Amina, I’m pregnant.’
‘Oh!’
Her thoughts braide
d down the phone as squad-room sounds filled the silence on her end.
‘Are you OK? Is Paul the father? Can I help?’
‘I’m fine, Amina.’ Her buzzing excitement was infectious. ‘Paul is the father but he’s not in the picture. I’ll be doing this by myself.’
The rightness of my words was a comfort.
‘Listen, I don’t pretend to understand your choices, don’t understand some of my own, and it’s your decision to have your baby by yourself. But that decision shouldn’t mean you’re alone.’
I laughed, hearing the echo of my own words from weeks ago.
Her laughter came back at me. ‘I want to be there when you tell Liam you’re pregnant.’
‘He might be able to help – his sister’s had four children. He’ll know her obstetrician.’
‘Careful, Bridge, Liam will want to be your birthing partner.’ She was enjoying herself. ‘Well, this is probably as good a time as any. I found your mam’s baby.’
A silence so thick it could envelop my hand, if I reached out to it.
‘Will I go on, Bridge?’
‘Yes.’ A gulping sound. ‘Please, Amina.’
‘His name is Ben Williams. He was adopted by a couple in Ohio – Meredith and John Williams. I don’t have much more, but he got out of that Mother and Baby Home.’
I had pulled the car over, tears spilling down my face. ‘Thanks, Amina.’
‘Want me to check some more?’
‘Not at the moment.’
For now it was enough that Ben Williams existed, out of the range of Richie Corrigan and his ilk.
Chapter 61
Muldoon had his head in his hands. It was no more than a glimpse as the door closed and his secretary barred my way, but his head was bowed.
‘He’s expecting me,’ I said.
Ms Goddard eyed me as if I had access denied stamped on my forehead.
‘Wait here,’ she said.
I noted she didn’t rap on the Muldoon’s door, instead walking in and half closing it behind her. Their voices were too low to catch any conversation. Muldoon walked out wearing a navy fleece, giving no indication of his rank, followed by his harried-looking secretary. She trailed him to the lifts, worry furrowing her forehead.