by Helen Black
‘So, what do you know about this Daisy Clarke business?’ asked Bucky.
Amira shrugged. ‘I was called out to something going off in Carter Street. It’s not my usual area but a lot of units had got caught up in an arson attack on the Crosshills estate.’ It had been a big deal. A plastic bottle of petrol through the window. Two houses up in flames, a family having to escape out of an upstairs window, including a couple of toddlers.
‘I heard about that,’ said Bucky.
‘Like I say, I headed over to Carter Street, and when I got there Daisy was covered with blood and screaming blue murder,’ said Amira.
‘Happy to cooperate?’ Bucky asked.
‘Happy? She all but jumped in the squad car, telling me we had to drive around until we picked up the punter who’d done it.’
‘And when you found him she made a statement? Without any nudging from you?’ Bucky asked.
Amira laughed. She knew what Bucky was getting at, but Daisy had been calling Rance every cunt from here to Christmas and had needed no persuasion.
‘And what about this retraction of hers? What do you know about that?’ asked Bucky.
‘I know she called me and left a message,’ Amira replied. ‘She was obviously off her head or stressed or both, talking in circles that she can’t go through with it.’ Amira put up a finger. ‘Not that it wasn’t true about Rance attacking her, but that she couldn’t go through with coming to court. Not the same thing.’
‘Have you spoken to her about it?’
Amira shook her head. ‘I called but she didn’t answer.’
Bucky smiled, clearly satisfied.
‘So, where’s this solicitor that’s making all the fuss?’ Amira asked.
Bucky looked around, her gaze resting on a woman in high heels with impossibly glossy hair, tapping on her iPhone. Amira pulled her jacket around her to cover the stain on her shirt.
Chapter 7
September 1985
There’s a riot going off in somewhere called Handsworth. It’s on the telly now. Buildings on fire, lines of boys throwing stones and bottles at the police.
‘What they doing that for?’ Jay asks.
‘Cos they’re angry,’ I say. ‘And they don’t know what else to do.’
Jay laughs. ‘That’s just daft.’
I watch him pull a face at Crystal, trying to get a rise out of her, but not managing it. Our Crystal’s a quiet one at the best of times but since Mam’s been in hospital she’s settled into a sort of wary stillness. Jay gives up and pokes Frankie instead.
‘Pack it in,’ I shout.
One of the lads on the screen lights a rag that he’s stuffed into a bottle. He throws it high into the air, like a shooting star. When it lands a couple of feet from the police, it explodes, making them move back. Some bloke is saying they’ll have to send in the army to sort it all out. Another one tries to talk to the rioters, but they don’t want to know. Eventually one pulls a woolly scarf round his face and moves towards the microphone.
‘Why are you doing this?’ the reporter asks. ‘Why are you attacking the police?’
‘We can’t take no more.’ The boy’s voice is muffled by his scarf. ‘We take it and take it, until we just can’t do it no more.’
The reporter tries to ask him something else, but the boy’s not listening, instead he picks up a brick and lobs it.
‘Daft,’ Jay says again.
I shake my head. I don’t think it’s daft at all.
There’s the sound of the key in the door and three pairs of eyes look to me for what to do.
‘Say hello, then go to bed,’ I tell the kids.
Dad walks in. He’s had a few but he’s not drunk-drunk. ‘Chips.’ He waves a parcel wrapped in newspaper. ‘And curry sauce.’
Jay and Crystal both hate curry sauce but I give them the dead eye and fetch some plates from the kitchen.
Good as gold, everybody scoffs their chips, Jay and Crystal avoiding the pool of yellow shite I made sure was right on the edge of their plates. Frankie, who’s not got a fussy bone in his body, wolfs the lot, licking his plate for good measure. ‘The kids had best be in bed now,’ I say.
Dad nods. ‘Aye. Me as well. Busy day tomorrow.’
Doing what? He stays in bed all morning, then spends the afternoons pinballing from the pub to the bookie’s. If he backs a winner, the land-lord of the Hope and Anchor will see him again. If not, he’ll watch telly and shout at us.
Mam’s promised that as soon as she gets out of hospital, she’ll sort him out. I’ve asked a load of times what she’s planning, but she just taps the side of her nose and says what I don’t know won’t hurt me. In the meantime, I’ve to keep him sweet. Make sure the kids don’t drive him crackers so he does something stupid.
I pick up Frankie, feeling his damp bum where his nappy’s leaked. He should be potty-trained by now. ‘Night, Dad,’ I say.
‘Night, Lib.’ I head upstairs, wishing I could stuff a rag into a bottle of petrol and set it alight.
Liberty checked through her email. She’d been away from her desk for two days now, and although Tina was keeping things under control, there were a number of things that needed her attention. There was also a message from Ronald.
To: Liberty Chapman
From: Ronald Tate
Re: callme.com
I had a little drink with Charlie Rance last night at the club.
Seems the merger is going ahead. I assured him that his golden boy would soon be back in the bosom of his family, which pleased him no end. Call me with news, preferably of the good variety.
Ciao
Ronald
Liberty exhaled a long breath. She hated that Ronald was on little-drink terms with Charles Rance. How did he do that? Was there a club they all belonged to? When she did the work on this merger, would they let her join? It was all so unfair. She was smart. Smarter than most of the lawyers she knew. And she worked three times as hard. Yet her entry to the next level was dependent on securing the freedom of a man dogs wouldn’t piss on.
She spotted Bucky watching her, saying something to a police-woman flanking her. She waved and Bucky waved back, but the policewoman just scowled. Liberty slid her phone into her bag and walked over.
‘This is Amira Hassani,’ said Bucky. ‘The officer in the case.’
Liberty held out her hand. Hassani gazed upon it as if Liberty had offered a used tissue. Then she grabbed it, the skin of her own hand flawless, the colour of dark honey, gave one firm pump and removed it as quickly as possible. ‘I hear you’ve been in contact with Daisy Clarke,’ she said.
‘That’s right,’ Liberty replied.
Hassani’s stance was combative. Feet planted apart, shoulders squared. ‘Why?’
‘I wanted to ask her some questions about her statement,’ Liberty replied.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ said Hassani.
‘I’m perfectly entitled to speak to any witness in the case.’
Hassani shook her head. She had long, thick hair – good hair – pulled into one rope of plait. ‘No one is entitled to hound a victim to talk them out of giving evidence.’
Liberty raised an eyebrow. She liked the younger woman’s style of giving no fucks, but she couldn’t let the assertion lie. ‘I didn’t hound anyone. I simply went to Miss Clarke’s . . . place of work, and I certainly did not talk her out of anything. Frankly, I didn’t need to.’
Liberty thought she caught sight of a smirk loitering at the corner of Bucky’s mouth. Enjoying the show, no doubt.
‘So you turned up at the Black Cherry and then what happened?’ Hassani demanded.
‘Miss Clarke wasn’t there,’ Liberty replied. ‘I left a message for her and her employer arranged for me to meet her the next morning.’
Hassani threw up her hands. ‘Her employer? Do you mean Jay Greenwood?’
Liberty reddened at the tone Hassani used when stating her brother’s name and gave a small nod.
‘Jay Greenw
ood is not Daisy’s employer. He’s a pimp. A lowlife. Living off girls who have no other means of supporting themselves than showing their tits to strangers.’
Liberty felt her blush deepen and prayed her makeup was doing its job.
‘If Jay Greenwood had anything to do with this, then it’s definitely dodgy,’ Hassani added.
Liberty knew she had to close this down. Without realizing it, the policewoman was making the situation all too personal. She turned to Bucky. ‘We can stand here all day, discussing the possible reasons for Miss Clarke’s decision.’ She put up her hands to restrain another onslaught from Hassani while still looking at Bucky. ‘But that’s going to waste a lot of precious time, which, given I’m paid by the hour, is a lot less worrying for me than for you, Miss Buckwood. Why don’t we go straight to the horse’s mouth and call Miss Clarke?’
‘I’d rather discuss this with her in person,’ said Hassani.
And I’d rather be in my office right now, asking Tina to bring me a caramel latte, thought Liberty. ‘The clock’s ticking,’ she said to Bucky.
Out of nowhere, Bucky gave a hard and dirty chuckle. ‘And Acosta’s going to rip me a new arsehole when the alarm goes off.’ She put a hand on Hassani’s shoulder and squeezed.
‘Fine,’ said Hassani, and pulled out her mobile with a weary sigh. ‘I tried yesterday but she’s not answering.’ She scrolled through her contacts and pressed. After a moment she smiled, triumphant. ‘Voicemail.’
Liberty swallowed a groan. Now what? She tried desperately to remember Raj’s advice. List the case to try to get it dismissed or at the very least secure her client’s release from Monster Mansion. ‘Bail,’ she blurted out.
Hassani and Bucky stared at her.
‘What?’ Liberty asked. ‘You can’t get hold of Miss Clarke at the moment but in due course you will. In the meantime you must agree to bail.’
‘No way.’ Hassani crossed her arms. ‘Absolutely no way.’
Liberty racked her brain for an ancient memory from law school. What were the grounds for objecting to bail? There was a vague recollection gathering dust at the back of her mind. Seriousness of the offence? Beating someone up certainly seemed serious to her, but was it in the great scheme of things? If there was a sliding scale with speeding at one end and double murder at the other, where did an assault like this sit?
‘Hang on a mo. This is a bloody serious case,’ Bucky stated, answering Liberty’s question. ‘Punching somebody in a bar fight is one thing, but taking a chunk out of a prostitute with your teeth? That’s Jack the Ripper territory. And there’s the small matter of your client being extremely rich.’
‘That’s not a crime,’ Liberty said. ‘Yet.’
Bucky laughed again. In a different set of circumstances, Liberty could imagine going for a drink with her. She looked like she could hold her beer and would tell a good tale.
‘It gives the suspect a lot more options to abscond than your average punter,’ said Bucky. ‘He could book a ticket out of the country like that.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘There would be no point in offering any sort of surety. The family are so loaded they could afford to lose it without a second thought.’
Liberty thought that was wrong. She’d met a lot of filthily wealthy people and they didn’t waste their money. Where the poor would spend their last farthing and roll the dice until next pay day, the rich were careful with their pretty green. ‘He could hand in his passport,’ she suggested. ‘Maybe he could give a specific address where he would stay in this area and the police could check he was there. Just until you can verify the situation with Miss Clarke.’
Bucky patted Liberty’s forearm. ‘The coppers are a bit too busy round here to do personal house calls. But he could sign in at the local nick.’ She put up a finger. ‘Morning and night.’
‘Agreed,’ said Liberty.
Bucky turned to Hassani. ‘I know it feels like a kick in the nads but we’ve no choice. Miss Chapman’s going to walk straight out of here and head directly for the Crown Court.’ Liberty had not even considered that but nodded vigorously as if the address were already in her satnav. ‘Any judge is going to hear that her man’s got no previous yet he’s stuck up the Mansion and lose his shit. When it comes out our victim’s been trying to drop the whole thing, we’ll probably get stung for costs.’
‘But we don’t know that Daisy is going to drop the whole thing,’ said Hassani. ‘I smell a big old rat here.’
‘And I smell a written warning for us both if my department has to hand over hard cash to someone like Rance,’ Bucky replied.
Hassani let out a hiss, like the last breath of a deflating balloon.
Liberty had won. Sort of.
‘Loser,’ Brixton Dave sneered, at the old boy feeding the fruit machine.
Frankie liked to play them himself but he laughed along.
‘It’s easy to make money, mate.’ Brixton Dave leaned back, arms stretched along the top of the booth. ‘When the world is full of fucking mugs.’
His voice was too loud and some of the Butcher’s Arms regulars looked over to see who was making all the noise. Brixton Dave either didn’t notice or didn’t give a shit. He was different from how Frankie remembered him. In Marbella, his tanned skin made him look like one of the players. Today he was a bit frigging orange, to be honest. And the teeth? What were they about?
‘Like taking sweets from a fucking baby,’ Brixton Dave added.
The barman banged down a pint glass at the sound of another ‘fucking’ filling the air, or ‘fah-ckin’, as Brixton Dave pronounced it.
‘Keep it down, Dave,’ Frankie said.
Brixton Dave eyeballed him, cockiness coming out of every pore. ‘I thought you were the man round these parts, son. Thought your family were the people to know.’
Frankie squirmed inside. He’d probably given the impression that he was a face. Well, no probably about it. There’d been a lot of talk as they’d chopped out lines in the bogs of El Paradiso. ‘I like to keep things on the low.’ It was something Frankie had heard in an episode of The Sopranos. ‘Don’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention.’
Brixton Dave narrowed his eyes. He didn’t seem suspicious, though he might have been, more like he was weighing up Frankie. ‘Fair dos,’ he said at last.
An old bird brought over the food Frankie had ordered. A couple of cheeseburgers and chips. Frankie had had to borrow from Jay and put up with his bitching, but he didn’t want to look like a tight arse and make Brixton Dave pay for his own. He took the top off the burger bun and discarded the limp lettuce leaf. ‘So, tell me the story,’ he said.
Brixton Dave’s eyes lit up and he rubbed his hands together. ‘Me and the boys, we have a regular thing going with some Russians. Good product, good price.’
‘Sweet,’ Frankie said.
‘Too right. Only now these fuckers have decided they ain’t happy no more. They want us to take twice as much off their hands.’ Brixton Dave dipped a chip in ketchup, ate it and took a swig from his bottle of Becks. ‘We tell them we don’t want no more. This is our area and we know exactly how much the market will bear.’ He pointed at Frankie with his bottle. ‘You know how it is, mate. Supply enough, but only just enough. Always keep the muppets wanting more and the price stays steady.’
Frankie nodded, but it didn’t make that much sense to him. The more drugs you sold, the more money you made. Surely?
‘We’ve tried reasoning with them but you know Russians.’ Brixton Dave shrugged. ‘They say that if we don’t want the extra supply they know another crew that does. And that, my friend, ain’t fucking on.’
Frankie drained his beer and ran his tongue across his top lip. He didn’t want his burger and wished he hadn’t ordered it. ‘I take it you’re going to get another supplier?’
‘Already got one lined up,’ Brixton Dave replied.
‘But?’
‘But that ain’t the fucking end of it, know what I mean? We need to teach these lairy cunt
s a lesson. Make sure everybody’s clear about who can and who can’t be fucked with.’
Now that did make sense to Frankie. If you let people push you around, they did it more and more. Sometimes you had to make a stand. Look at how Jay and Crystal acted, cutting him out of the business, treating him like a car crash. It hadn’t always been like that. When they were kids they’d stuck together through thick and thin, and there’d been some serious amounts of thin. It had felt good, though. Like they could get through it all so long as they had each other’s backs. Frankie needed to show Crystal and Jay that they could go back to how it was. That they could be a unit together, if only they’d let him in. He needed to force them to see things differently.
‘Put it this way,’ said Brixton Dave. ‘The next handover ain’t gonna play out how the Russians expect it to go.’
‘Where do I come in?’
Brixton Dave grinned, the shine from his teeth white and blinding. ‘Fresh meat,’ he said. ‘If we ask anyone from our manor to help us, the word will get out, but no one’s ever heard of you.’ He opened his palms. ‘No disrespect, Frankie.’
‘None taken.’
‘You can come in under the radar,’ he said. ‘Like a fucking ninja. Bam.’ He slapped his hand on the table. ‘Take the drugs from the Russians before they know what’s fucking hit them.’
Frankie took a deep breath. A ninja. He liked the sound of that. A ninja couldn’t be bossed off the ball. A ninja couldn’t be ignored. Jay and Crystal would have to respect a ninja, then everyone else would follow. Oh, yeah, Frankie Greenwood was going to be everything he wanted to be. A ninja. A bat-shit frigging ninja.
Sol tried Amira Hassani’s number for the tenth time.
Jay Greenwood was the key to finding out what had happened to Kyla Anderson. She’d been working for him, even if Mel had denied it, until she’d left in what seemed quite strange circum-stances and fallen off the radar, and he was the only person who’d shown any interest in her since she’d turned up half dead.