Strangers

by Paul Finch

  ‘Whoa!’ Lucy interjected. ‘I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot here.’

  ‘What do you want exactly?’ the chippie man asked. ‘And if it doesn’t come with chips, I won’t be impressed.’

  ‘Well … I’ll have two battered sausages, large chips and gravy,’ Des said.

  ‘Oh …’ The chippie man looked surprised. ‘Why didn’t you say that in the first place?’ He moved to comply, shovelling a mountain of chips onto a Styrofoam tray.

  ‘We want some information too,’ Lucy said.

  ‘You don’t think I’ve been asked a raft of questions already?’ He didn’t glance up as he used tongs to add the sausages, and ladled on the gravy. ‘I’ll say it again … and for the last time. I close at six o’clock in the evening. I wasn’t even here when this bad thing happened.’

  ‘I want to know if you saw anything any other days?’ she said. ‘For example, was there anyone …?’

  He shook his head as he pushed the tray of food across the counter. ‘I’ve seen no one except people who were buying chips.’

  Lucy looked sceptical. ‘You’re seriously saying the only people who ever stop here are coming to buy food?’

  ‘Not just that.’ The chippie man mopped up with a paper towel. ‘People park to make phone calls, to check road maps. Lorry drivers stop here for a kip.’

  ‘How many of this general crowd are women?’ Des asked, taking a plastic fork from a receptacle on the counter.

  ‘Plenty,’ the chippie man replied.

  ‘What about on the days leading up to the murder?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Like I say, plenty.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘What about women who parked here and then climbed over that stile back there? I’m sure there can’t have been too many of those?’

  The chippie man shrugged. ‘More than you might think. Quite a few ladies come here to jog. I assume it’s to jog – they’ve usually got running gear on. They park up, first thing in the morning or around lunchtime, climb over the stile and away they go. There’s probably a track through the woods. But as I say, I’ve told your lot this already.’

  Lucy pondered. Undoubtedly, this was a fly in the ointment of her theory. But if this place was a regular haunt for female joggers, that might also have provided cover for their suspect.

  ‘Do they go jogging alone or in groups?’ she asked.

  ‘Sometimes in twos and threes, sometimes alone.’

  ‘Any of these lady joggers particularly catch your eye?’ Des asked, chomping his way through a batter-encrusted sausage. ‘Outstanding assets, that sort of thing. Sexy.’

  The chippie man regarded him with distaste. ‘I don’t have time to give every lass who comes here the eyeball. I have a business to run.’

  Inwardly, Lucy had cringed at Des’s question, though it was probably in line with the other questions that detectives in the team – male detectives mainly – were likely to have asked. With no e-fit of the suspect’s facial features, and no certainty that her blonde hair was real, all attempts to identify her had inevitably focused on her buxom shape and ‘lady of the night’ apparel, and while no one expected the murderess to wander the streets during daytime dressed the way she did when out on the midnight prowl, given that a lot of modern running gear was rather snazzy, all figure-hugging Lycra and so forth, it was perhaps understandable that Des might think this way. Though that was a bloke all over. If the suspect had been here during daytime, even if she was a genuine statuesque stunner, Lucy knew that she’d have been able to dress herself down very subtly if she’d wanted to, to literally turn herself into such a plain Jane that no one would notice her.

  There was one other detail though, which perhaps none of her fellow detectives had thought of yet.

  ‘This one would only have been gone ten minutes or so,’ Lucy said.

  Both men looked quizzically round at her.

  ‘I’m quite serious,’ she added.

  A keen jogger herself, Lucy was well aware that any fitness session lasting less than half an hour was unlikely to be much use; most fitness types trained for a minimum of forty minutes at a time. But it wouldn’t take anything like that long to make a quick reconnoitre of these woods.

  The chippie man still looked puzzled.

  ‘Okay, how long do these lady joggers usually go for?’ Lucy asked. ‘I mean you must notice from time to time. They park up here, they climb over the stile and they’re away … and then, at some point, they’re back and their cars are gone again. How long does that normally take?’

  ‘I’ve just told you, love … I barely notice these women. And now you’re asking if I put a stopwatch on them when they’re running? Seriously?’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Lucy tried not to sigh. Perhaps it had been a dumb question after all. She indicated to Des that they were done. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Wait a minute, whoa … you’ve just made me think.’

  Lucy turned back to the hatch.

  The chippie man’s eyes glazed as he recollected something. ‘Now you mention it, there was one girl who struck me … and this would have been in the right timeframe too.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘The reason I remember her is she had quite a decent motor,’ he said. ‘Little sporty thing. Not sure what make or model, but it looked expensive. I remember thinking I wouldn’t have liked to leave that here. I mean, there were people around … but you know, you hear about these high-end car thefts. Anyway, she had the jogging gear on. I assumed she’d be gone a good hour or so, like they usually are. But then she was back within ten minutes and drove off. Made me wonder if she’d got cold feet about leaving the car.’

  ‘What did she look like?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Blonde.’

  ‘Blonde?’

  ‘Yeah. Longish hair, because it was tied in a bun. Wearing a trackie top and shorts. The usual thing.’

  ‘Height?’ Des asked.

  ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘Tallish?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Any distinguishing features, tattoos or what-have-you?’

  The chippie man snorted. ‘Gimme a break, mate. I wasn’t standing right next to her.’

  ‘Anything else you remember about the motor she was driving?’ Lucy asked.

  He gave it some thought. ‘Only that it was sporty. And red … bright red.’

  ‘This was definitely a few days before the murder?’

  ‘About that, yeah. One lunchtime, between twelve-noon and two.’

  ‘You seem sure about that at least.’

  ‘That’s when I get busiest, and there was a queue of fellas standing here at the time.’

  Lucy tried to process the intel. It was intriguing for sure, but it was still far too vague.

  ‘It would obviously be useful to us,’ she said, ‘if you could try and pin down the date on which this happened. Bearing in mind that Ronald Ford died on October 6th.’

  The chippie man blew out a long breath. ‘I can’t be any more specific except that it was about a week before then. I reckon you’re looking at the last day of September-ish. But you’ve got to take a couple of days either side to be absolutely sure.’

  ‘Would you recognise this woman again if we showed you a photo?’ Des asked.

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘What about the car?’ Lucy said.

  He mused. ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Okay.’ She stepped away. ‘You’ll be here if we need to come back and get a statement?’

  ‘I’m here every day, Monday to Saturday.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s quite useful.’

  ‘And those were belting.’ Des nodded to his empty Styrofoam tray, before tossing it into a plastic bin next to the caravan. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘They were also three-pound-fifty,’ the chippie man replied.

  ‘Oh yeah …’ Des gave a sheepish grin. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So what do you think?’ Lucy wondered as they walked back.

  Des unlocked
the Beetle, and they climbed inside.

  ‘I think it’s interesting,’ he said. ‘But it’s the longest of all long shots. You realise that?’

  ‘But it is interesting?’

  ‘Just remember, Lucy … this isn’t in our remit. And when you go and write it up for the brass, they’ll inform you of that in no uncertain terms.’

  ‘You’ve got a dab of gravy on your tie.’

  ‘Shit.’ He scrubbed at the offending mark with a clutch of tissues, which only served to smear it lengthways. ‘Glad you saw that before Yvonne did.’

  ‘Doesn’t like you making a mess, does she not?’ Yet again, Lucy eyed the vehicle’s cluttered interior.

  ‘Doesn’t like me eating crap food.’ He switched the engine on, and drove them to the lay-by exit, where he halted to allow for a gap in the traffic.

  ‘Where does this road lead from here?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Right takes us back the way we came, ultimately towards Tyldesley. Left takes us towards Abram.’

  She pondered. ‘I wonder which way she headed?’

  ‘Well there are only two options,’ he pointed out rather unnecessarily.

  ‘Let’s try left.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we be getting back?’

  ‘Humour me again, Des. One last time.’

  ‘Lucy, you’re not a detective.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m attached to you lot.’ He looked frustrated. ‘Here I was, anticipating some nice, easy work.’

  ‘This is nice and easy.’

  Despite his moaning, they headed left and within five minutes had come to a roundabout with a large pub called the Rake and Harrow on the far side of it. As they waited at the broken white line, Lucy spotted traffic cameras in various locations around the circuit.

  ‘This’ll be easy work for you too,’ she said. ‘Pulling the footage from those cameras for between twelve-noon and two o’clock in the afternoon on all the days between and including September 27th and October 3rd.’

  ‘Looking out for red sports cars, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She glanced round at him. ‘Of which there won’t be a great many, will there? Even by the law of averages.’

  Des contemplated this as he navigated the roundabout and headed back the way they’d come. ‘You know … that’s not a bad shout, even if it is a million-to-one. That was a good question, about how long she was gone for. Clearly no one else had asked him that.’

  ‘Seemed like an obvious question to me.’

  ‘How long were you in CID?’

  ‘A week,’ she said.

  ‘Well, they either taught you a lot very quickly, or you’ve got a natural aptitude for it.’

  ‘So you think this is a lead?’

  ‘Could be. We’ll have to push it upstairs though.’

  ‘Fine, whatever it takes. So long as you let them know it came from me.’

  He laughed. ‘I’m not going to tell them I went off the grid to do it.’

  Chapter 10

  It was nearly seven o’clock when they got back to the café car park. Des pulled up to the left of the building, alongside the bins. The only other vehicle round there was a scruffy high-sided van, a mucky brown in colour. It was idling rather than parked, its engine pumping plumes of exhaust in the frigid autumn air. By the glinting pinpoint of red behind its steering wheel – a cigarette no doubt – the driver was still inside.

  There was something vaguely suspicious about that. The two cops knew it by instinct, but then all sorts of non-too-wholesome things went on around here, and at present they were otherwise engaged. Lucy drew down the passenger seat sun visor, wiped the blurry sheen off its mirror and attended to her make-up. Not that it had been messed up while she was out driving, but it was important to make it look as if it had.

  ‘Getting a coffee,’ Des said, opening his door. ‘Want one?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’d better not.’ She carefully rouged her lips. ‘I don’t know too many prozzies who get treated to a brew when business is concluded.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll not be a mo.’ He slipped out and left her to it.

  As Lucy tarted herself up, she kept half an eye on the idling van. It could be here to pick up a girl, to buy or sell drugs – even to rob the café. But none of that really mattered. There was only one target on their agenda at present.

  And then she heard the sound of someone crying out in pain and confusion.

  At first she thought it might be coming from the van, but then she realised that it was actually somewhere to the rear of her. She adjusted the sun-visor, initially seeing nothing but the brick wall of the café and the egg yolk-yellow glow of the sodium street lights along the East Lancs. She adjusted it again, and this time spotted a pair of figures approaching Des’s Beetle from behind, though coming at it diagonally as if from across the lorry park. Fleetingly, the figures were only visible in silhouette, but by her diminutive size and buxom shape one of them was recognisable as Tammy. The other one was lean, tall and quite clearly male. Moreover, he had a grip on Tammy’s left arm and was dragging her forcefully alongside him.

  Is this the awful Digby again?, Lucy wondered, a sinking feeling inside her.

  As always, her complete lack of options out here served to deepen her despondency.

  It went completely against the grain for a police officer to turn a blind eye to such casual brutality. And yet here she was, unable to protect one silly, drunken girl who yet again had managed to antagonise the vicious boor she’d voluntarily enslaved herself to.

  Despite all, Lucy hit a button on her left and powered down the passenger window as the twosome struggled their way past – and now she realised that it wasn’t Digby.

  This guy, who was someone she hadn’t seen before, was quite young, and in physical terms was a beanpole, with a mop of fair hair and, when she glanced up as he passed, a juvenile snarl on his thin, acne-scarred face.

  ‘It’s dead simple, love,’ he shouted over Tammy’s tearful protests. ‘You’re under arrest for prostitution. You can have it easy or you can have it hard, but either way you’re coming with me.’

  Under arrest?, Lucy thought. For ‘prostitution’?

  There was no such criminal offence.

  They veered towards the van. The guy was wearing tracksuit bottoms, a sweatshirt and a shimmering yellow pair of Nike Air Max trainers. He was twenty at the most. Few cops were out and about in plain clothes at that age. As she watched, scalp tingling, the back doors to the van swung open. Another figure climbed out and came round the vehicle to meet them.

  Lucy was approximately thirty yards away. In the late October gloom, it was difficult to distinguish him, but he was of relatively small stature with thin shoulders and a hunched posture. He halted in front of the van, glancing warily left to right.

  ‘What’s that?’ Lucy murmured to herself. ‘Making sure no one’s here to see what you’re up to?’

  Evidently, the two men hadn’t spotted that she was inside the darkened Beetle. Once Des had gone into the caf, they’d thought the coast was clear.

  ‘And how old are you?’ she wondered. By his slim build, she put this one in his late teens, maybe even less than that.

  This was all very wrong, but, of course, as usual, Tammy was too drunk to have worked that out for herself, or, if she had, too drunk to resist them adequately.

  The second character now took hold of Tammy’s right arm, and despite her increased wailing, he and his mate hauled her around to the rear of the van together. There was a double slamming of doors. The van’s headlights speared to life, and it lurched forward, engine growling.

  ‘Shit!’ Lucy glanced back towards the front of the café. ‘Des … come on!’

  But there was no sign of him. Most likely he’d be queuing to get served. And there wasn’t even sufficient time now to jump out and go looking for him. Besides, to openly seek his help inside the café would be to risk her cover.

  The van rumbled past the Beetle. Lucy turned and p
eered after it. Its back doors were firmly closed and there were no windows in them. Equally absent was a seam of light running down the middle, shining through the narrow gap between those doors to indicate that conditions inside were at least tolerable for the prisoner.

  She pulled her mobile from her shoulder bag, despite knowing there wouldn’t be time to use it. A frantic readjustment of the rear-view mirror showed the van swinging left onto the East Lancs. At this time of night, with rush hour over, it would be gone in seconds.

  ‘Shit!’ she said again, heart racing.

  She glanced right. Des’s key still hung in the Beetle’s ignition.

  ‘Sorry, DC Barton,’ she said. ‘I’ve no bloody choice.’

  She levered herself up and over the gearstick and into the driving seat, and turned the key. The engine juddered to life. Snapping her seatbelt into place, she got her foot down, spinning the car around in a fast three-point turn, and gunning it towards the exit and out onto the dual carriageway beyond. Thankfully, there was minimal traffic, and the high-sided van came back into view some ninety yards ahead, keeping a steady pace. Lucy accelerated in pursuit, but discreetly – the last thing she wanted was to create the impression that she was chasing it.

  As she did, she took her mobile out again and thumbed in Des’s number.

  ‘Yello!’ he said jovially. She could hear women laughing in the background. It sounded as if he was exchanging banter with the girls behind the café counter.

  ‘Des, it’s Lucy,’ she said. ‘I’ve borrowed your car.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s … what?’

  ‘Sorry, no time to explain. You’ve just got to trust me. I’ll be back as soon as poss.’

  ‘But … where are you going?’ There wasn’t much joviality in his voice now. ‘Lucy, hang on … this is no bloody good! What do you mean you’ve borrowed my sodding car?’

  ‘Look, just stand by, okay?’ To Lucy’s surprise, the van swung sharply off to the left. She hit the pedal hard to try and catch up. ‘I think a bunch of scrotes have just abducted Tammy.’

  ‘Lucy, what the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m not sure, I’ll tell you when I know more.’ She cut the call, thoughts racing.

  The left-hand turn now approached. It connected with what looked like a single-track lane. She swung into it, and brought the Beetle to an abrupt halt, grit and leaves spraying from her tyres. She shouldn’t be doing this. Even if what she suspected was true, she was endangering her covert status and therefore the status of the entire operation.