by Paul Finch
That was when he saw the figure standing in the recessed doorway.
The west side of the Emporia was a relic of the old precinct, an immense monolithic structure, mostly bare concrete, with exceedingly narrow, castle-like windows. Apparently it was now in use by the local authority as the Tax Office. It had a single-glazed entrance door set at the back of a shadowy, rectangular cave, which no doubt would be the sort of place you’d find homeless people sleeping, though there was no one roughing it there now – just this single figure standing with back turned, staring in through the frosted glass.
Des slowed as he walked past, and then, reluctantly, stopped.
Even if he hadn’t been on the lookout for someone who might have been leading Lucy a merry dance, as a police officer he couldn’t just stroll away from this; not without making at least a basic enquiry. He glanced round, to check if he was alone. No one else was in sight. The only vehicle nearby was a blue Renault van parked on the other side of the main road. He glanced back to the dim shape in the recess.
‘Hey mate … you alright?’
The figure didn’t move.
Des made a rapid assessment of what he was facing here. Five foot eight, this guy, tops. Pretty solidly built. Wearing a black anorak over a hoodie, with the hood pulled up.
‘Hey, pal?’ Des ambled towards him. ‘What are you up to? And don’t give me attitude … I’m a copper.’
In a sudden, sharp movement, the figure drew its right hand from its jacket pocket, revealing a tight, leather-gloved fist, which even as Des watched, balled itself even tighter.
Des halted, and as he did he heard one of the doors to the Renault van on the other side of the road bang open. Feet clobbered the tarmac as they came rapidly across.
Oh … Yvonne, love, he thought. I am so … so sorry.
Chapter 27
Lucy contemplated the perplexing situation for several minutes before opting to take a final turn around the exterior of the Emporia, this time on her bike.
She kicked the Ducati to life and rode across the bus station, banking east onto Langley Street, passing the Post Office sorting centre and heading north-east along Pearlman Road, where the micro-pubs and fast food outlets were. She glanced into each alley and doorway as she passed, but saw no one. Finally, she emerged onto the pedestrianised section at Brunton Way. There still wasn’t a soul in sight, but she decelerated and traversed it slowly. At the corner of Brunton and Brick Kiln Terrace stood the red-brick façade of Crowley Indoor Market. Here, she swung a left and headed west along Bakerfield Lane, where the taxi rank was located. She expected to find one or two individuals there, even if it was only cabbies standing chatting while awaiting customers. But this too was a dead zone. Thursday evening, she reminded herself. Crowley was yet another provincial town which these days relied on its nocturnal economy, though in truth it only came alive at weekends, when the town centre in particular swarmed dusk till dawn with drunken, brawling revellers.
But then, spotting something peculiar, she slowed to a halt.
Des’s Volkswagen Beetle was parked at the back end of the taxi rank. The cabbies wouldn’t have liked it, had there been any here to object, but he’d simply have flashed his warrant card. The curious thing was that the Beetle was still here.
Though stationary in the middle of the carriageway, Lucy remained astride her bike, staring at the parked car. He ought to have collected it and headed home by now. With a pang of unease, she throttled up to the next junction, where she swung left, cutting through a red light and speeding south down Kenyon Lane, in effect back towards the bus station. He would have come this way on foot, and she was hopeful that even now she’d see his short, rain-coated figure stumping happily along. But this was dashed almost immediately when she passed the entry to the Tax Office, and just in front of it spotted Des’s body lying face down in the gutter.
Lucy braked so hard that she skidded along the kerb, but that didn’t stop her jumping off the machine and throwing her helmet aside.
‘Des! Des, it’s Lucy!’ She slid to her knees beside him, hurriedly checking for vital signs. To her relief, he groaned, but it was a horrifying shock to then note the multiple red trickles twisting away over the tarmac. ‘Oh, Jesus …’
She probed around his neck and the base of his skull. A slow throb in his carotid revealed a regular pulse, but God knew how much damage had been done. Even more was threatened when she reached under his body and lifted him slightly, but she had to do this – it was crucial she check underneath him to ensure that nothing had been hacked away.
Miraculously, it seemed, nothing had. The front of his trousers were intact and dry.
Relieved, she glanced round the empty street, belatedly wondering if the attacker was still lurking nearby, perhaps half-concealed. But there was no trace of anyone. Not so much as a parked vehicle.
Des now responded to her presence by groggily turning his head. He croaked in agony.
‘Don’t move, Des!’ she shouted. ‘Lie still, for God’s sake!’
‘Knathered …’ Des burbled through a mouth that had literally been mangled. His lips were ribbons, his teeth broken. It was from this gruesome wound that most of the blood was streaming, though in addition his nose had been flattened – that too was pumping gore – and his eyes, which were both swollen closed, resembled ripe plums. ‘Tho knather …’
‘Des, it’s Lucy. Can you hear me?’
‘Luthy … too lathe, babe …’ He chuckled and choked. ‘Didn’t thee him …’
‘Stay conscious, okay! And don’t bloody move! I mean it. Especially not your head.’ She jumped back to her feet, digging out her phone.
‘My neck’th hurting …’
‘That’s what I mean, you dipstick! Just stay put!’
The call to the MIR was answered by a DS Clubb, who was on night-cover.
‘This is PC Clayburn!’ Lucy shouted. ‘Listen, sarge, I’m off-duty at present, so I’ve no radio … but you’ve got to get onto Crowley Comms. I’m on Kenyon Lane with DC Barton. He’s been seriously assaulted. I mean badly … extensive head, neck and facial injuries, heavy bleeding. He’s conscious but he doesn’t have the first clue where he is. I need backup, supervision and an ambulance. And I need them right bloody now!’
As always in times of emergency, it seemed to take an age for support to arrive.
Like all police officers, Lucy had been through extensive first-aid training. But so often that went out of the window when you were confronted by a grisly horror like this. You weren’t a doctor, you weren’t a nurse. You didn’t really know what to do.
As she dropped back to her knees, she was sufficiently knowledgeable to check again for Des’s vital signs, but she now worried about where to put her hands for fear of making things worse, while his open wounds were so located that she could hardly apply padding to them. As a panicky afterthought, she stripped her combat jacket off and laid it over him to try and keep him warm.
While she did all this, she stared again down the street. Still there was no one.
She continually spoke to Des. That was important too. You had to keep talking to them, try to keep them preoccupied, maintain their conscious state.
‘What happened?’ she asked, to which she got no response. As Des couldn’t open his eyes, it was difficult telling whether he was still conscious or had drifted into oblivion. ‘Des, it’s Lucy … tell me what happened!’
‘I, erm …’ He coughed and spat out a fragment of tooth. ‘My neckth hurting …’
‘I know your neck’s hurting, love. You’ve probably got whiplash. Someone gave you a pasting. Now tell me who it was.’
‘Didn’t … thee any … fathes …’
‘Okay. How many were there? One bloke or more?’
‘Erm … thoo …’
‘Two of them, okay. What happened … did they jump you for no reason?’
Des screwed up his face as he tried to think, which brought another groan of agony. ‘Luthy … can’t thee �
�� Jeethuth … I can’t thee …’ He began to panic, tremors of fear passing through his rigidified body.
‘It’s alright,’ she said, putting gentle hands on his shoulders. She perhaps shouldn’t, but it was anything to calm him down. ‘You’ve got two black eyes, that’s all … two real shiners. It’ll be alright in a day or so.’
Good God, she hoped that was true. Thanks to the raw, puffy state of his brows and lids, she couldn’t see his actual eyes to estimate how much real damage had been done.
He stuttered again and coughed. More glutinous blood splurged out into the gutter.
‘Keep bithing mi tongue …’
‘Yeah, well you’re gonna need a dentist too, but that’s all. Des, you’re gonna be fine.’
‘Tath … Tath Offith …’
She glanced across the pavement towards the recessed entry to the Tax Office. When she’d walked a beat here as a young PC, she’d always though that an ominous spot at night. At least one mugger she knew had lain in wait there for a victim. She’d also found an OD in there one morning, syringes hanging from both his bruised and perforated elbow-pits.
Shimmering blue lights now swept over her as the first support vehicle ground to a halt a few yards away. Another followed immediately afterwards. Then came the ambulance.
Gently but firmly, the paramedics eased Lucy aside. One of them handed her jacket to her.
‘What happened?’ Ken Brady asked; he was the section sergeant on night turn.
Lucy shook her head, helpless to give an explanation. Deducing that she was partly in shock, Brady didn’t press it. He turned as more uniformed patrols arrived, and commenced supervising them, having them lay out cones and visi-flashers to close the road.
‘Is he going to live?’ one of the PCs asked. His name was Luke Morton, and he too was a black lad from central Manchester. He’d only transferred into Crowley a couple of years ago and had known Des previously. Maybe they came from the same Moss Side neighbourhood.
‘He’s alive,’ Lucy confirmed. She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the street. ‘But there’s someone else round here who won’t be for much longer …’
However, this growing sense of belligerence extinguished itself quickly when a metallic-beige Lexus RX pulled up, and not only did Priya Nehwal climb out of it, but Detective Chief Superintendent Cavill did as well. It was no surprise to see them. They didn’t know what was happening here – they didn’t have the first clue whether it was connected to the case – but with one of their own taskforce officers injured, they’d responded instantaneously.
Cavill was a tall, lean man, with sandy hair, pale-blue eyes and buck teeth. As SIO on Operation Clearway and with so many officers at his command, the chances were that he wouldn’t know who Lucy was, though no doubt Nehwal had briefed him on the way here. Cavill spoke first to the senior paramedic, who updated him as best he could. All Lucy could glean from this was that Des was stable but in a bad way. He had undetermined injuries, possible multiple fractures around the facial area and some trauma to his neck … but his vital signs were strong. There was no indication that he had been stabbed or shot, so they were going to remove him to Casualty at St Winifred’s Hospital.
Cavill nodded. Then he and Nehwal turned to Lucy.
For the first time, irrelevant as it seemed, she noticed how they were dressed. Cavill, as ever, wore an immaculate three-piece suit complete with crisply folded pocket handkerchief. Nehawl, equally characteristically, was tousled and scruffy, wearing a tracksuit over what Lucy suspected were pyjamas, and wellingtons.
‘Is this connected to Clearway, PC Clayburn?’ the latter asked, eyeing her carefully. ‘Or is it something else?’
‘I think it’s Clearway, ma’am,’ Lucy replied.
‘Okay. So what happened?’
‘We were following a lead … I’m not sure …’
‘Get your thoughts in order, and focus,’ Nehwal said. ‘Don’t think about DC Barton, don’t think about anything else. Just tell us what happened.’
‘It was a lead … yeah.’
‘What lead?’
Before Lucy could elaborate, her name was called from the ambulance. She spun around.
Des had been belted onto a gurney, his head and neck immobilised and a blanket laid over him. But despite the junior paramedic’s best efforts, he was waving his left arm, trying to catch her attention.
‘Luthy!’ he called, cringing with pain and effort.
She rushed across the pavement. ‘I’m here, Des.’
‘Luth …’ His left eye had now partly opened. It was deeply bloodshot underneath, almost crimson. ‘The one who dith me …’
‘Yeah, don’t talk now, love. You’re going to hospital.’
‘No, you gotha lithen …’ If he hadn’t been so groggy from his wounds, not to mention the sedative they’d shot into him, he’d have been even more animated, but he still made sharp, jerking motions with his free hand, stressing the importance of what he was trying to say. ‘Ren … Renaulth van. Blue.’
‘A blue Renault van?’ she said.
‘Yeah … a bith guy.’
‘A big guy?’
‘Yeah … thtank …’
‘I didn’t get that, Des.’
‘We’ve got to take him now,’ the senior medic advised.
‘You’ve gotta go, Des,’ Lucy said, leaning over, clutching his hand just once. ‘I’ll follow you down to the hospital.’
He shook his head, cringing again.
‘I’m sorry, we can’t wait,’ the medic said.
‘Thtank …’ Des gasped. ‘Pepperminth …’
‘Peppermint?’ Lucy said slowly. ‘You’re saying he stank of peppermint?’
‘Enough,’ Cavill interjected. ‘He can give us a full statement when he’s fit.’
Lucy stepped backwards and allowed them to place Des in the rear of the ambulance. Despite his incoherent protests, the doors closed on him. But she barely saw any of this. She barely even noticed as the ambulance lurched from the kerb, weaving through the new array of lights and cones and rocketing off in the direction of the hospital.
Lucy’s blood had initially run cold when she’d heard the word ‘peppermint’. But in the short time since, it had started seething again, and now, as the spinning blue beacon dwindled into the distance, it came very rapidly to the boil.
‘Does that means something to you, PC Clayburn?’ someone asked.
Lucy was aware it was Nehwal, but suddenly that didn’t matter.
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m on the sick, remember. That means there’s somewhere else I need to be.
‘PC Clayburn …?’
Lucy ignored her, turning and walking stiffly along the pavement, swooping for her motorbike helmet en route. As she reached her Ducati, a grey Nissan Altima grumbled to a halt in front of it, and Geoff Slater tumbled out, still pulling on a jacket and tie.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked her, breathless.
‘Sorry, sir,’ she said, saddling up and sliding her helmet on. ‘Gotta go.’
She kicked her machine to life, and before anyone could ask further questions, arced around in the middle of the road, threading through the cones, and hitting the throttle hard as she headed for the M60 motorway.
Chapter 28
When Lucy reached 17 Yellowbrook Close, Didsbury, it was just before ten.
There was no sign of a blue Renault van, but unusually, especially given the lateness of the hour, the electronically controlled gates to Frank McCracken’s property stood wide open, and all the exterior lights were switched on. McCracken’s Bentley Continental was parked at the front end of the drive. Its bonnet had been raised and a guy in green overalls with an open steel toolbox on the floor alongside him was fiddling underneath it.
Mick Shallicker stood halfway along the drive, speaking on his mobile. Behind him, the front door to the house was also open, warm evening lamplight spilling out. Shallicker didn’t initially notice that Lucy had arrived. His bac
k was half turned and he seemed engrossed in his conversation. Only by chance did he happen to glance down the drive as she dismounted from her bike and threw off her helmet.
‘Anyone ever tell you that chewing gum’s a filthy habit?’ she shouted, walking towards him.
A look of bewilderment etched itself on Shallicker’s apelike face. He cut the call, pocketed the phone and came down the drive. It was the usual thing: casual aggression; airy confidence in his own physical superiority.
‘You’d better get your boss out here,’ Lucy added. ‘Or I’ll go and get him for you.’
‘You’re trespassing, love,’ he said with a nasty smirk. ‘So get your cute arse off this fucking property! Right fucking now!’
Lucy didn’t even break stride as she approached, which seemed to surprise him – even more so when she reached down and snatched up a wrench from the startled mechanic’s toolbox. For the first time, the big minder hesitated.
‘You’re overstepping the mark, copper,’ he advised her. ‘Don’t push your luck.’
‘It’s you who’s overstepped the mark … big time!’
Shallicker spread his arms, looking to stop her sidling past, but instead she swept down with the heavy lump of steel, smacking it across the side of his kneecap.
‘Fuck!’ he gasped, tottering sideways against the Bentley. Lucy threw herself into him, crushing her body onto his massive frame, driving the wrench handle crosswise against his neck, crooking his big caveman head sideways.
‘You’re under arrest, Shallicker … for assaulting a police officer!’ she hissed. ‘You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you don’t mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in fucking evidence! Now get the fuck down!’
She smacked his knee again, this time on the other side, his entire leg buckling out of shape. He squealed as he slumped to the ground, where she kicked him in the guts.
‘Stay there, you bastard … so I can find you again when I’m done with your boss.’