by Paul Finch
‘So, the flowers were … what?’
‘Like I say, accept them as a gift.’
‘Lucy wants me to throw them away.’
He snorted. ‘The Cora I knew and lov—’ He corrected himself. ‘The Cora I knew so well would have made her own decision about that.’
There was a breathless pause at the other end of the line.
‘Okay,’ she finally said in a small voice. ‘Thanks for the gift. It was very kind of you.’
‘Happy birthday, Cora,’ he replied, but she’d already hung up.
He opened the door of his Bentley and slid into the front passenger seat. Mick Shallicker, who was behind the wheel, regarded him curiously, perhaps wondering why he’d turned a little pale.
‘Everything go all right up there?’ the big guy finally asked.
‘Up there? Yeah.’ McCracken stared dead ahead. ‘Perfect.’
Shallicker nodded and put the car in gear, detecting that no further questions would be welcome.
‘Shit,’ McCracken said to himself, as they pulled a U-turn in Long Acre. ‘Like my life isn’t complicated enough.’
Chapter 12
Lorna Cunningham was not the kind of woman who’d ever thought that she’d panic in a crisis. But then, she wasn’t the kind of woman who’d ever thought that she could simply be snatched off the streets.
When she’d first woken up in this small, windowless room, her initial plan had been to jump to her feet and dash to the door, which, even though she expected it to be locked, she would attack with all her might, throwing her shoulder against it again and again, kicking it as hard as she could with those long, hard-muscled legs of hers until it collapsed. But in reality, the first thing that happened was that the drug she’d been given, which hadn’t yet worn off, knocked her sideways as she scrambled up from the narrow, dingy bed, sending her reeling into one of the whitewashed brick walls. She slid down until she was sitting on the floor, legs splayed in front of her.
She was still in that inelegant position several minutes later.
In retrospect, though her thought processes were as sluggish as her coordination, she decided that failure to attack the door had probably been a good thing. Though she’d been wrong to assume that she wouldn’t panic in a tight corner, it remained the case that she shouldn’t panic. Even through eyes dimmed by stupor, and in the poor light of the dull, brownish bulb overhead, she could see that the door was made from heavy sheet-steel, and that it had no handle. How ridiculous if she was simply to pound at it, using up what few energy reserves she could muster, maybe injuring herself and rendering herself an even easier victim when whoever had abducted her finally came in here.
No, she had to keep a cool head and try to think this through, while staying still and relaxing, allowing herself as much recovery time as possible, so that she’d be in the best condition she could muster for the next fight. And all the while learning as much as she could about the opposition.
Though that wasn’t easy in this blank page of a prison cell.
It was about ten feet in length and six in width, and, aside from the bed and the simple light fitting, it was almost bare. She guessed that she was underground somewhere, because what looked like a small steel-framed air vent was visible in the top left-hand corner facing her. In the corner opposite that, there was another tiny fixture: a glass bauble in the middle of a metal plate. Most likely some sort of camera.
None of these things should surprise her, she supposed. Whatever your warped reasoning, you didn’t go to the trouble of taking someone prisoner unless you intended to keep them alive, at least for a short time. So, if you were going to hold them underground, they would need air. Likewise, you didn’t just abandon them to their own devices once they were confined; if you had any sense, you’d keep checking on them – hence the camera.
‘Okay …’ she mumbled to herself. ‘So … what … what does that tell me …?’
What do you think it tells you? an inner voice replied. They’re not keeping you alive because they like you, for God’s sake! It’s because they’re going to use you for something!
Abruptly, Lorna threw her attempted rationalisations aside, wanting to shriek and rip out her hair instead. The plain fact was that someone had kidnapped her, dragging her away and unlawfully imprisoning her. God alone knew for what purpose! All kinds of nightmare images flitted before her eyes.
‘Oh, God … please no!’ she moaned, strength and awareness restoring themselves sufficiently for her to make coherent sound. She felt a scream building in her chest. Again, she wanted to rage at the door, to try and kick her way to freedom.
But no, no … she had to resist the panic impulse.
Firstly, it would prevent her thinking clearly. Secondly, it would show whoever was watching that she was now coming around, waking up, and that wouldn’t do at all. Whatever trial lay ahead, she needed much more recovery time than this. It was vital to continue feigning semi-consciousness for as long as possible.
But who were they? How had this happened? And what was the reason for it?
She had some vague memory of an incident on the canal bank and a girl hurting herself, but she couldn’t picture any faces or recall any conversation or violence. Another question was: if they really meant her harm, why wasn’t it happening already? Was that a good sign? Probably not, because an answer suggested itself with indecent speed.
Sex slavery. Transportation overseas to some ghastly harem.
No one would pay top dollar for damaged goods.
‘Oh, God … please …’
But before she could ruminate more, she heard a muffled clatter of metal from somewhere beyond the confines of her cell. Silence followed, but it wasn’t the silence of nothing. Lorna could easily imagine, in fact she could virtually sense, the approach of stealthy footfalls. But even then, she almost jumped out of her skin when, with a hefty clunk, a key turned in the lock. She slumped lifelessly down, as the door, which was clearly well oiled, opened silently and someone came in. With another clunk, it closed behind them.
Thanks to the angle of her head and her half-closed eyes, all Lorna could initially see was a pair of legs wearing some kind of heavy-duty, black canvas trousers, with what looked like combat boots on the feet. The legs came and stood directly in front of her.
The intense horror of that moment was almost overwhelming, the seconds seeming to telescope out, so pregnant were they with tension, so thoroughly did Lorna feel that she was being scrutinised. She was attempting to feign unconsciousness, but how would they fall for that? Surely, she was visibly trembling? Surely, she was breathing with frantic, desperate speed?
A boot prodded her left foot.
Lorna didn’t respond.
The boot prodded her again, harder, less patiently.
Still, she didn’t move. The blurriness and dizziness had left her, but simply by playing dead she’d managed to learn a little about the opposition. Perhaps there’d be more.
Suddenly, the boot kicked her. Sharply, and not on the foot this time, but on the ankle, causing her to flinch with shock and pain, to yank her leg back. But still Lorna resisted a strong response. Instead, she murmured slightly, burbling a bit of nonsense – who knew, it might convince her captors that the movement they had witnessed through the camera was nothing, and that their prisoner was still out for the count.
The legs remained in front of her, the booted feet now spread apart. There was a dull, muffled breathing. Which suddenly sounded angry.
Lorna felt a pang of fear. Had she miscalculated? Through half-closed eyes, she was shaken to see one of the boots slowly draw back. Clearly, it was about to land a kick on her unprotected face.
When it swung forward, she had no option but to throw herself aside, rolling across the cell until she reached its corner, her shoulder jarring on the wall. She slid up it, trying to assume a standing position. Her legs were still rubbery, her vision tilted, but gradually everything stabilised again, and she was able to turn aroun
d. Only to find that it was impossible to identify the person she now faced.
Whoever it was, they were slightly shorter than she was, and trim, though it was difficult to assess their physical shape because of the heavy black combat fatigues they wore. Likewise, the face was unrecognisable beneath a black knitted balaclava, though a couple of slots for vision allowed a pair of blue eyes to fix on Lorna with electric intensity. At the same time, the prisoner was jolted to see that the masked figure had drawn a knife: a large one, a hunting-knife maybe, with a cross-guard hilt and a partially serrated cutting edge.
In a moment of head-spinning realisation, Lorna understood the true depths of her peril. She was going abroad as an unwilling export? No such luck.
The newcomer drove the knife forward, full on as though to impale her through the midriff.
For all her sport, Lorna had only done basic martial arts, but it was sufficient for her to sweep her left arm down and parry the blow open-handed. What she wasn’t expecting was for the newcomer’s other hand to flash forward at the same time, clench into a fist and club her on the jaw. Dazed, Lorna was flung back against the wall, the impact knocking the wind out of her. The newcomer pulled the knife back, clenching its hilt tightly, as though to inflict a proper, downward stab-wound. Lorna threw herself forward, grappling with her assailant chest-to-chest. They tottered into the middle of the room, where the newcomer pivoted at the waist and flung Lorna to the floor.
Winded again, panting hard, she crab-crawled away, glancing over her shoulder. The newcomer’s eyes blazed with anger. Clearly, Lorna’s resistance had come as a surprise.
This gave her new heart, and she sprang to her feet as her opponent advanced, spinning on one leg, attempting a roundhouse kick. Alas, she wasn’t expert enough in this field; her leg was caught and slashed across the shin with a single, brutal stroke of the blade. Lorna squealed like an animal, but as much in fear as pain. She danced on one foot as the knife came at her midriff again, before dropping onto her back, twisting over and scuttling forward, yanking her trapped foot loose, and planting both hands on the bed to lever herself upright.
She turned just in time, as the blade swept at her chest. Again, she parried the blow, following with a forearm smash, catching her opponent in the throat. Grunting in shock, the masked figure toppled backward, sliding in the blood spattering the tiled floor.
Lorna’s only hope lay in going on the offensive. A stripe of burning pain crossed her left leg just below the knee-cap, indicating an open wound. She guessed it would hurt even more to put weight on that limb – and it did, severely, so much that the leg almost buckled – but she still catapulted herself forward off it, bypassing the flailing knife, trapping the hand that held it in her left armpit, and slamming her right fist into the newcomer’s left eye socket.
The balaclava-covered head hinged backward, though it was a miracle that, whoever this was, they stayed upright, given that Lorna routinely trained with twenty-pound weights. It was even more of a miracle that the newcomer had enough fight left to retaliate in kind, landing a punch on the side of Lorna’s head that sounded like an explosion in her skull. As Lorna staggered, her opponent fly-kicked her, catching her hip, sending her tottering. Lorna slithered through the gory smears covering the tiled floor, rebounded from the bed – a blow that itself accounted for a rib or two – and landed on her front, the air bursting from her lungs.
The mingled stenches of sweat and blood now befouled the air of the enclosed space.
‘You bitch,’ came a strained, hissing voice.
Wheezing, Lorna lurched over. The newcomer was less than a yard away, still wielding the knife but struggling with a left eye that had already swollen closed.
‘You fucking bitch!’ The knife soared upward in both hands, the intent clearly to plunge it into Lorna’s throat and rip her open to the groin.
Lorna moved like lightning, and the blade struck the tiled floor with such force that a tile exploded, and the knife skipped loose. Back on her feet, Lorna attempted another kick. The newcomer again caught her ankle, lifting it. Lorna fell onto her tailbone, the juddering impact of which sliced through her. The newcomer swung a kick at Lorna’s face. Lorna dodged, and the boot sailed past, a shinbone cracking on the edged steel of the bed-frame. The newcomer hopped away in disbelieving agony.
Scrambling to the nearest wall and using it to lever herself up again, Lorna was now dabbled all over in blood and hurting in half a dozen places. She’d been hit more times today than in the whole rest of her life. And it wasn’t over yet. Tireless and determined, the masked figure came at her again, firing in another ferocious punch. Lorna ducked away, and with a meaty smack the flying fist struck the brick wall.
But Lorna knew that constantly running was of no value when there was nowhere to run to. As her agonised foe jerked around to face her, she did something she’d only ever seen drunken hooligans do: she launched herself forward, headbutting her opponent clean on the bridge of the nose.
It was surprisingly effective.
She felt nothing herself, but there was a crunch of cartilage, and the newcomer’s head, eyes rolling and blood oozing through the sweat-damp fabric covering the nostrils, slumped down onto Lorna’s chest, legs sagging. Lorna locked a tight-muscled arm around the exposed neck and throat, clamping it in a chokehold. All she had to do now was squeeze and keep on squeezing, perhaps throwing herself around a little bit, to affect a breakage of the spine.
The athlete was amazed by how lucidly she was contemplating this, considering that she’d almost never committed an act of wrongdoing before. Of course, having just needed to fight hard for her own life might have something to do with that.
The question was, could she carry it through?
The battle was over, and her opponent was at least semi-unconscious if not fully so. Was anything to be gained by killing? This lunatic would come around eventually, but would hardly be in a state to counterattack …
But while Lorna was dilly-dallying inside her own head about how best to resolve this, she hadn’t been paying attention to anything else, including the door, which had now opened quietly on those well-oiled hinges, admitting a second assailant. When she realised, she dropped the groaning figure to the floor and twirled around, but it was too late. Some kind of super-tensile, metallic cord had already been looped over her head, cinched closed at her neck and was now tightening across her throat.
Lorna gasped, squawked, gagged.
She tried to lurch away across the room, but was held fast from behind, and still the noose tightened, tightened, tightened. Frothing at the lips, she drove her elbows backward, but to no avail. This opponent was clearly better at violence than the first, holding Lorna at arm’s length. The athlete clawed at her neck, but the cord was now so tightly wound that it had buried itself in flesh and muscle. The pain and horror of this were so overwhelming that even the rupturing of Lorna’s eyeballs was as nothing. When she sank to her knees, she was stone blind, but that didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered any more, Lorna realised with sudden, chilling clarity.
It was over.
Chapter 13
Lucy arrived at Robber’s Row before seven o’clock on Monday morning, hoping to get ahead of herself before the day commenced. The CID office, or DO as it was colloquially called, was not empty. Night Crime were still at their desks, working bleary-eyed through the paperwork accrued during the previous shift, but, rather to Lucy’s surprise, Stan Beardmore was in too. She’d no sooner dumped her laptop on her desk than he stuck his head out of his office. ‘Lucy, can you step in here for a minute, please?’
Thinking that this felt vaguely ominous, as she rarely saw the DI before nine, she wandered in, only to find another person waiting for her too.
Detective Superintendent Priya Nehwal was a living legend in Greater Manchester Police circles. An Indian woman now in her mid-fifties, she was short, squat and tubby, and always wore her long grey tresses in a chunky pony tail. She was famously scruf
fy, almost never opting for skirts or trouser-suits if she could find jeans, training shoes, a baggy, coffee-stained sweatshirt and a well-worn anorak. But she’d long been regarded as an ace thief-taker, whose meteoric rise through the male-dominated ranks of CID had been earned the hard way rather than conferred upon her through any sort of positive discrimination. She was admired widely, but feared too, because, as one of the senior investigating officers in the Serious Crimes Division, she demanded hard, conscientious work and would crack the whip like a devil if she didn’t get it.
‘Morning, ma’am,’ Lucy said.
‘Sit down, Lucy,’ Nehwal replied, not bothering with niceties. They’d worked together before, and they’d worked well – but the super didn’t really do friendship.
Lucy took a chair in the corner, while Beardmore settled back behind his desk. Nehwal, who was perched on the edge of it, her feet not reaching the floor, didn’t move.
‘I understand you’ve been working on an abduction case?’ she said.
Lucy shrugged. ‘A possible abduction case.’
Nehwal picked up some of the preliminary paperwork Lucy had forwarded to Beardmore the previous day. ‘This pensioner … Harry Hopkins?’
‘That’s right,’ Lucy said. ‘He’s vanished and there’s some evidence that he was taken by force. Possibly from the back gate of his house.’
Nehwal read the report again, her expression inscrutable. ‘How’re you getting on with it?’
‘No real progress yet, I’m sorry to say. I’m working on a couple of theories.’
Nehwal continued to check details. For the first time, Lucy noticed the three tea-stained mugs on Beardmore’s desk. His tie was loose and his shirt collar open. He looked sallow-cheeked and had clearly been up and on duty for quite some time. Whatever the reason for that, at some point during the night Serious Crimes had also become involved.
‘We’ve had no contact from anyone claiming to be the kidnapper?’ Nehwal asked.