by Paul Finch
She reached the entrance and glanced around. Tooley and Brentwood were too engrossed in conversation to even notice her, their chatter punctuated by bouts of raucous laughter. It was a good night for the cops when a high-end scrote like Frank McCracken got taken out of commission.
She walked inside and was confronted by a waiting room area, more of a corridor really, running twenty yards to the next door, its walls adorned with NHS posters, padded seating arranged down either side.
Her mother was sitting there alone, zipped tight into a blue anorak, hair mussed, white-faced with weariness, one hand clutching a tissue.
Lucy walked quickly towards her. By the look of it, the next door, which was glazed and closed, was the unit’s actual entry point. Presumably it was locked at this time of night, and if you wanted access you had to use the bell-push on its left to attract the night nurse behind the desk at the other side. That night nurse, a young black woman with braided hair, who was writing some kind of report, glanced up as Lucy entered the waiting area, but when Lucy sat down, her eyes flickered back to her work.
‘Apparently, they dumped him outside,’ Cora said, her voice weak, strained. ‘Just like that. Like he was a sack of rubbish or something.’
‘Who did?’ Lucy asked tensely, not knowing which door to keep an eye on most, the locked inner glass door or the open outer door.
‘Whoever they were. I’ve not asked anyone, obviously … but I heard two policemen talking. It was someone driving a van.’
‘Mum … you have to come away from here right now.’
Cora looked slowly round at her. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Look!’ Lucy whispered. ‘You know the situation. You can’t hang around. There are police everywhere. If someone sees you—’
‘For Heaven’s sake!’ Cora made no effort to lower her voice. ‘I’ve told you before: no one knows I’m your mother.’
‘You’d be surprised. I know most of our lot give the impression they know nothing at all but trust me, that isn’t the case.’
‘I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere. Not till I find out how bad he is.’
Lucy leaned towards her, one hand tight on her mother’s wrist, eyes constantly straying to the entry door. ‘Mum, why on earth do you care? You didn’t see the guy for thirty years. You’ve only seen him recently because his criminal activities have brought him into contact with us.’
Cora still made no effort to lower her voice. ‘Are you telling me you don’t care, Lucy?’
‘That’s irrelevant.’
‘Really? Because that’s not what your body language is telling me. You’re coiled like a spring.’
‘Yes, because if someone sees us … oh, God!’ Lucy lowered her head and covered her face with a hand, because a short, squarish figure with familiar white hair and a scruffy tweed jacket had appeared on the other side of the glass door, talking to a doctor wearing scrubs. ‘That’s DI Beardmore. I’m telling you, Mum, if he sees us—’
‘Would you get your hand off me!’ Cora raised her voice. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Lucy released her; she had no choice. At the same time, she risked another glance at the glass door, but Beardmore had moved out of sight again.
‘Mum, if you don’t care about my career, that’s fine,’ Lucy hissed. ‘But maybe you care about Dad’s. Because I’m telling you now, you won’t be doing him any favours if you get spotted here.’
Cora stared defiantly at the opposite wall. ‘I need to know how bad he is.’
‘I can’t ask questions like that. I’m not even supposed to be here.’
‘And yet you came.’
Lucy had no immediate answer for that. It was true that she’d mainly rushed over here to try and lead her mother away, but at the same time, she too had wanted to know.
‘No need to try and hide it, Lucy. I know things have started changing between you and Frank.’
‘Erm, excuse me. Nothing’s started changing—’
‘You’ve accepted that he’s your father. You just called him “Dad”, for God’s sake. On top of that you’re well aware that he’s done favours for both of us in recent times.’
‘They weren’t really favours, Mum. He was acting to help himself. Christ …’ Beardmore had reappeared, still in conversation with someone. She dropped her head again.
‘I’ve told you,’ Cora said, ‘I’m not leaving until I know Frank’s condition.’
‘They’re not going to let you see him. Even if you shout from the rooftops that he’s the father of your child, they still won’t let you in.’
‘We always do things your way, Lucy!’ Cora glared at her. ‘It’s always your viewpoint that carries, your decision that counts. Well, not this time. Not till I know how Frank is.’
Lucy stole another glance at the glass door. Beardmore was still chatting to the doctor in scrubs, but now DS Dave Baker, who was currently working Night Crime, had appeared alongside him. Neither had noticed Lucy as yet, but clearly they were about to come through. Lucy had no options left.
‘Okay … all right.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll ask. Can you at least wait outside?’
Cora shook her head. ‘I do that and the next thing you’ll be bundling me into your car.’
‘Stay here then. But keep your head down.’ Lucy moved towards the glass door. ‘You know … his girlfriend’s probably lying in the next room. His real girlfriend. The woman he shares his life with. The woman he has sex with every night.’
‘She’s a jumped-up little madam. Frank’ll realise that in due course.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ Lucy said – as Beardmore finally spotted her through the glass.
He hit a button, the door opened and he came through, though Dave Baker lingered behind, still in conversation with medical staff.
‘Lucy?’ Beardmore said.
‘Stan,’ she replied with a stiff smile.
He glanced behind her, registering Cora’s presence. He didn’t know her and hadn’t noticed that Lucy had been with her, but he lowered his voice anyway. ‘What’s going on?’
She shrugged. ‘Just got a sniff of something. I hear there’s been a shooting.’
‘That’s correct. Do you have an interest in it?’
‘Not really.’ Now that she was face to face with him, she struggled to think of anything to say. Just claiming that she’d been dropping an assault victim off at A&E didn’t feel remotely strong enough. ‘But, I hear, erm … oh, I heard there was a van involved. That it was an attempted abduction by van.’
Beardmore shook his head. ‘No. Who told you that?’
‘Just gabbled messages on the radio.’
Rather unexpectedly, though perhaps because he was tired – he’d almost certainly been called in and he looked haggard – he seemed to accept this. ‘Well … there was a van involved. But there was no attempt at abduction. It was a double shooting in the car park at Crowley Old Hall.’
‘Fatal?’ she asked, attempting a casual air.
‘Not yet.’ He scratched his bristly chin. ‘One of them could turn fatal. The girl.’
‘Anyone we know?’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘I thought you didn’t have an interest in this?’
‘Like I say, I heard about the van … I was over here anyway, dropping a mugging victim at A&E.’
‘We haven’t traced the van yet,’ Dave Baker said, joining them. He was a big, heavily-built bloke in his mid-forties, though his thick hair and bushy beard were running to grey. He too spotted Cora, who was tactfully absorbed in her phone. He didn’t know her either and had no reason to assume that she was earwigging but spoke more quietly anyway. ‘It brought the two casualties here. Dumped them on the hospital car park, rocketed off again.’
‘Wasn’t a black or blue transit anyway,’ Beardmore put in. ‘As far as we know, it was brown. We’ve got the VRM, but it was stolen months ago. We’re going through footage from the surrounding streets to see if we can pick up its trail.’
‘Did the CCTV catch sight of anyone in particular?’ Lucy asked.
‘No.’ Beardmore shrugged. ‘Whoever it was, they knew where the cameras were and where they weren’t. They chose a blind spot to dump the wounded.’
‘No way to treat celebrity crims, to be honest,’ Baker said. ‘Frank McCracken, would you believe?’
‘No?’ Lucy replied. ‘That nutter from the Crew?’
‘And his girlfriend, Carlotta Powell,’ Beardmore added. ‘Think you’ve had dealings with both of them, haven’t you?’
Lucy nodded. ‘Powell was briefly a suspect in the Jill the Ripper case.’
‘Well, the boot’s firmly on the other foot tonight. She’s being operated on as we speak. Sounds like it’s touch and go … the slug went through her left lung.’
‘What about McCracken?’ Lucy asked.
‘Not as bad in his case,’ Baker replied. ‘He’s already come out of surgery. Sounds like the bullet bounced off the top of his left shoulder. Soft tissue damage and a broken collar-bone, but that’s about it. He’s going to be okay … which is hard lines for us, because it most likely means we’re going to have to look after him while he’s in here.’
‘You mean in case the shooter comes back?’ she said.
Baker shrugged. ‘It’s a possibility. We’ve scrambled a Trojan, but they’re not here yet. The nearest available unit was at the airport.’
Before they could say more, the doctor reappeared in the doorway behind them and called Beardmore back in. Baker shuffled after him, and Lucy took the opportunity to head for the main entrance. Cora got up and scuttled after her.
They strode across the car park, bypassing the two uniforms, who again didn’t seem to notice them.
‘Well?’ Cora asked.
‘Just keep walking,’ Lucy said tightly.
‘I overheard some of that, but I need to know the rest.’
‘I’ll tell you when we get away from here.’
Cora fell silent until they were alongside her Honda.
‘Sounds like he’s going to be okay,’ Lucy said.
‘Thank God.’
‘Look! For Christ’s sake, Mum … you’ve got to get a grip on this! Dad is not your husband, he’s not your boyfriend, you’re nothing to him.’
Cora blinked in surprise but held her ground. ‘Did he tell you that? You lie to me, and I’ll know.’
‘He’s a hoodlum … okay? He’s on every police watch-list there is.’
‘That’s not what I asked you.’
‘Even if he didn’t say you’re nothing to him, all these things …’ Lucy made a strenuous effort to calm herself down. ‘All these terrible things he does for a living are relevant, because they display a total absence of morality, a vileness of spirit …’
‘Lucy … you know that’s not the whole man.’
‘Even if it wasn’t … his partner’s lying at death’s door. If she dies, or is left in a coma, or survives but is crippled, what happens then? Do you think he’s just going to push her aside and get someone else?’
‘He’ll need to find comfort somewhere.’
‘Oh, you can’t be serious.’ Lucy felt like ripping her hair out, not to mention her mother’s. ‘Look, I know you’re lonely, Mum. I know there hasn’t been any kind of romance in your life for a long time. But this path you’re walking is fraught with danger for both you and him.’
‘I don’t think Frank’s the sort who worries too much about danger, Lucy.’
‘And what about me?’ Lucy asked.
‘You?’ Cora shook her head. She took her keys from her anorak pocket and opened the driver’s door. ‘You need to learn to live with the fact that your father’s a criminal. For the last two years, you’ve been running from that.’ She climbed in behind the wheel. ‘For all our sakes, Lucy, why don’t you just put it right?’
The door slammed, and the Honda rumbled to life. Lucy stepped back as it swung around and accelerated across the car park towards the exit gate.
As she walked back to the CID car, the whole thing seemed utterly surreal. It was impossible to imagine that something so improbable had emerged in her life. Like she didn’t have enough to concern herself with. It wasn’t purely about Frank McCracken getting shot and neither her nor her mum wanting him to die – Lucy couldn’t help but admit that she’d been somewhat relieved to learn that he’d live – it was the ongoing problem of conflicting interests. How many times was she going to have to be evasive and deceitful with her colleagues? How long could she keep ducking and diving? How much damage was being done all the time this went on and she continually refused to admit the truth?
She’d rounded the corner and was away from the ICU and the cops standing guard there, when from out of nowhere a huge vehicle screeched to a halt in front of her. It was a black Bentley Continental saloon.
Its driver leaned over and pushed open the front passenger door.
‘Lucy!’ Mick Shallicker said, looking tired and unkempt. ‘Get in. We’ve got to talk.’
Chapter 29
Ivana and Alyssa took the same route home they always did, driving first to the Cranleigh industrial park, just north of the town centre. Here they drove into their father’s lock-up on the narrow side-street that was Batley Lane, though in fact it was two lock-ups standing back to back, the other opening onto a parallel side-street called Crimea Terrace.
In the first lock-up they checked the doors were secure, stripped and bundled their combat gear and underclothes into a washing machine. Ordinarily, at this stage, they would clean their ‘appointments’, as they called them – boots, belts, harnesses, gloves and so on, buffing them with various of the chemicals stacked on the wall of shelves alongside the double-locked medical cabinet where they kept the drugs and syringes. But this was often a lengthy procedure, and at present they were under orders to get home quickly, so they opted to return later and attend to it then.
They padded naked through the adjoining doorway that, unbeknown to the building’s owners, their father had installed between the two lock-ups – both units were registered to different, non-existent people, so if anyone ever discovered this by accident, it wouldn’t matter greatly – and took a shower, thoroughly soaping themselves and shampooing their hair. After this, they blew dry, put on jewellery and makeup and got dressed again, now in slinky, clingy tops, miniskirts and tall, strappy shoes.
If they got stopped for any reason on the way home now – which was unlikely because the car they kept in the second lock-up was a respectable silver-coloured Volvo V90 estate, fully documented and in mint condition – they were nothing but a pair of ditzy party-girls returning from a cracking night out. And no, officer, they didn’t mind providing specimens of breath for breath-tests, because they never drank and drove; their strict, law-abiding father wouldn’t hear of it. If anyone queried the marks on Alyssa’s face, meanwhile, it would be a tale of woe about a violent ex-boyfriend who now, thankfully, was history.
They returned to Cotely Barn shortly after 2.15am, parking on the drive alongside their father’s Merc. The address was 27, Cedar Lane, and it was the essence of suburban respectability, the house once an ivy-covered four-bed detached, surrounded by lawns and flowerbeds, though their father had extended it several years ago, constructing a fifth bedroom above the formerly free-standing garage, which had also now been connected to the main house. The value of the property had increased dramatically, but the real advantage lay in the fact that prisoners could now be brought indoors, in the Volvo’s boot, without anyone noticing, and taken away again in the same manner.
The girls let themselves in by the front door, tittering and giggling, again as if they’d just had a great night – normality was so important – and entered a wood-panelled downstairs area, neatly carpeted and tastefully furnished, dotted with original paintings and other ornaments, and now lying in midweek darkness.
To the average outsider, the master of this pleasant-looking house led an entirely conventional, ino
ffensive life, coming and going unobtrusively, pruning his roses at the weekend and attending neighbourhood barbecues. If his neighbours ever enquired, and they often did because he was affable and approachable, he’d tell them that he ran a bunch of small businesses but that he was now thinking about retiring – all of which was true. He would be vague if the nature of his main expertise came up, talking in airy terms about ‘trouble-shooting’ and ‘consultation’, though again this was at least partly true. He spoke rarely about his wife, who most people assumed must have died rather than left, because he had a pair of college-age twin daughters who were beautiful, intelligent and chatty, and seemed very content with their lot.
They were less chatty now, as they ascended the staircase and moved side by side along the landing to the fifth bedroom, which was their father’s study. If anything, they were nervous, but this time it was a pleasing kind of nervousness because it was tinged with anticipation.
The light filtering around his partly open door indicated that he was waiting for them. Even if he hadn’t been, and if this had been an ordinary night and they genuinely had come in late from a party, he would probably have still been awake. Of late, he’d taken to writing his memoirs, a pastime he’d quickly realised needed to be his main priority in life, not just because it was a labour of love and a huge undertaking, but because when the manuscript was completed and bound, it would be the most valuable item he could bequeath to his offspring. The Life and Times of Martin Torgau Esq would not just detail the whole of his own strange, complex and terrible existence, but would name and shame various others whom he’d been involved with over the years and would clear up a phenomenal number of unsolved crimes, as well as several the police did not even know about. There were many highly placed men in the Northwest underworld who would kill quickly and ruthlessly to get their hands on such a prize. But that wouldn’t even be an option for them. When Martin Torgau was no longer here, knowledge of the memoir’s location would reside solely with his daughters, for whom it was intended to be a shield against the Crew.