The Rave: A gritty crime drama you won't want to put down (Valley Park Series Book 2)

by Nicky Black

  Peach hesitated. ‘A girl,’ he said, ‘sixteen.’

  Mrs Bailey nodded, then continued rambling. ‘So, there he is, our Janice’s lad, eating his tea and I think, I never put any silver dragoons on that cake, and he’s got this bloomin’ thing through his tongue!’ She stuck out her tongue and pointed at it while Denise made a meal of looking at her watch. But Mrs Bailey jabbered on. ‘So, I says, “What do you want with him?” And she says, “Gran, there’s nowt the matter with him,” and I says, “Why, there’s nowt the matter with donkeys but they divven’t let them on the bus, do they?!”’

  ‘You can’t tell them nothing,’ said Denise, shuffling in her chair, the heat making her sweat in unladylike places. ‘They’ll just do what they want, anyway.’ The bitterness in her voice brought a glance from the inspector, a sour look of hostility with a hint of agreement. ‘I’ve got stuff on, Mary, I need to go,’ she said, fanning her face with her hand.

  But Mary Bailey’s thoughts were elsewhere. ‘Blue eyes,’ she said, decisively, suddenly sitting upright as if enlightenment had struck. ‘One of the lads from the robbery. I remember that if nothing else. He was thin as a rake. Big blue eyes, like a lassie.’

  The sourness in the inspector’s face morphed into something else, something altogether more optimistic. He put his hand on a folder which had rested unopened on the table until now, looking intently at Mrs Bailey while Denise sighed and trained her eyes on the ceiling.

  ‘I want you to look at something very carefully for me,’ he said. ‘You too, Mrs Morris.’

  She brought her eyes down and found herself looking at his back while he shuffled about with the file. This was all she needed, another twenty minutes in the stifling heat of this wretched place. But when he turned around, and put a photograph in front of them, she couldn’t stop her hand reaching for her throat. He’d covered the face bar the eyes with bits of paper, and they were Tommy’s eyes, clear as day.

  ‘Are these the eyes you saw?’

  Mrs Bailey leant forward, all renewed confidence. ‘Hey, Denise, is that him?’

  Denise let the air leave her lungs, felt the sweat tickle her brow. It was an opportunity too good to miss. ‘That’s him,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Denise looked right at the DCI. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Eeeh, it is, it’s him,’ said Mrs Bailey. ‘Mind, these bairns; they should put them in the army, that’ll lorn them a thing or two.’

  The inspector looked like he’d often thought so himself, and a smile crept over his lips. ‘Thank you, ladies, you’ve been most helpful.’

  He’d pulled the photograph back towards him before Denise could change her mind. If the inspector came for Tommy, they’d soon learn of the family connection. It would lead them back to her – and back to Paul.

  She felt her legs turn to stone, and she opened her mouth, ready to take another look at the photograph, but the interview room door was flung open and another detective stood in the doorway – older, his hair black as coal.

  He strode in and threw a newspaper on the table, telling Denise and Mrs Bailey they should leave. She didn’t get much of a chance to look at the front page, but she saw the headline before the inspector with the moustache grabbed it from the table.

  "SENIOR POLICE OFFICER VOWS TO GET THE SCUM WHO

  HURT HIS INNOCENT GIRL."

  Then there was a uniform at the door, the woman from the reception, her face all red and stressed.

  ‘I’ve got the RVI on the phone for DCI Peach. They said it’s urgent.’

  And the inspector was jumping from his seat and running out of the room like his life depended on it.

  PEACH

  As he stood at the foot of Sally’s bed, disappointment and revulsion crept up his throat, overriding the trill of adrenaline he’d felt when the witnesses had identified his man. It was an addictive rush that had kept him in the force for thirty years. It might not come as often as he would have liked, and much of the time it was short lived as some lead went dead or some witness got cold feet or disappeared altogether. But that just made him strive all the harder. He lived for it: that feeling of victory when toe rags like Tommy Collins were put behind bars where they belonged.

  He waited while the nurse, Pamela, fussed about, putting objects in the heavy metal bin, straightening the bed sheets. Humming, a tad overexcited considering the sight that lay before him. If this was his daughter “coming round” then some sodding doctor needed sacking.

  Peach grabbed the nurse firmly by the arm as she walked past him, and she looked down at his fingers.

  ‘Was it you?’ he said, producing the newspaper.

  She looked at it, then up at him, her face puckering into a look of extreme offence. ‘No. Now, take your hand off me right this minute.’

  He loosened his grasp, and she strode off, leaving him to wonder who the hell he could trust in this place.

  Sally was free of the mask that had been attached to her face for days, her skin still baring the marks of the tape across her nose and cheeks. A thin tube had replaced it, sitting snugly under her nostrils, and making a little wheezing noise as the oxygen snaked its way into her lungs.

  He moved to the side of the bed, unable to tear his eyes away from the alien face. Gone were the healthy round cheeks, and her hair hung in greasy tentacles over her shoulders. Her eyes flickered open, but they rolled, their focus in another world altogether. Her mouth opened and closed, her tongue trying to form words that were beyond the reach of the dry, cracked lips. A sound emerged, human only in so much that it wasn’t the sound of any animal he knew. And yet, the voice was hers. It was Sally’s warped voice wedged in the back of that throat.

  The curtain was pulled back and drawn again, and Doctor Flynn was by his side. She spoke in a steady tone; factual, composed, objective. Details of core temperature, blood pressure, liver function, the production of urine. He wasn’t sure if what he was hearing was good, bad, or disastrous. He caught the words: vegetative state, brain damage, lifelong care. The doctor seemed to talk for an age and perhaps he didn’t hear still hope and more time, because when he nodded that he understood what she’d said, and Doctor Flynn was gone, he felt only dread.

  Taking hold of Sally’s hand, he sat on the bed. ‘Shhhh,’ he said in a scratchy whisper. ‘It’s Dad.’

  He stroked her hand, recalling the last time he’d seen her. It was last week, Wednesday or Thursday. She’d eaten jam on toast and gone to her room to study. It was her last exam the next day she’d said. He’d wished her good luck, and she’d responded with a blunt thanks. He couldn’t remember what the exam was. She hadn’t told him. He hadn’t asked.

  Young as she’d been, at just ten years old, Sally had handled Kathleen’s death far better than him. He’d never seen her weep or mourn. She’d been strong as an ox and he’d admired her for it. She'd cried more when the cat died - broke her heart. Finnegan - the crusty old ginger tom who spat and growled at him but purred like a tractor in Sally and Kathleen's arms. But even Finnegan had feared Kathleen’s unpredictable moods and Peach had often noticed Sally shrink from her mother’s skeletal hands, taking no comfort in cuddles from a bag of bones. He’d assumed Sally had felt the same guilty relief he had when it was all over, and if anything, she’d flourished these last few years.

  He looked down at the grainy picture of Sally on the front page of the newspaper, the one he’d torn from her wardrobe door, the one he must have dropped to the ground when he was in the reporter’s face. Next to it was his official police photograph, around ten years old, his hair shorter and darker, the moustache neat and trimmed.

  He folded the paper in half and looked back at his daughter. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, watching her stare into an infinity beyond his vision when she finally spoke. He couldn’t make it out at first; it was like a baby trying to utter its first words:

  ‘Mmmuh. Mmmuh.’

  He squeezed her hand and thought he felt her fingers tighten aro
und his. ‘That’s it,’ he said, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb. ‘Your dad’s here.’

  He leant forward, and he heard it clearly at the end of a fizz of breath.

  ‘Mam.’

  ***

  She wanted her mother.

  As Peach walked away from the hospital towards his car, he felt an old sensation of helplessness take hold, a feeling he thought he’d put behind him, a sensation he’d never wanted to experience again as long as he lived. It made him feel weak, inept. Kathleen had put them through hell and forgiveness was still well out of his reach. The years of worry, anger, and blame; her inability to understand basic logic: we eat, we live; we don’t, we die. She hadn’t wanted to die. Death had terrified her, but not as much as putting a spoonful of soup to her lips.

  Seething, Peach thumped the roof of the car, dropping his head onto the knuckle of his thumb, feeling it dig painfully into his forehead.

  Lifelong care.

  The words stung like nettles. He wouldn’t be around forever. Who would take care of Sally after he’d gone?

  His skin crawled as if insects had invaded the lining of his clothes. He couldn’t breathe for the rage that was holding every muscle taut. Someone was to blame: this bogus father who’d paraded into the school unchallenged. Kathleen. Tommy Collins.

  All of them were to blame.

  DENISE

  She’d lugged the tins of paint all the way from the bus stop. Perhaps it was a sort of apology, or an impulse buy, she wasn’t quite sure. Either way, she would have expected a bit more gratitude.

  ‘It’s pink,’ Tommy said, deadpan.

  ‘It’s free.’ The ungracious shit.

  She dropped the tins onto the hallway floor, rubbing at the indentations they’d made across the inside of her fingers. Tommy stood in her way as if he didn’t want her to come in. Nowt new there.

  Pushing past him into the living room, she sneered inwardly at the sight of Jed Foster sitting at the dining table, pen in his mouth, hunched over a calculator and a pad of paper. Here he was again: Wifey.

  Ashleigh was sitting in her playpen surrounded by soft bricks and wearing one of the new dresses Denise had bought her. She swooped down to pick her up as Tommy strode past her and stood over Jed, telling him they should call it a day in a low voice she wasn’t meant to hear.

  ‘Eh? We’re not finished!’ Jed complained. He needed a few more minutes, he said, and he went back to his calculator.

  Tommy hesitated then sat on the chair next to him, all jittery and nervous. Didn’t take a genius to see he was up to something, but armed robbery was way out of his league. He didn’t have it in him – didn’t have the nerve or the confidence. He didn’t have that kind of power, and she felt an unexpected wave of pride for her brother as she watched Tommy draw his fingers over his lips in a zip it movement.

  The man was transparent as cling film.

  ‘Is everybody ignoring you, poppet?’ Denise chimed, bouncing Ashleigh on her hip.

  ‘Sam’s upstairs,’ said Tommy.

  She might as well be on another planet for all the attention she got, Denise thought. And the baby. They’d be better off with her – Sam would never have to lift a finger.

  She sat on the sofa with Ashleigh, her eyes falling on the corner of the newspaper that poked out of her bag. She’d seen something in that copper’s face when he’d looked down at Tommy’s eyes – a kindred spirit. He hated Tommy, too, and now she knew why. It was plastered all over the front page, the story depicting nights of drug-fuelled parties in warehouses that could collapse at any minute onto the heads of the innocent. Parties organised by Tommy.

  She understood the DCI perfectly; his child had been violated, and parents would do anything to protect their children. Her own father seemed to have bypassed that gene, but her mother had been different – in the early days, anyway. Denise had seen it in her eyes, felt it in her comforting arms many times before it was knocked out of her.

  Her stomach curdled, and she closed her eyes against the memories.

  Open the box, put them inside, close, lock, click.

  Looking down at Ashleigh she felt the nausea subside, only to be replaced by the peevish nips of anxiety. She hadn’t thought it through. She’d seen Tommy’s eyes and blurted out the lie, but if Sam discovered Denise had betrayed Tommy, it would never be the same. Even if he was guilty, you didn’t grass on your own.

  ‘Cuppa?’ Sam had come into the living room, blowing her fringe from her forehead, furniture polish and old rag in hand.

  ‘Oh, yes love,’ said Denise. ‘Let Tommy do it, you have five minutes.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Sam, happily, disappearing through the door into the kitchen.

  ‘Ahh, don’t you look pretty,’ Denise sang to Ashleigh. ‘Not like your mam, eh? She looks knackered, yes she does!’ She glanced at Tommy who was rubbing his eyes with a thumb and finger. ‘You haven’t seen the new garden yet, love!’ she shouted. ‘Hey, mind, it’s bloody lovely! You should get Tommy to do yours up.’ There was a long silence, and she heard the dining chairs creak as the boys shifted in their seats, a secret glance passing between them.

  ‘He’s busy, mam,’ said Sam, coming into the room and putting two cups of tea on the coffee table. ‘He was at work this morning. Anyway, I don’t mind doing it.’

  You could hardly call it work, cleaning the floors and the bogs at the Metrocentre. She had a mind to say so but kept it to herself while Sam headed back into the kitchen to fetch tea for the lazy arses at the table.

  She shook her head with a sigh. Sam could have been anything she wanted to be; she played the piano, had the voice of an angel. She could have been a pop star, travelled the world, maybe taken her old mam with her on tour. But here she was, her talented little girl, playing house and using an old pair of knickers to polish rickety furniture from the dark ages.

  When Sam sat next to her, she noticed she didn’t look so knackered after all, in fact, she was positively beaming.

  ‘It’s never another one of these dos, is it?’ Denise asked in a low voice.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Sam, but she knew what was going on all right, and Denise wondered why she didn’t trust her to just say so.

  ‘Four and a half grand,’ Denise heard Jed say. ‘We might get away with four, if we can get these on tick.’

  The boys high-fived each other before they got up from their chairs, smiles all round.

  ‘Don’t be going on my account,’ said Denise, ‘I’m not staying.’ She kicked off her shoes, put her feet up on the coffee table and wiggled her toes, making herself a little more comfortable. She dug into her handbag and retrieved the newspaper. ‘Terrible about this lassie,’ she said, ‘look at the state of her.’ She looked up at Jed who was standing behind the sofa, his smile vanishing as he stared down at the picture of the policeman and the girl in the white dress, all black eyeliner and attitude. ‘Sixteen,’ she said, ‘just a bairn.’ She could almost feel the heat of Jed’s face burning her neck.

  ‘You wouldn’t think it to look at her,’ said Sam, stealing a glance at her husband.

  ‘Drugs,’ said Denise. ‘I’m pleased you never got involved in any of that, mind.’ She patted Sam on the knee. ‘You were a good girl.’

  ‘I still am,’ said Sam with a nervous laugh.

  Denise heard the front door slam, and the newspaper was swept from her hands by Tommy. She watched him blanche as he dropped it onto the coffee table then ran out the door after Jed.

  She shrugged at Sam who was reading the article and rubbing at her mouth. Oh yes, she would protect her child, come hell or high water. And she would protect her brother too.

  This time.

  TOMMY

  It was gone half-past five and the after-school disco at the youth club was in full swing. A group of teenage girls danced energetically to Jive Bunny’s latest medley, the boys lined up around the walls like chess pieces. Barry twirled and bounced in an old man’s shirt and tie, the pocket
s of the shirt adorned with an array of badges, the largest of which shouted a warning of “Just Say No!” to his peers.

  Darren, the youth worker, stood at the double doors. Always dressed in the same tweed jacket and sensible shoes, he was a sciency-looking man in his forties with round glasses and brown hair that grew out of his head like the foam cover of a microphone.

  ‘Just make sure he doesn’t play any of that poxy House shit,’ Darren said when Tommy asked if he could steal Jed for five minutes. ‘Makes my ears bleed.’ Darren was another one of the old school fraternity. He’d come to one of Tommy’s raves in the early days – his attempt to get down with the kids. He’d stayed ten minutes then run from the warehouse with his hands over his bleeding ears.

  ‘Will do, boss,’ said Tommy with a wink.

  Tommy approached Jed who sat on a plastic chair behind the decks looking miserable as sin. He’d stormed away from Tommy earlier, not wanting to engage in conversation, but now his eyes followed Tommy with the precision of an Exocet missile.

  A few minutes later, a Kylie twelve inch was on the turntable and they stood in the corridor.

  ‘What if she dies?’ Jed was saying, hands firmly on his hips.

  ‘She won’t die.’

  ‘She might.’

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘She might.’

  Tommy had recognised Sally Peach’s face immediately. She’d been at their dos before, almost every one, but she’d appeared mature in both age and conduct, and now he knew why Peach was watching him, and why Jed was glaring at him with eyes that accused.

  ‘What?’ Tommy said. ‘I didn’t give her drugs. Howay, Jed, we both know what goes on.’

  Jed looked down at his feet with a sigh. Something was bugging him. Something bigger than Peach’s kid.

  ‘You need a shag,’ said Tommy, trying to chivvy his spirits. It must have been four days. Unthinkable.