Blood Sisters

by Julie Shaw

  Vicky turned towards the door, the way he’d said ‘gentleman’ sending a chill through her. And she realised that he didn’t look sad anymore.

  There were two cars parked outside. One marked, one not. Both occupied by a uniformed driver. Vicky went first, just as the sun was coming up, bringing with it the promise of a bright late summer’s day. She walked up the path and through the gate, the uniformed officer beckoning her to the marked car – which would no doubt set the curtains twitching, just as her mother had predicted.

  She didn’t turn around. She felt a welling of something too big to keep a lid on, knowing that Paddy was behind her – probably giving it lots of attitude – and that her mam would be on the doorstep, with Chantelle, confused and sleepy, on her hip. Vicky was grateful for what Leanne had said, even though she’d pooh-poohed it at the time – that her daughter would have no memory of this.

  She climbed into the back seat of the car with the policeman, who said only, ‘Up you shove, love’, nothing more. And marvelled at the enormity of what had happened – was happening. The fact that two officers and four cars had arrived just after dawn. Like in The Bill, or some similarly clichéd cop show. Like they were taking this non-arrest (for Jimmy’s dad had assured her they weren’t arresting them) all too seriously for comfort. Making sure that, as of now – as of when she’d gone back upstairs to put some clothes on – she wouldn’t be able to speak to Paddy on her own.

  So when would she be able to speak to him next? It hit her hard, like a punch, that she had absolutely no idea. Which threw her into a panic, trying to remember what they’d agreed on. The flat tyre, the hike to find help, the can of tyre-weld, the long fandango of Paddy fixing the puncture on the roadside. The fact that she must try to be vague on all counts. No, she couldn’t remember where the puncture happened. No, she didn’t remember where he’d got the stuff from. It was dark. It was remote. All the details were just a blur now. Why the hell would she make a note of every little frigging thing anyway? She wasn’t expecting to have to answer twenty questions!

  But when she was ‘processed’ – another word she thought she’d probably gotten off the telly – and shown into an interview room, it was all gone. Only to be replaced by the logistics of what had actually happened. Him pulling up half a mile or so away, to chuck her work pinny in some random skip full of rubble, then, nearer Clayton, making a detour and pulling up again, on Bradford Road, jumping a small wall that led to the patch of woodland that everyone just knew as the ‘fillas’ – and hiding the crowbar, or so he’d said, under some rocks.

  She tried to keep her mind still. To breathe. To bring the fiction to the fore. To keep calm and look calm – just shocked and bereaved. God, did Lucy even know yet? She might well do. If the police had found him, the news would have travelled fast. Thinking of Lucy, of what she didn’t know, of what Vicky must never, ever tell her, just made the whole thing more wretched. How could they be blood sisters when she carried such a terrible, terrible secret? And if Lucy ever did know, would she ever call Vicky her sister ever again? It was no good. She’d have given anything to turn the clock back, bring Gurdy back again. But when it had come to it, she’d failed to protect him.

  And were they leaving her in here expressly to torture her? Did they have a CCTV camera mounted in a hidden place high on the walls? Were they watching her now, reading her body language? Oh, God, she hoped not. Because try as she might – Keep calm, babe. They have no evidence. They can’t touch us – her whole body seemed intent on conducting a mutiny. Her stomach kept convulsing, even though it was empty, hollowed out, grumbling with annoyance, and her legs couldn’t stop shaking. Her bloody legs wouldn’t stop shaking! She’d never experienced anything like it in her life.

  And then, suddenly, into the room came two officers she didn’t recognise. Not Jimmy’s dad. (Was he busy interrogating Paddy at this moment? Probably. He’d love that. He’d love that he’d finally got him in his sights. Even if only temporarily.) But a man in a grey suit and a woman in a navy one. Jacket and skirt, stiff, looking like something out of the forces.

  ‘Vicky,’ the woman said, sitting down opposite on one of the two wooden chairs. And in such a way that made Vicky just want to let it go, every bit of it. Tell the truth. Get it over. Just tell her what had happened. Make Paddy’s case. Tell her about the drugs. Tell her how it wasn’t him – it was the drugs. But she couldn’t; Paddy needed her and she would not let him down. She was strong enough. She put her mask back in place.

  They ‘took her statement’ as they put it for the best part of three hours. Taking her, minute by minute, through the events of the previous day. And all the while, the male policeman wrote her words down. She knew, even as he was writing, in his curly, schoolboy hand, that he didn’t believe a word she was saying. The female officer was gentle, acting like she did believe it, all of it, and giving Vicky time to think – ‘Take your time, love, just think back, get it straight’ – and when a constable came in, some two hours into the nightmare, made a point of saying, before handing over photographs from an envelope, that Vicky might want to take a breath before looking at them.

  And there Gurdy was, in daylight. Or perhaps an arc light. So bright. Every detail she’d tried so hard to forget now picked out in glorious technicolour. Had she anything in her gut, she would have brought it up then and there. Instead she could only retch, because her shock and grief were genuine, and the male officer had opened the door of the room and asked for someone to bring some tissues and more water.

  That was when it hit her. Would they have shown her had they not thought her guilty? Paddy must be wrong, she thought, panicking. They must have something. Must have.

  And then another knock. It was almost a relief. And a male voice. Was it Jimmy’s dad now, behind the opened door?

  The policeman who’d answered it sat down again. Nodded to the female officer. She looked at Vicky sadly.

  And then they arrested her.

  HMP New Hall, which Vicky found herself approaching five hours later, didn’t look like a prison at all. It looked nothing like Armley, with its intimidating walls and turrets, more like a holiday camp, she thought as she peered out through the grille of the back window of the security van – there were lights coming on and, partly hidden by trees, she thought she could even see a tennis court. It looked like an outward-bound centre for school kids, she decided – a place to learn rock climbing, or canoeing, or volleyball – stuff like that. It looked innocent. Welcoming.

  Like a port in a storm. A perfect storm which had swept her up and catapulted her into an ever more terrifying nightmare.

  Once they’d arrested her, around lunchtime, she had been moved again. This time to a cell, which was down a corridor, down some stairs, and then across another corridor, like some subterranean lair.

  There she’d been given a sandwich, which she couldn’t eat, and a carton of orange juice, which she’d managed. And had been visited by another man in a suit, this time apparently a court-appointed lawyer, who’d been given the task to represent her, if she wished.

  She thought of Lucy – was she at this moment sitting at the switchboard at the solicitors? Could this very man – who was short and wide and looked a bit like a bulldog – even work at the same firm? It was possible, even if not probable, and shame overcame her. She was in a cell, going before a magistrate, inhabiting a world she’d always known about – existed on the edges of, with Paddy, truth be told. But a world she’d never once thought of as being anything to do with her.

  It had been bad enough being a prison visitor – she’d never really felt comfortable in that horrible place – but a prisoner. A prisoner herself? She couldn’t quite believe it was going to happen.

  But the solicitor had been clear. They had evidence to put her at the scene now, apparently. He didn’t say what, but he was firm on that point. So unless she was prepared to change her story and testify against Paddy, she would be tried for Gurdy’s murder as well.

  �
��You do realise that, don’t you?’ he asked her, not unkindly. ‘Unless you tell them it was Allen – Paddy – you will both be tried for murder. Vicky, you do see that, don’t you?’

  Vicky was frightened to open her mouth, not knowing quite what to say to him. Aware that what he’d told her was already coming true. They’ll try to trick you, he’d explained to her, as they’d lain there in the small hours. They’ll try to trick you into saying something that will incriminate me, I promise. Trick you into telling them what I did, then promising you’ll go free, but then they’ll get you on a technicality anyway.

  She’d asked him what sort of technicality, just so she knew what to expect, but he’d laughed a humourless laugh. Don’t even think about it, he’d told her. Just trust me, they’ll find something to do you for. They always do. So you’ll never be free.

  She’d straightened her back and met the solicitor’s eye. ‘Of course I know that,’ she told him briskly. ‘But they can’t convict us for something we never did, can they?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s true. But think carefully about this, Vicky. Think about your child … Chantelle, isn’t it?’ He let it hang there, waiting for her to speak.

  She spoke, as per the plan: she must just stick to the plan. ‘I don’t know how that so-called evidence got there – whatever it is they’ve got – and, for all I know, the cops could have put it there. It has been known,’ she added, trying to emulate Paddy’s usual sarcastic tone. ‘And that Officer Daley has had it in for Paddy for ages – everyone knows that. So I wouldn’t put anything past him.’

  ‘As you wish,’ the solicitor said mildly. His name was Mr Grey, and, in the dim light, he looked it. Did he really want to help her, or was he out to trick her? She couldn’t tell. She wished she shared Paddy’s confidence that it was all going to be okay. How could he possibly know that? ‘But I’ll still do my best to get you bail,’ Mr Grey said, as if she’d just ruined her chance of it. ‘I have to tell you it’s a long shot, but as you have a child … Well, let’s see, eh?’

  He didn’t say ‘Don’t hold your breath’ but he might as well have done.

  And here she was, early evening, in prison. At New Hall. No bail. Not today. And what was Chantelle doing now, right this minute? Vicky ached for her. She’d never in her short life felt so far away.

  The woman who checked her in seemed to sense Vicky’s upset. What did she already know about her? Everything she needed to, probably, Vicky guessed. She was kindly, and patient, and gave her a welcome bit of privacy, showing her into a place where she could shower and change – into prison clothes, a baggy boiler suit – and at least have some space to collect her thoughts. She said she was called Miss Teague, which made Vicky feel like she was back in school again. That’s how she’d play it, she decided. Treat it like a weird kind of school trip. Hopefully a short one. Perhaps that would help the pain and fear go away.

  And the continuing holiday camp impression helped as well. New Hall looked bright and lively, as opposed to Armley’s relentless dark and oppressive aura, and, once she was inside, the impression only increased. From the outside it looked more like a series of office blocks than a prison, with manicured gardens, trees planted everywhere, and even greenhouses, which were apparently ‘fully operational’. Inside, there were dorms for the prisoners to sleep in – no Porridge-style cells here, with iron bars for walls – a large gymnasium, a sports hall, a well-equipped dining area (whatever that meant) and even TV rooms to relax in.

  It was about as far from her idea of what a prison might look like as could be. Even the room-mates Miss Teague introduced her to seemed a world away from her imaginings – three girls, all of whom looked to be in their twenties, and who welcomed her in with what looked like genuine warmth. Even their names seemed straight from an Enid Blyton novel – Susan, Amanda and Marlene.

  Vicky was glad none of them asked why she was there.

  But for all that she’d been stockpiling reasons to keep her chin up, the edifice she’d created was as flimsy as a house of cards, and when the other girls went off to the TV room – it was now getting on for nine – she climbed into her bed, under the thin beige blanket, and curled up into a terrified ball, knowing that whatever happened now – either to her or to Paddy – her life as she knew it was over.

  She fell asleep praying for Gurdy’s beautiful soul.

  Chapter 27

  Gurdy was cremated at Scholemoor Crematorium, just minutes away from where he’d spent his entire life. Leeds, Lucy kept thinking. He never even made it as far as bloody Leeds. And now he never would.

  It was a sunny afternoon, but it had rained heavily earlier in the day, which meant everything green (the crematorium was set in the centre of a large and leafy cemetery) had been pressed down by the weight of water clinging to it, and hung down as if in prayer, and dripped as if crying, along with most of the hundreds’ strong crowd of mourners.

  Lucy and Jimmy stayed on the periphery. She’d sent a card to Gurdy’s parents, but she didn’t want to intrude now. Vikram, trying to be strong for his near-hysterical mother (whom his father could only just about keep on her feet), looked as stiff, brittle and frozen as if caught in freeze-frame. She thought if she approached him to say anything about what Gurdy had meant to her, she might completely shatter his composure.

  There was to be no sprinkling of Gurdy’s ashes here, and Lucy was pleased. Knowing the circumstances of his death she found it such a grim thing to contemplate – in death as in life, to be thrown to the ground in such a way. She knew it was silly – there was no relationship between the violence of his death and the ritual of sprinkling the ashes of loved ones, not in any religion. But the Hindu way, as she remembered Gurdy himself telling her when an aunt had died a couple of years back, was to sprinkle a loved one’s ashes over the flowing water of the Ganges, so his were going to be sent back to a relative in India. So he’d finally escaped. And a good bit further than Leeds.

  But no Vicky here to say farewell to her friend. It was wrong. Just so wrong. Her in prison. It had all been so much to take in, and Lucy wasn’t sure she had yet, even though every day for the past dozen or so since the grim news had broken, she’d walked round to Vicky’s mam’s house to offer to help with the baby, and had so far – to her delight, despite her sadness and anxiety – been able to look after Chantelle twice.

  Because who knew how long this was all going to go on, with Vicky in prison on remand for Gurdy’s murder?

  ‘Christ, Mo’s here!’ Jimmy hissed at her. ‘There’s front for you.’

  They were at the back – part of the bulge of people who couldn’t quite fit into the crematorium. So many family members, extended family members, all trying to pack inside before the service began. Who were all these hordes of weeping people? What a shame Gurdy would never know how much he was loved.

  ‘Mo?’ she asked, shocked, following Jimmy’s gaze to a far corner of the kind of ante-room area outside the crematorium itself. And he was right. You’d spot those trademark dreadlocks from a mile. He was here with another man Lucy thought she recognised. Older. ‘And who’s that?’ she asked Jimmy.

  ‘Irish Pete,’ he told her grimly. ‘They have some nerve, turning up here.’

  ‘Perhaps they felt they must. Perhaps they wanted to pay their respects. Gurdy worked in Mo’s garage, after all.’

  ‘And who I don’t doubt would have thrown him to the lions, had he needed to,’ Jimmy said. ‘Well, they still have it coming …’

  ‘Jimmy, stop that. Not today. Today’s supposed to be about Gurdy.’

  In fact, though she knew Jimmy didn’t quite see it the way she did, Lucy thought Mo’s intentions were probably genuine. She knew, because Jimmy’d told her, that the reason Gurdy’s body had been found so incredibly quickly was because they had inside information. She didn’t know all the details, only that a couple of people had seen Paddy in some sort of meltdown, and it was generally agreed that he was paranoid about someone trying to frame him after
the arrest, and when Mo couldn’t find Gurdy where he’d expected to, at the garage, it didn’t take much for the grapevine to start jangling. And the remote lock-up, where Paddy’d taken Gurdy, belonged to Mo.

  Not that anyone could officially make the connection. It had been an anonymous tip-off, and everyone was content with that, for now. The axe would fall on Mo’s operation sooner or later. But, in the meantime, Lucy chose to believe Mo was there paying respects. For all that Mo was the number one hard man in their part of Bradford, only a sick bastard like Paddy Allen could want to harm Gurdy.

  ‘No honour among thieves?’ she asked Jimmy. ‘Is that it? Anyway, shush, now. The service is about to begin.’

  ‘I’m going to have another go to see if she’ll agree to see me,’ she told Jimmy, once the cremation had taken place and they were hurrying back to get in Jimmy’s car. They didn’t want to linger, because they both had to get back to work, and, being at the back, they didn’t have to. Lucy couldn’t bear to see the smoke rising from the chimney anyway. ‘I’m just not having it,’ she said. ‘She has got to tell the truth.’

  ‘She’d be insane not to,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘But she obviously hasn’t this far. You’ve got to face it, love. She clearly cares more about that psycho of a boyfriend of hers than she does about her own kid.’

  He shook his head. Jimmy no longer had any time for Vicky. As far as he was concerned she had made her choice and had been in some way involved in Gurdy’s murder. They had evidence to place her at the murder scene – rock-solid evidence, apparently – so everything she’d said to the police had been a lie. She had been there, whether Lucy could stomach the fact or not.

  Lucy shook her head. ‘Because he’s spun her a load of nonsense, that’s what I reckon. Because he’s convinced her if she just keeps denying everything she’ll be fine.’

  ‘Which she won’t because forensic evidence doesn’t lie. And her lawyer would have already told her that. And she’s clearly not taking his advice.’