Strangers

by Paul Finch

  ‘Tammy, thank God you’re alright,’ Lucy said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Where I usually am, on the East Lancs. Business is slow tonight. This murdering bitch is keeping all the johns indoors. Anyway, where are you?’

  ‘Never mind where I am. Listen, love … you’ve got to drop out of sight for a while.’

  ‘What?’

  Lucy glanced along the bar. It was some fleapit in the middle of Crowley, but given that this was a Wednesday evening, it was virtually empty. Only a couple of other customers, a boy and a girl, sat facing each other in a seating bay near the front door, while the barmaid was at the far end, fiddling with her iPhone.

  ‘You’ve got to disappear,’ she said again.

  Tammy chuckled as if this was all some daft misunderstanding. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Get off the streets. Go home … right now.’

  ‘Hayley, what’re you talking about?’ Finally, there was a hint of concern in Tammy’s voice.

  Lucy swilled more brandy and coke. ‘You’re in trouble, love … and it’s my fault.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Firstly, my name’s not Hayley, it’s Lucy.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Secondly, I’m a cop.’

  A long, disbelieving silence followed, and then came a harsh but whispered: ‘Fucking bitch … you absolute fucking bitch!’

  ‘Listen to me, please …’

  But Tammy hung up. Lucy sagged on her stool. She was tempted to bang her half-empty glass on the bar-top and signal for another, but drunkenness was no solution at a time like this. Besides, it was already her second and she still had to ride her bike across town. Instead, she tapped Tammy’s number in again. It went straight to voicemail. So she tried again, and again, until at last, very abruptly, it was answered.

  ‘What do you want, you cow?’ Tammy demanded.

  ‘You’ve got to get off the streets!’ Lucy asserted. ‘And I’m not joking when I say that!’

  ‘Have you set me up, or something? Are you here to nab Digby, is that it?’

  Lucy almost laughed. ‘Nothing so bloody mundane, love …’

  ‘You bitch! I trusted you, I was a friend of yours when you didn’t have anyone! I even stopped you getting knifed!’

  Lucy didn’t quite remember the knife incident that way, but this was no time to split hairs. ‘Tammy, listen …’

  ‘So, are they going to lock me up too? I mean, my understanding is that it’s not even a crime to be on the game these days. All I’m trying to do is make a living …’

  ‘For God’s sake, shut up and listen! This is a lot more serious than you and Digby getting banged up for lowering the tone of the neighbourhood. A lot more.’

  There was another long silence, this time broken by heavy, nervous breathing.

  ‘Seeing as you haven’t got the guts to tell me face to face,’ Tammy eventually said, ‘I suppose you’d better tell me now.’

  ‘Tammy –’ Lucy drained her glass ‘– it was you who put me into SugaBabes, remember? You were the one who got me the job there?’

  ‘Oh … oh my God!’ Tammy whispered, as the meaning of this finally dawned on her.

  ‘They’ve sussed me,’ Lucy added. ‘And I can’t go back.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus wept! You telling me Suzy McIvar knows? You’ve got to call them! You’ve got to call and tell them I didn’t know what I was doing!’

  ‘You think they’ll listen?’

  ‘Oh, Jesus. And they’re protected by the Crew.’ Tammy sounded tearful. ‘That means the heavy mob know about me as well! They’ll all think I’m in on it!’

  ‘That’s why you’ve got to disappear.’

  ‘Just going home won’t be enough. There’re people who know where I live …’

  ‘Is there anywhere else you can go?’

  ‘What does it matter to you, you bitch? You’ve slaughtered me, you’ve ruined my life!’

  Lucy would have liked to reassure her at this point, to advise her that it would only be temporary, that pretty soon all the bad guys would be inside, but that would be yet another bare-faced lie. ‘Where exactly are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not telling you, am I? Talk about a fucking security risk.’

  ‘Just disappear, Tammy. I doubt they’ll waste too much time looking for you.’

  ‘How am I going to live, eh? What’s Digby going to say when I stop earning for him?’

  Lucy shook her head. It was truly amazing, given every other problem facing Tammy at this moment and in general, that what Digby thought could ever be a priority. How the girl had ever become so enthralled to that cowboy-booted loser was beyond understanding. But there was no constructive advice she could seriously offer. Lucy had known so many prostitutes attempt to make it on the straight and narrow – sometimes because they’d had a kid, or because they’d had a health scare, or perhaps because it had always been their long-term plan. And yet almost none of them had ever succeeded. There was too much against them and too little in their favour.

  ‘The best thing is to relocate,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘Relocate!’ Tammy retorted. ‘To where? I’ve never lived outside Manchester.’ Now it sounded as if real tears were flowing. ‘You vicious, venomous cow …’

  ‘Tammy, it wasn’t intentional.’

  ‘No, it never is with you coppers. You don’t set out to stitch us up, you just use us and discard us, don’t you? And whatever happens to us after that, tough shit, that’s our fucking problem.’

  ‘All I can do is give you this heads-up.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  ‘You’re going to do it, though? You’re getting off the street?’

  ‘I don’t have a clue where I’m going to go. But I’ll tell you this, Hayley – or whatever your fucking name is – you’d better hope I don’t find you there.’

  And she hung up.

  There was clearly no point calling her back this time, so Lucy finished her drink and, again resisting the urge to order another, exited the bar through the rear to where her bike sat alone on the pub car park. This whole thing was a nightmare that she still couldn’t believe. Beforehand, while things hadn’t exactly been under control, at least they’d been running smoothly. This part of the investigation had been moving towards an outcome, which, while it might not necessarily have netted them Jill the Ripper, would have been some kind of result, and then – POW! – the whole thing had blown up in their faces.

  She slid her helmet on, kicked the Ducati to life and cruised back out onto the road.

  The worst part of all this was that she didn’t know how much her mother had confided in Frank McCracken. Cora knew very little in truth. But she’d divulged to him that Lucy was involved in Operation Clearway, which would almost certainly have set the mob boss’s alarm bells ringing. It was impossible to imagine that he wouldn’t have made SugaBabes his next port of call, and wouldn’t immediately have asked some searching questions.

  What kind of info was the undercover cop looking for? Who did she make friends with? Was there anyone on staff she showed particular interest in? And there was only one response to that last question, which they’d no doubt put to Delilah with maximum force.

  It was Charlie. She’d been asking questions about Charlie.

  What would happen after that, Lucy could only surmise. At the very least, Charlie would be warned that she was in the police crosshairs. She would surely disappear, drop out of sight. It wouldn’t be hard for her. She was a mystery woman as it was.

  Lucy’s despondency grew as she headed across town. She finally banked onto the Brenner estate, and then onto Cuthbertson Court, drawing to a halt at the end of the drive attached to her bungalow. She took off her helmet, but remained astride her bike, head hanging. Once again, the awful predicament ate through her.

  ‘Mum,’ she muttered. ‘What have you done?’

  She’d have no choice but to go straight to the MIR in the morning and hold her hand up. And she couldn’t leave anything out
. To do that would be the biggest risk of all. Police officers who told lies to their own supervision were walking the highest tightrope imaginable. But seriously, it would hardly look good … that Lucy Clayburn, the eager beaver young copper who specialised in getting her own gaffers shot, also happened to have a really garrulous mum, who, bizarrely beyond belief, was a friend of the underworld!

  Okay, you couldn’t blame children for their parents. But why had Lucy said anything to her mum at all? That was the question Slater and Nehwal would want answering, no doubt while they fast-tracked the paperwork consigning her back to Division – if she was lucky.

  She slumped over the handlebars. The first big job she’d been involved with since Michael Haygarth, and she’d bolloxed this one too.

  Only after several minutes was she able to climb off the machine. For a moment, her legs were too whackery to stand on. She could only hope and pray that Jill the Ripper was someone else, that Charlie would turn out to be nothing more than a red herring, and that the enquiry would not be damaged in any significant way.

  She took her helmet off, shook out her hair and turned to face the bungalow. Her home. Even though she viewed it more as an investment, as a long-term project; somewhere to do up as and when she could, while living much more comfortably with her mother. Though by the looks of things, that plan would now need revising, and pretty damn quickly.

  It was a pleasant enough structure: small and detached; lace curtains in the windows; grass on the front lawn; a wrought iron side-gate, with fir trees hemming the paved path behind it. Typical suburbia. But indoors it was a horror show. There were no carpets down, there was minimal furnishing, the decorating was only half completed – and there was no phone or computer link, she realised with a groan. But if nothing else, at least there was a bed with a mattress on it, and a linen box containing some sheets. It would suffice. It would have to, as she was going nowhere near Saltbridge for the foreseeable.

  The mobile bleeped in her pocket. When she checked, it was a text from her mother.

  Call me. Please.

  Lucy deleted the message and tucked the device back into her pocket. And then heard a noise, like a scuffling of feet – which drew her attention to the side-gate and the dimly visible passage beyond. The gate was still closed, but Lucy could have sworn the dark outline of a man had just ducked away down the side of the house.

  A chill ran through her. Several times she’d wondered if leaving the bungalow unoccupied for so long might attract problems: vandals, burglars, addicts. She’d always then managed to dismiss this possibility, mainly because it was too discomforting to dwell on. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t something she could damn well deal with if she had to.

  On the other hand, of course, it might token something much more serious.

  Lucy stuck her helmet on the handlebars of the bike and hurried to the gate. The whole side-passage was visible through its bars, the evergreens on the left and gable wall of the bungalow on the right. She could even see the rectangular pall of street lighting where it opened into the back garden. No one was standing there. Nothing moved.

  Only vaguely reassured, she opened the gate and walked warily down to the far end. She stopped at the corner and peeked around. Again, the small back-garden was typically suburban: a square lawn perhaps twenty yards by twenty; a flowerbed on the left, a rockery on the right; neatly hedged on both those sides, while at the back a wooden fence stood to about six feet. Beyond that lay a belt of trees. Lucy pivoted as she ventured forward, scanning all corners, but only after several seconds noticing a problem: a section of the wooden trim that formed the upper part of the rear fence had broken loose and was hanging free.

  It could be anything. Kids might have done it weeks ago, for all she knew. But instinct advised that this had only happened recently – as in some time in the last minute. As if to confirm this, there was a scrabbling of undergrowth on the other side of the fence.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted, dashing over there.

  The scrabbling changed to a thrashing. It sounded frantic.

  Lucy vaulted onto the top of the fence, though, with its frame weakened, it wobbled and cracked down the middle, throwing her forward, depositing her on hands and knees in damp tangles of bracken. She glanced up, squinting though the thickets. This wasn’t an actual wood; it was ninety yards deep at most, ending at Halpin Road, the main thoroughfare between Crowley and Urmston. Her vision now attuned itself, and she spotted the intruder – a silhouetted shape cavorting around tree-trunks as he tried to distance himself from her.

  Lucy jumped up and hurtled in pursuit. ‘I’m a police officer … stay where you are!’

  But before she could cover any ground, he danced out of sight.

  ‘Shit!’ she hissed, staggering in mulch and falling over a root, landing on her face again.

  When she got up, there was still no sign of him, though she didn’t think he could have made it as far as the road just yet, which meant he had to be somewhere close by. She advanced stealthily, listening but hearing nothing except the dull patter of dripping dew and a distant hum of night traffic.

  And then a CRACK, as if a weight had impressed on a twig – behind her.

  Lucy spun round – as a gigantic black shape loomed through the leafless branches from about ten yards away; an enormous, featureless figure, which, now that she’d seen it, made no secret of its presence, advancing towards her with hefty, crunching footfalls. Lucy fumbled with her phone as she backed away. The figure came steadily on, already less than eight yards off, now less than six, now five.

  When she’d first seen the prowler, her police instincts to chase had kicked in. But this was quite clearly not the same guy, by the looks of it several inches taller and broader, and several stones heavier. Moreover, by the way he came on apace, he intended to break her into pieces with his bare hands.

  Almost involuntarily, Lucy turned and fled towards the orange glow of the streetlights. With thudding impacts, the figure behind started running.

  It was a short distance to Halpin Road, but the woodland floor was still slippery, still uneven. She fell again, plunging down through a mass of fungus and other forest rubble, but dragging herself up and staggering forward. Only for a second figure to step in front of her, this one smaller than the other but no less menacing: solidly built and wearing a hood.

  Lucy changed course, careering through rhododendrons, twigs and other meshed leafage, finally fighting her way out onto the pavement – where a car was waiting by the kerb, its engine rumbling. She skidded to a halt, sweating, wreathed in smoky breath.

  She glanced right. The figure that had blocked her way had also emerged onto the pavement and now walked slowly towards her, hands deep in his hoodie pockets. He was black, well-built but with a grizzled beard, pockmarked features and one eye pale and milky. Like herself, his rough clothing was covered with moss and bits of leaves.

  Thunderous feet clomped stone as another person stepped onto the pavement, this time behind her. Lucy twisted round. As she’d half expected, it was Mick Shallicker.

  He wore his customary black suit and black roll-neck sweater. Even though he too had been lying in wait, he was less bedraggled: streetlight reflected from his brightly polished brogues; there wasn’t a speck of green stuff anywhere on his person. But his Neanderthal face was etched with a horrific grin, spade-like teeth splitting him ear to ear as he chomped on yet another ball of gum.

  Lucy backed slowly away from him – she backed away from the pair of them, even though this took her to the pavement’s edge and the waiting car.

  ‘There’s a good girl,’ came a familiar voice from inside it. ‘Hop in.’

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  The car was a sleek, black Bentley Continental saloon; off the top of her head, one hundred and fifty big ones to drive from the showroom. Its rear passenger door hung open.

  ‘Come on, darling, we haven’t got all night,’ the voice added.

  She glanced again at Sha
llicker and the other Crew operative. They were still encroaching, slowly – no longer overtly menacing, but making it clear with their body language that if she didn’t comply they’d simply muscle her.

  Lucy had no choice. She bent down and climbed in.

  Chapter 23

  ‘Hi, Lucy,’ Charlie said from the driver’s seat. She looked as beautiful as ever, kittenish but sensual: bright pink lippy, grey shadow to enhance her blue eyes, pale blonde hair flowing from under a brown leather cowboy hat, the statuesque torso accentuated by a tight silk blouse and black suede waistcoat.

  Frank McCracken was in there too, smartly suited as ever, but with his collar unfastened and tie hanging loose. He was seated at the far end of the back seat, smiling pleasantly as he patted the empty space alongside him. Lucy tried not to sit quite that close, but Shallicker folded his colossal body in behind her, which had the effect of pushing her along until she was sandwiched between the two of them. Shallicker grinned again as he leaned over her, still chewing on his gum, which from this unpleasant proximity smelled of peppermint.

  It was all Lucy could do not to shudder with revulsion, but she fought down the temptation in case it would be construed as fear – not that she wasn’t genuinely frightened.

  ‘You know Carlotta, I take it?’ McCracken asked her.

  ‘Carlotta?’ Lucy said.

  She looked at Charlie, who beamed again, brightly, as if they were two old friends rediscovering each other after years apart. It almost appeared genuine, Charlie, or Carlotta or whatever her real name was, seemingly thrilled that the police officer in their presence knew who she was – which was all the more unnerving because it was so bewildering.

  ‘Charlie’s my street name,’ Carlotta said, twisting a platinum lock around her right forefinger. ‘Like yours is Hayley. Nice name, that, Hayley.’ She still sounded sincere. ‘Wish I’d thought of it.’

  The other heavy who’d accosted Lucy in the woods, the black guy with the beard and milky-white eye, now slid into the front passenger seat. He closed the door behind him and turned to face them, his one good eye riveted on Lucy.