Strangers

by Paul Finch

  She turned back to the house. Perhaps it was no surprise that McCracken had now appeared. He stood in the doorway, stripped to his shirt-sleeves, drink in hand. Smiling.

  ‘PC Clayburn,’ he said, ‘what a surprise … or maybe not.’

  ‘Put that glass down,’ she instructed him, approaching. ‘And keep your hands where I can see them.’

  ‘Certainly.’ McCracken leaned around the inside of the doorjamb, possibly to place the drink on a shelf, but maybe to reach for something else.

  Lucy darted forward. ‘Hands were I can see ’em, you jumped-up little shit!’

  ‘Or?’ McCracken wondered as he showed empty palms. ‘You going to beat me up too? On my own front doorstep?’

  ‘That depends how cooperative you intend to be!’ She grabbed him by his collar, dragged him out onto the path and rammed him back against the wall of the house. ‘But if you feel like trying something, be my guest!’

  He smiled throughout this hard treatment. ‘I think you’re making a mistake here.’

  She spun him around, pressing him face-first into the brickwork as she twisted his left arm behind his back and bent it into a wrist-lock. ‘You’re the one who’s made a mistake.’

  ‘This is pretty rough stuff …’

  ‘You’ve been around long enough to remember the old unwritten rule of the anti-gang units, Mr McCracken … you do one of ours, we do two of yours.’

  He chuckled as she wheeled him down the drive. ‘I’m not quite sure you remember that, Constable Clayburn.’

  You can stop playing the mockery card, too,’ she spat into his ear. ‘I’ve still got more rank than you.’

  ‘That is true, I won’t deny it.’

  ‘And I can handle your goons blindfolded, as I’ve just proved. You’re under arrest by the way, in case you hadn’t realised.’

  ‘Under suspicion of what?’

  ‘In your case, conspiracy to assault a police officer.’

  ‘Conspiracy? Sounds heavy.’

  ‘What else? You don’t get your own lily-white hands dirty these days, do you? You leave that to brainless fall-guys like Shallicker.’

  ‘Well, you certainly felled him,’ McCracken said as they passed his groaning minder.

  Other police cars screeched to a halt at the end of the drive, presumably having followed her from Crowley. The first was Geoff Slater’s Altima. Slater himself jumped out; his jaw dropped when he saw who Lucy had in custody.

  ‘Detective Inspector Slater,’ she said, determined to get the first word in. ‘These two men are both under arrest in connection with the attack on DC Barton earlier this evening. I propose to take them down to the Custody Suite at Wythenshawe Police Station, and interview them straight away.’

  Slater glanced at Shallicker, white-faced. ‘You’ll probably need to take that one to Wythenshawe A&E.’

  ‘I’m booking them both into Custody first, sir.’

  Behind them, uniform patrols were now arriving, including a sub-divisional van. The local lads knew full well who Frank McCracken and Mick Shallicker were, and looked bemused when Lucy told them that both mobsters were under arrest. They handled the twosome with something like kid gloves as they placed them in the rear of the van, especially Shallicker, whose melodramatic limp was deserving of an Oscar – or so Lucy scathingly advised him.

  ‘You know, Lucy,’ Slater said quietly, once the prisoners had been removed. ‘No matter how worthy the cause, acting on impulse is rarely the right decision.’

  ‘They nearly killed Des Barton tonight, sir,’ she replied. ‘He could be crippled, blinded, we don’t know. They’re not just walking away.’

  ‘Well … let’s hope you do.’

  Lucy regarded the house as the uniformed search team prepared to enter it. A figure was visible in one of its bedroom windows. It was Carlotta, wrapped only in a bath-towel. She waved and gave Lucy a bright, cheerful smile.

  Lucy’s next exchange with DI Slater was more heated. It occurred in the Wythenshawe Custody Office at three in the morning, both of them now frazzled with fatigue.

  ‘Your determination to get justice for a colleague is understandable, but it’s a non-starter,’ Slater snapped.

  ‘The peppermint gum!’ Lucy protested. ‘The fact Des said a big guy attacked him … they don’t come much bigger than Mick Shallicker.’

  ‘There are lots of big guys, and there was no peppermint gum on Shallicker when you locked him up. There wasn’t any trace of it on his breath, for that matter.’

  ‘A glass of whiskey would take care of his breath,’ Lucy said.

  ‘Uniform have searched his room at McCracken’s house. There’s none there either. Nor is there any clothing that looks mussed or dirty, or anything with blood on it.’

  ‘He’s a professional, boss. He’ll know how to clean up.’

  ‘His hands aren’t nicked either.’

  ‘He’ll have worn heavy-duty gloves, or used a cosh.’

  ‘The trouble is, Lucy … these flip answers won’t cut it in court. All that matters at present is that we haven’t got very much. In fact it’s a big bloody zero.’

  ‘At least let’s put him on an ID parade,’ she said. ‘See if Des can pick him out.’

  Slater ripped his tie off. ‘Des is in no condition to pick anyone out. His vision’s impaired; he’s severely concussed. Even if he did manage it, the Defence would have an absolute field day. Then there’s the not insignificant matter of the witnesses.’

  ‘Witnesses?’ Lucy scoffed. ‘A prozzy who also happens to be McCracken’s girlfriend, and a bloke who works for the Crew.’

  ‘He’s a mechanic.’

  ‘He works for the Crew, otherwise he wouldn’t have been anywhere near the place.’

  But for all her ranting and raving, Lucy understood the basic reality of the situation.

  She and Slater had interviewed both suspects for two hours, and naturally they’d denied any involvement in the attack, claiming they’d been present at Yellowbrook Close all the previous evening. Moreover, uniformed officers had taken statements from Carlotta Powell and the mechanic, Ted Hope, and both supported this claim – they too had been at the house all evening, and at no stage, they said, had either Frank McCracken or Mick Shallicker left the premises. Lucy didn’t believe a word of it – especially not where Shallicker was concerned; she was one hundred per cent certain that he’d been Des’s main assailant. Of course, proving it was always another matter.

  Throughout this intense discussion, the custody sergeant and his young clerk watched po-faced but fascinated. They were used to all sorts here at Wythenshawe nick, but they’d never had celebrity internees like Frank McCracken and Mick Shallicker before. It was anyone’s guess how all this was going to end, but it was all very entertaining.

  ‘Try and discredit Hope all you want,’ Slater said tiredly. ‘But you won’t succeed. Because the Crew don’t officially exist. And even if by some miracle you can prove they do and that he’s contracted to them, it still doesn’t mean he’s telling lies.’

  ‘This is a damn stitch-up!’ Lucy said.

  ‘Congratulations. You’re finally getting there. And guess who’s been stitched!’

  Other voices now intruded, Priya Nehwal emerging from the front office in company with McCracken’s solicitor, a certain Jonah Gladbrook. As usual, Nehwal, though she’d managed to dispense with the pyjamas, was a scruffy mess; in contrast, Gladbook, a tall, surprisingly young and handsome chap, looked sharp and well-groomed in pinstripes.

  ‘You can cut the crap, Jonah,’ Nehwal was in the process of saying. ‘We know your clients are gangsters, and you know we know it … so spare us the victimisation line.’

  ‘So you’re refusing to accept culpability?’ Gladbrook replied.

  ‘No, we are not, because there isn’t any. A police officer was very severely injured earlier this evening …’

  ‘Not by either of my clients.’

  ‘Well, that’s a moot point, frankly. PC Clayburn thoug
ht she had sufficient evidence to make an arrest, and I’m not entirely convinced she was wrong. However, I accept that ultimately it proved to be a bad call. Sorry, but this stuff happens.’

  Gladbrook placed his briefcase on the charge-counter. ‘“Sorry”? That’s all we get, Priya? Mr Shallicker is lucky he hasn’t got a broken kneecap.’

  ‘That too was an error by PC Clayburn.’

  ‘An error? It was police brutality, plain and simple.’

  The DSU glanced irritably at Lucy, whose cheeks reddened. Even if there’d been much more evidence in their favour, it was increasingly plain that the extreme force she’d exerted during the arrest would alone ensure that this case could never make it to court. She ought to have realised that at the time, but she’d been completely overwhelmed by rage. The main question now, she supposed, was might she herself finish up on charges?

  ‘I’m not sure how the general public would view a police brutality claim,’ Nehwal replied. ‘If you were to push it, I mean really make an issue of it … it’d be interesting to see how it panned out. Shallicker’s nearly seven feet tall, built like a gorilla and specialises in hurting people. While PC Clayburn’s not six feet, female and was clearly trying to defend herself.’

  Gladbrook looked unmoved. ‘There is at least going to be an internal investigation?’

  ‘PC Clayburn will be subjected to full disciplinary measures. If nothing else, she’s broken several of our own protocols, which we don’t take lightly.’

  ‘And my clients?’

  ‘Will both be released without charge.’

  ‘And they’ll receive a full and unconditional apology?’

  ‘I think I can safely guarantee that.’ Nehwal looked at Lucy again, daring her to say otherwise.

  Gladbrook pursed his lips. ‘I’m not sure this is good enough, you know, Priya. I really should take Mr Shallicker’s complaint to the IPCC.’

  ‘Do so.’ Nehwal folded her arms. ‘And let the rest of the underworld know what a pussy he is for letting a slip of a girl get the drop on him.’

  Gladbrook picked his briefcase up and signalled to the Custody clerk, who collected some keys and headed down the cell corridor.

  ‘I like you, Priya … I always have,’ the solicitor said over his shoulder as he followed. ‘But you probably haven’t heard the last of this.’

  Nehwal made to go after him, but pointed at Lucy first. ‘And neither have you, my dear. The duty-officer has kindly vacated his office for the next hour, which is the very least we’re going to need. Wait in there for me.’

  Lucy looked at Slater, who arched a sympathetic eyebrow.

  Glumly, she made her way through the station to the inspector’s office, which, as promised, stood open and empty. She entered and waited there. As an officer with ten years’ experience, Lucy wasn’t unused to bollockings, but Priya Nehwal’s were legendary. The only uncertainty now was whether the DSU would open proceedings by formally cautioning her and then writing everything down, or whether she’d be content to give her a monstrous tongue-lashing. Senior officers were bound by duty to record and investigate complaints of assault made by members of the public against their cops, regardless of the circumstances. But something Nehwal had said – about Shallicker not wanting to lose face – gave Lucy hope. Thus far at least, his legal rep hadn’t sounded as if he was insisting on this course of action, and there had to be a reason for that, which the astute-as-ever DSU had figured straight away. Not that Lucy’s future would necessarily rest with Priya Nehwal. There were much higher authorities, and if McCracken’s people opted to go all the way with this, a far more cold-blooded decision could be reached.

  Then, rather to Lucy’s surprise, her mobile started to ring.

  She looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost four in the morning. When she fished the phone from her pocket, the name indicated was ‘Andy Clegg’.

  Puzzled, she put the phone to her ear. ‘Andy? Everything alright?’

  ‘Oh … Lucy,’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘Sorry, expected to be leaving you a message. Yeah, everything’s fine. Apart from the fact I’m still out here on the East Lancs.’

  ‘Crap work, mate, but someone’s got to do it.’

  ‘At least we’re not on our own these days. I’ve got Annabelle with me.’ He referred to Annabelle Arkwright, who was one of the Ripper Chicks Slater had kept on. ‘She’s got a couple of marks we’re interested in.’

  ‘I’d like to say rather you than me,’ Lucy replied. ‘But at present that wouldn’t be true.’

  ‘Listen, Lucy … glad I’ve caught you. That little tart you were friends with? What was her name?’

  ‘Tammy?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, Tammy. You circulated an email about her yesterday morning, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, but you won’t see her, Andy. She’s gone to ground.’

  ‘Not so,’ Clegg replied.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what I’m ringing you for. I knew she was supposed to be keeping a low profile. But I’ve just seen her at that lorry caf on the East Lancs. She’s off her face. Pissed as a rat, I suppose, or stoned … giving grief to all the punters, making a right show of herself.’

  Slowly, Lucy’s worn-out muscles knitted up again. ‘Andy, you’ve got to tell me this is a wind-up.’

  ‘Why would it be a wind-up?’

  ‘You saying she’s out there now?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Out in public, making a scene?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How long’s this been going on?’

  ‘We weren’t watching the caf. I just happened to park up there for a leak, and saw her. She might’ve been there all night.’

  ‘Is there anyone else with her?’

  ‘No, she’s alone.’

  ‘She won’t be for long. Andy … you’re a prince, but I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Glad to help, Lucy … see you later.’

  Lucy cut the call, and peeped out into the corridor. There was no sign of Nehwal yet. Doubtless, she was still trying to smooth things over with McCracken and his solicitor. Lucy rubbed nervously at her jaw. The way she saw it, she was already so deep in it that no rational person could expect her to find an easy way back – and all for the sake of some undeserving toe-rag’s kneecap. The hell with that, she decided. She might as well give them a real reason to sack her.

  Scribbling a quick note on a Post-it and sticking it on the duty-officer’s door, she hurried back to Custody, grabbed her motorbike helmet from the peg and dashed out through the personnel exit.

  Chapter 29

  It was half-past-four when Lucy found Tammy inside the café on the East Lancashire Road.

  The girl was slumped at a corner table on her own, a near-empty bottle of vodka in one hand and another, fully empty, lying in front of her. Lucy had seen for herself how well this particular establishment did for night-custom; truckers, taxi-drivers, travelling salesmen and other shift-workers kept it busy until breakfast time, when the next wave of hungry blokes would pile in through its doors, rubbing their hands in anticipation of a fry-up. But on this occasion it was noticeable that all the tables immediately encircling Tammy were empty, even though there were half-eaten meals and half-finished drinks on some of them.

  ‘All you fucking bastards can just stop gawking!’ Tammy shouted hoarsely, glowering around even though no one actually was looking at her. The few customers remaining stared pointedly in different directions. ‘I don’t care what you fucking think,’ she added. ‘To me this is an honest living.’ She was as garishly made-up as usual, but clearly at the back-end of another rough night: lipstick smudged; mascara staining her cheeks; hair hanging in a lank, streaky mess. ‘This is an honest living … you hear me? And yet no one likes us, no one wants us. Till they need a shag of course. And now that other lot … them fucking bastards. They made me into this, and they won’t even let me earn a living from it anymore! Absolute bastards!’

  ‘Tammy!’ Lucy hissed, movi
ng quickly down the aisle. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Tammy glanced up at her, confused. Her eyes half-crossed as she tried to focus. ‘And who … who the diddly-fuck are you?’

  Lucy realised that this was the first time the young prostitute had seen her in anything approximating normal everyday clothing. She sat down at the table.

  ‘You don’t recognise me?’ She eyed the two bottles. ‘How much have you drunk?’

  ‘Hayley …?’ Tammy half smiled, but then her mouth twisted into a snarl. ‘Hateful Hayley … the fucking traitor! You fucked me up! Fucking killed me!’

  ‘You’ve as good as killed yourself coming out here. How long have you been hanging around the East Lancs?’

  ‘All night … and no takers.’ Tammy made a grand but meaningless gesture. ‘Is that because they’ve been told too? That I’m a grass, a snitch. Is that what you’ve been doing, Hateful Hayley? Getting on the blower, spreading your poison about me …’

  ‘You stupid, foolish child!’ Lucy tried to keep her voice down, but her tone was taut. ‘Do you have half a clue what’ll happen if one of the other girls out here is connected to the McIvars? If she hears that they’re looking for you? Do you think these pathetic friendships you people have formed in this nowhere place will stop tongues wagging the moment there’s some money on the table?’

  ‘They all have that connection, the bitches! Every fucking one. Whereas you …’ Tammy leaned over the tabletop and prodded a finger into Lucy’s breastbone. ‘You know fucking no one. You ain’t connected nowhere. And you’re the one I was dumb enough to trust. Same old fuck-up Tammy! Tammy the fuck-up!’

  ‘For God’s sake, shut it. Stop making a spectacle of yourself.’

  Tammy tried to swill more vodka, only to find the bottle empty. She tossed it away in disgust. It clattered on the tiled floor. ‘Bit bloody late for that, Hayles.’ She belched foully. ‘They’ve all seen me.’

  Lucy glanced over her shoulder. None of the other customers were paying open attention. With luck, they were genuine punters and though they were doubtless earwigging, would most likely be living in hope that Lucy was a friend whose timely arrival would now remove the offensive personality from their presence.