by Paul Finch
‘DC Clayburn from PNC?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Index Oscar-two-two-zero-Mike … unknown. No such number listed. Nothing even similar, over.’
‘Roger, received.’ Lucy was thoughtful. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘I assure you I was not mistaken,’ Sister Cassie said.
‘No, I believe you.’
‘So, maybe your computer is wrong?’
‘Trust me, Sister – the Police National Computer is never wrong. But that van is.’ She thought about it. ‘Whether it’s purple, blue or black, it’s running under dummy plates.’
Chapter 11
Miles O’Grady deliberately ran his private investigations business as if it was a small non-lucrative thing. He always turned himself out well: hair coloured silver to hide the grey, moustache clipped, and wearing his best suit and his £1,800 trenchcoat in all but the hottest and most sultry weather. A thorough professional, first appearances were vital to Miles O’Grady. It had certainly paved the way to immediate success with that braindead footballer Dean Chesham. But when it came to his company, it was a different story. Most of O’Grady’s and his men’s earnings were illicit and therefore non-taxable. So it only made sense that the firm itself, Walderstone Enquiries Ltd, kept a low profile. Hence the shabby little office at the top of the creaking back staircase in Dashwood House, the tired old building in Long Acre, a little-used cul-de-sac off Crowley bus station. It was such an unprepossessing place that no one was likely to visit it on spec, and even if they had an appointment with the firm, most of the time they were suspicious spouses who put great stock in their personal dignity, and so would opt to meet their investigators in neutral venues like coffee shops and wine bars. Almost none would be prepared to call at an address like this.
In fact, it was unusual for O’Grady to be in the office, especially on a Sunday lunchtime. It didn’t contain much – a desk, a landline and a clunky filing cabinet filled with dummy paperwork. But after their recent approach to Dean Chesham, a tactical meeting was now in the offing. And that wasn’t the sort of thing O’Grady wanted to do over the phone. However, the other guys weren’t due for another hour at least, so the last thing he was expecting while eating his takeaway lunch was someone knocking on the door.
He glanced curiously up at the frosted glass panel. An indiscernible shadow stood on the other side.
‘It’s open,’ he yelled, laying down his plastic fork, dabbing his lips with a napkin.
The door opened and a man stood there. ‘Mr O’Grady, is it?’
‘I’m sure you already know that, else you wouldn’t be here.’
The man’s half-smile broke into a chuckle. ‘Wow … do private eyes’ cubbyholes like this really exist, then? Fantastic. Mind you, you’re a bit disappointing. I was expecting to find Humphrey Bogart or a young Robert Mitchum. You’ve got the trenchcoat, though, I see.’
O’Grady’s narrowed eyes flitted to the coat on the hook in the corner, and then back to the man in the doorway. There was something instantly unsettling about him. He was probably in his fifties, but lean and fit-looking, with steel-grey hair, dark eyes and sharp, diamond-hard features. He wore an Armani suit and a Marwood tie, and advanced from the office door with a lithe, easy grace.
‘Who are you?’ O’Grady said, yanking loose his paper bib and scrunching it.
‘Oh … didn’t I say?’
‘Well, whoever you are, as common courtesy seems to be something that eludes you, I suggest you take a walk back down the stairs, closing the door behind you as you go, and come back at a more suitable time. Like never.’
The newcomer responded by closing the office door, pulling up a chair and sitting down at the desk. When his gaze met O’Grady’s, it was long, hard and seemingly amused.
‘Is this some kind of joke?’ O’Grady growled. ‘I mean, do you know who I am?’
‘I know who you were. Detective Chief Inspector O’Grady of the Greater Manchester Police’s Fraud Investigation Team. You had a glittering career until you very mysteriously failed to shred a batch of highly sensitive intelligence reports relating to various organised crime enquiries, and then, or so the scandal-mongers outrageously claimed, offered them to the highest bidder. Hardly a smart career move, Miles. Saw you drummed out of the job minus one very fat pension. But it’s a good thing they couldn’t actually prove anything, eh? That would’ve been a lot worse. Still … the word is you’ve done all right for yourself since.’
O’Grady turned slowly scarlet. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Well …’ The newcomer feigned uncertainty about how much he should reveal. ‘I’ve not got as illustrious a background as you. But I do have a similar talent for turning over big sums annually.’
‘Do you indeed?’ O’Grady leaped to his feet, pulled out his iPhone and banged it on the desk. ‘You know that all I have to do is make a single phone-call.’
‘You’ve got quite a thin face, haven’t you?’ the newcomer noted. ‘Ordinarily it looks okay, but when you get angry … kind of makes you look peevish. Not impressive.’
‘I call that number, and someone’ll be in here in less than three minutes with a fucking baseball bat! … You little shit!’
The newcomer chuckled. ‘Who? That fat bastard with the beard?’
The redness in O’Grady’s cheeks lessened. His mouth twitched as he struggled not to register surprise and concern that his unwanted guest was so well informed.
‘Look, Miles –’ the newcomer wafted the air, indicating that he should sit again ‘– I’ve no doubt you can do as you say. But it won’t gain you much. I mean, you can bash my skull in. But all that’ll mean is someone else has to come. And then your bill will be even bigger.’
‘What fucking bill?’
The newcomer looked even more amused. ‘It’s quite funny, if a bit predictable, the way you’ve shown your “angry man” colours so quickly, when usually you like to play it calm and sophisticated. I think that’s a major thing for you, isn’t it? Appearances? I mean, currently it’s the other way around. You like to make it seem as if this private eye firm is a backstreet affair. But really, that other business of yours, the blackmailing gig … that pays a lot more, eh?’
O’Grady couldn’t initially respond. All he could think, incredible though it seemed, was that either Stone or Roper had blabbed to the wrong person – not that there was ever a right person in this line of work. For the moment, though, keeping his cool and brazening it out suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world.
‘Something wrong, Miles?’ the guy asked. ‘No more threats? No more promises to bring an apeman here with a bat?’ He paused, but O’Grady simply glared at him, the breath hissing through his clenched teeth. ‘You must have a few questions, at least?’
Slowly, carefully, O’Grady sat down again. ‘I’ve already asked you twice. Who are you? And what bill?’
The newcomer pursed his lips as though these were entirely reasonable enquiries.
‘Well, first of all … I’m an admirer. I admire your audacity. The guy who made such an inroad into Manchester’s white-collar criminals and yet the same guy who’s now made white-collar crime pay better than any of those poor, blundering saps he sent to jail. I admire the frugal way you run things. Granted, this shithole’s a façade, but it also means you’re barely spending a penny on your overheads. And as you’re not paying significant tax either, it’s nearly all going into you and your two buddies’ pockets. I admire the way you’re sticking it to those GMP bastards who kicked your arse out. I bet you get satisfaction from that every single day. Fucking straight men, eh? Spit and polish types, everything by the book. And yet it’s all to make them look good, isn’t it? Meanwhile, real detectives like you, crafty old-schoolers who were every kind of embarrassment and yet still had more luck getting into the guts of evil bastards like me than this lot would ever know … you’re out on your ear—’
‘Hey!’ O’Grady pointed a finger. ‘Stop pretendi
ng you know what motivates me. You’re not an ally of mine, and clearly you’re not my fucking mate.’
‘No, but I do want to be your partner.’
‘What … what’s that?’
‘This is the second question you asked me. “What bill?” you said. In other words, who are you going to be paying? It’s a fair question … it’s gonna be at least half your annual income, after all. It’s only fair that you know where it’s going.’
O’Grady rocked in his chair. He’d laugh if anything about this was even remotely funny. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. You are seriously screwed in the head.’
‘Steady on, Milesey.’ The newcomer’s smile hardened. ‘This is a sliding scale. The tougher you are to deal with, the more expensive it’s going to get.’
O’Grady smiled too, though it was hard and humourless. ‘You seriously think I haven’t dealt with cheap gangsters before? With chancers and wannabes? You think I can’t sniff out some cocky spiv who’s got all the blarney, all the gab, but who’d run a country mile if it ever cut up for real?’
‘No, I know you have. Which is why I’m confident you’re going to be sensible.’
‘Just get out of here, pal. Right now, and we’ll forget this ever happened.’
‘Thought you were going to make a phone-call?’
O’Grady lugged open a drawer and grabbed out a short-barrelled Taurus .357 Magnum revolver. It was fully loaded, and he pointed it at the newcomer’s face.
‘You seriously don’t know what you’re getting into,’ he warned.
‘Okay … enough pissing around.’ The guy straightened in his seat, seemingly unfazed by the proximity of the gun. ‘I’m sure you know who I represent. It’s a no-brainer, isn’t it? You must always have known that at some point, as your star rose, we’d get interested.’
‘You’re getting nothing else,’ O’Grady said tightly.
‘Here’s the deal. At the mo it’s fifty per cent. Payable monthly, not annually. For which purpose we’ll obviously need full access to your books … your real ones, that is. Not the Mickey Mouse ones you keep for the Inland Revenue.’
‘I said, get out of here, you stinking piece of trash!’
‘That pushes it to sixty-forty. In our favour, of course.’
O’Grady shoved his chair back and jumped up. Now he was aiming with both hands, squinting along the barrel. ‘You little fuck!’
‘Seventy-thirty.’
‘Get out!’
‘We like what you do, Miles. I told you I was an admirer. We all are. But it’d be a lot easier for everyone if you were to play nice.’
‘Get the fuck out!’
‘Oh dear.’ For the first time, the newcomer looked disappointed. ‘This can be put back on a more even keel, but I’m worried that you’ve already lost too much ground.’
‘I said get the fuck out!’ It was all but a shriek.
‘Tell you what …’ The newcomer remained seated, unconcerned that O’Grady was edging around the desk towards him, still staring down the barrel of his stubby but powerful pistol. ‘Instead of going to eighty-twenty, which obviously would be ridiculous – wouldn’t be worth you and your two boys getting out of bed, would it? – I’m going to give you a couple of days to clear your head of all this “I’m still the big man” nonsense.’
Only now did he stand up, apparently more interested in brushing bits of dust from his jacket than he was in the firearm trained on his head from less than four feet away. ‘Just remember, this deal is non-negotiable. And it’s going to happen.’ He moved to the door, where he stopped and half-turned. ‘All you’ve got to think about are the terms. But think about them properly, Miles, because so far you’ve done a hell of a job skewing them against you.’
When the man was halfway down the shabby staircase, O’Grady stumbled into the doorway at the top, his pistol still drawn but pointed at the floor.
‘I’m not frightened of you, McCracken!’
Frank McCracken looked back up at him. ‘There you are … told you you knew us.’
‘I’ve met people like you all my career.’
‘Uh-uh.’ McCracken shook his head. ‘You know why, pal? You’re still here.’
As McCracken emerged from the building, the phone began chirping in his pocket. He took it out as he strolled towards his waiting Bentley Continental, smiling to himself when he saw who the caller was. He slowed to a halt next to the car.
‘Cora …?’
‘Frank!’ Cora sounded surprised that he’d answered. ‘I’ve called you a few times since you sent me those flowers. Why can I never get you?’
He stuck a hand into his suit pocket, affecting a nonchalant pose in case O’Grady happened to peek down from a window. ‘It’s not always convenient, I’m afraid.’
‘Yeah, well … it wasn’t exactly convenient for me when those flowers arrived. As you can imagine, our Lucy’s played hell over it.’
‘Yeah, I can imagine. I’m sorry, love … I’m a busy man. I sometimes have to screen calls.’
Cora didn’t comment on that, no doubt because she knew what his businesses involved and didn’t want to hear any more about them than was necessary.
‘What was the reason for it?’ she asked, still sounding stern. ‘What are you up to, Frank?’
‘What do you mean what am I up to?’
‘Well … I wish I could believe that you’d remembered my birthday because you’re a thoughtful guy who likes to stay in contact with his old friends, but it’s thirty-odd years since you last gave any indication of that.’
McCracken was unsure how to reply. It was true that he and Cora had barely had contact since she’d left him and the SugaBabes club. In the last two years, though, he’d seen her much more regularly, though that was mainly due to their both becoming embroiled in Lucy’s investigations. But even then, it was difficult pretending that renewing his acquaintance with her hadn’t made an impact on him.
He remembered Cora vividly from her youth, a twenty-something dancer, whose flowing flaxen hair and sinuous, exotic routine had struck even the rowdiest clientele dumb with amazement. Okay, the alluring outfits had all come off piece by piece, in the sexiest way imaginable, and any red-blooded male would have been stirred. But it wasn’t just that. Cora had been the only stripper in the club to use a microphone, talking to the crowd, teasing them, taunting them. Even when fully dressed, she’d known exactly how to rock a man’s world.
But needless to say, there’d been a lot more to her than that.
Whether it was her determined nature or adversarial spirit, McCracken wasn’t sure – he’d always found those things appealing in a woman, because they were such a challenge to his own alpha-male status. But Cora had been morally upright too, in her own way, as if deep down inside there’d always been a model citizen trying to get out. On reflection it was no surprise that, when she’d learned she was pregnant, she’d extricated herself and her unborn child completely from the lowlife environment that had become her world.
‘The least you can do is give me an answer,’ she said into his ear.
‘I’m working on one,’ he replied.
‘Oh, charming …’
Though that was the most genuine reply he could have given. He felt he knew what the real answer was, or at least he had a vague idea – but he couldn’t articulate it. There’d been savagery all his life. He’d only ever known violent criminals, had only ever lived off the proceeds of violent crime – and so often his women had been part of those proceeds.
With the sole exception of Cora Clayburn.
When only a few things in your life were actually good – when everything else was wrong or bent or corrupt – didn’t you sometimes cling to those few things? Didn’t you go looking for them when you thought they were lost because so often they felt like your final hope?
Okay, he shouldn’t get carried away. He couldn’t put Cora on too much of a pedestal – she’d been a stripper, after all – but, having hooked up with her again all t
hese years later, he’d found that she’d indeed become that upstanding citizen, that conscientious working mum who paid her taxes, who had friends that weren’t delinquents, who added genuine value to her community. She still looked terrific as well. She’d aged, obviously, but Cora clearly looked after herself, a habit she evidently shared with her daughter. And she still possessed that indomitable, rebellious spirit.
‘There must be some reason why you’d send me a pile of flowers,’ she persisted, refusing to be fobbed off. ‘From most blokes it would be a loving gesture, but I know you, Frank … and so does Lucy, and neither of us think it can be anything of the sort. So, I ask you again: what are you up to?’
‘Cora, I …’
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Frank McCracken was tongue-tied.
It was a staggering possibility, but could he actually be falling for this woman? All over again? It was difficult to imagine, with Charlie at home, the ultimate temptress, ‘Sex on Legs’ as the other lads called her. But Charlie was simply the best of a long line of hot ladies who’d warmed his sheets over the years and hadn’t served much other purpose. Cora had been a lot more to him than that.
‘That’s it?’ she said. ‘That’s all the answer I get? You finally deign to take my call, and then you’ve got nothing to say.’
‘Cora, listen … just accept it for what it is. A birthday gift, yeah?’
‘But what does it actually mean, Frank?’ Her voice had changed slightly, the tone softening; there was almost a plea there. And now he couldn’t help wondering how she felt about him. ‘Give me something, Frank. Anything. So, I’m not left confused and worried by this.’
Perhaps she’d been lonely too these last thirty years.
Fuck. There it was. He’d just admitted it to himself. For all the drinking and gambling, for all the women who’d jump into bed at a click of his fingers, he was lonely.
‘Frank, talk to me!’
‘Cora, listen. We are old friends, you’re right. More than that, in truth. Now, I’d like us to be new friends. But you know that can’t happen under the current circumstances.’
