by Paul Finch
She pondered it again, and as before, he saw no evident distaste.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘That might be a plan. Save me waiting out there on the car park for half an hour for a taxi, won’t it?’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’ He noted that she hadn’t yet told him where she lived. He wasn’t sure what that meant. Either she didn’t trust him to know her actual address, or she lived way, way across the borough and didn’t want to dissuade him from his act of generosity before they’d even started. Either way, it worked for Nathan. The whole point of it was to get her into his car with him.
‘I’ll go and get showered,’ she said, hobbling stiffly away. ‘I’ll see you at the bar in … shall we say fifteen minutes?’
Nathan glanced at the clock. It was 21.57. The gym officially closed at ten, which was why, when he looked around, there was almost no one left on the exercise floor. The cleaners would be in first thing tomorrow, so it would simply be a matter of switching everything off, hitting the lights and locking up.
‘Yeah, that’s great,’ he said. ‘Sure.’
She smiled and nodded, before limping away. Even moving clumsily, she looked amazingly sexy, the shorts and vest only enhancing her supple, shapely form. It was all Nathan could do not to lick his lips.
He spent the next few minutes in a flurry of activity, closing everything down, saying goodnight to his fellow instructors, none of whom appeared to have noticed his brief flirtation with the redhead, and then dashed to the staff locker room to get his stuff. He wasn’t supposed to leave the premises in ‘uniform’, and so changed into a spare pair of joggers and a hoodie top and trainers, grabbed his bag and hurried through into the bar.
Though the gym was now closed, this part of the building was also for the use of hotel guests, and so it usually stayed open until midnight at least. It was fairly basic: low-key lighting, stripped-down décor, a tiled floor, but it was clean and tidy, and one or two patrons were in there.
Rather to Nathan’s surprise, because girls always seemed to take an age to get ready, the object of his interest was already here, seated on a bar-stool in a beige tracksuit and blue anorak, a glass of what looked like sparkling water on the counter in front of her, and a bulging sports bag on the floor. She was chatting on her phone when he came in, but now cut the call and shoved the device into her pocket.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve just rung home and they’re coming to pick me up. I told them I had a lift, but they weren’t happy. I’m grateful for the offer though, so I bought you this.’ She pushed a half-pint glass of what looked like cola with ice along the counter towards him. ‘The barman said you usually have Diet.’
‘Uh … yeah, thanks,’ Nathan said, struggling to conceal how disappointed he felt. In truth, it was more than disappointment. It was outright anger. He’d been stood up, slighted. When he took the glass of coke, he grabbed it forcefully as though he was about to throw it across the room. Thankfully, the girl didn’t notice. She reached down, pulled her bag onto her knee and tried to work the zip up. Pissed off though he was, Nathan reminded himself, it was vital not to lose his temper. Not if he wanted to get another chance at a later date.
‘Boyfriend coming for you, then, is it?’ he said.
She glanced up at him and pulled a face. ‘Boyfriend?’
She chuckled, and for an ugly moment Nathan wondered if she might be a lesbo. Usually, when she was training here, she had another girl with her. That was a more than unpleasant possibility; it had the potential to ruin all his plans. Despite common sense telling him to rein it in a little, to avoid being cheeky or forward, he needed to know more, so he had to probe further. It probably wouldn’t seem too out of order now that they were in a social situation.
‘I’m amazed by that,’ he said, deliberately sounding unamazed, as if it was only of mild interest. ‘I’d have thought they’d be lining up …’
‘I get approached a lot, I suppose,’ she said. ‘I haven’t met one that suits me yet, that’s all.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded his understanding, feeling more relaxed. Nathan didn’t have an issue with people’s sexual preferences. As far as he was concerned, it was live and let live, a free world. If some lass got her rocks off with other lasses, that was fine. So long as it didn’t get in the way of his ambitions.
The girl checked her phone, having heard a text arrive. She straightened on her stool. ‘My ride’s here.’
Nathan glanced from the window, puzzled. They had a good view of the main car park entrance, and no headlights had speared their way in in the last few minutes.
‘Don’t see anyone,’ he said.
‘No … the little idiot’s parked at the church.’ The girl shook her head. ‘Don’t know why, but it’s not untypical.’
She clambered from the stool, again wincing with pain, carrying her left leg as if it was a dead weight. Nathan took a big swallow of coke, slung his own bag over his shoulder and made as if to collect hers. ‘Want me to carry this for you?’
‘Uh-uh.’ She was quite decided about that, at least, though she smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry again. Not being rude, but … well, don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea, do we?’
‘Erm, no … suppose not.’ Nathan could have kicked himself for acting like an over-eager puppy. He leaned on the bar again, while she slipped her phone into her anorak pocket. ‘Nice meeting you, anyway.’ He offered a hand. ‘I mean, I meet you every day, obviously … but … I’m Nathan.’
‘Janice.’ She shook hands with him, very demurely and platonically, before turning and limping away, struggling a little with her bag. ‘And thanks for your help,’ she called from the doorway, before disappearing outside.
Nathan nodded, sipping his coke again as he watched her go. She clearly could have used a hand with the bag but would have found that embarrassing. Or was it him that she’d have found embarrassing? He scowled to himself as he finished the drink. He shouldn’t have fawned over her, that was for sure. But then again, she’d told him that she didn’t have a boyfriend when there’d actually been no need to. Maybe that had simply been to assert her independence, to reinforce that she was always the one in the driving seat – or then again, perhaps it had been to let him know that he was in with a chance.
Cheered by that thought, Nathan finished his drink and headed outside, his own bag hanging down his brawny back.
Somewhat coincidentally, he himself was feeling untypically stiff tonight, mainly in his neck and shoulders. It was odd. He’d done his usual forty-minute workout before coming on duty, but he hadn’t pushed himself harder than he normally did, and anyway, that had been hours and hours ago. The September night wasn’t especially cold, but it was chillier than it had been, and it struck him harder than he’d expected. He loitered at the top of the steps, fleetingly feeling groggy, wondering if he might be coming down with something.
But Nathan didn’t exactly feel ill. Even if he did, he would fight it. He wasn’t the sort who called in sick easily. That was for layabouts and wusses.
He trotted down the steps and adjusted the bag at his shoulder as he set off across the car park towards his beaten-up second-hand Micra. As he did, he passed the entrance to the footway that led through to the car park at St Barnabas’s – and a pair of flashing headlights caught his attention.
He glanced sideways, and found himself looking directly along the narrow, paved path that connected with the church car park. The shadowy shape of a vehicle was parked at the other side of it. Even as Nathan stared, it flashed its beams again.
He stopped and watched, and very briefly felt light-headed, even dizzy. It occurred to him that this might have been caused by the half-hour he usually spent in the swimming pool at the end of each workout. He’d once been told that water in the ears could cause sensory imbalance.
The car flashed its beams again.
Were they signalling to him?
It didn’t seem likely, but then Nathan wondered if it might be the girl.
; He couldn’t understand why she’d be trying to attract his attention, unless … perhaps her leg was giving her real problems. There was supposed to be someone else with her, but if they’d had no physio training, they’d likely be no use. And hadn’t the girl called whoever it was an idiot, anyway?
Picturing some gormless younger brother sitting behind the steering wheel, or maybe a doddery old parent, he started along the path. As before, his vision tilted slightly, and he felt dizzy. Definitely fluid in the ears, he decided. He’d been doing lots of underwater lengths recently. But then why was he feeling sluggish too, and even sleepy?
Someone on his left gave what sounded like a choked scream.
Nathan turned sharply, and almost toppled over.
More than water in the ears, maybe. Now, he was really feeling tired, unnaturally so, his eyelids drooping … but first things first. Was someone in trouble?
He was maybe thirty yards along the path. The wall behind him had a dense rank of rhododendrons on the other side, but beyond the wall in front stood the church, a vast, gothic silhouette on the starlit fields. Just to the left of it, cluttered together somewhat, many of them old and leaning, stood the cruciform outlines of gravestones. Nathan tried to focus on these, because suddenly he thought he’d spied movement over there, as if someone had just flitted out of sight around the back of the main building.
As though in a dream, the edges of his vision blurring, he spied the lychgate in front of him, pushed it open and stepped through into the churchyard.
‘Everything all right over there?’ he shouted, trying to get his vision straight, wondering why his voice sounded hoarse and weak.
Not water … flu. It could only be flu.
He dropped his bag before blundering forward, following the gravel path along the side of the church, the jumbled headstones drifting foggily past. When he reached the far corner, he wasn’t sure what he expected to see. The girl from the gym maybe, whatever her name was – Janice? – being dragged through the long, straggling grass by some masked assailant. That he could have handled, rough and exhausted though he now felt.
But all he saw was a few more graves, a dry-stone wall and, behind that, open fields.
Nathan was bewildered. He knew what he’d seen. He tottered forward a few steps, his feet stumbling off the gravel and into the lengthy grass.
A reverberating clunk sounded behind him.
He spun around and again almost fell over, staggering sideways, only just managing to keep his feet. When he finally looked up, he realised that someone had emerged from the nearest church door, and now was standing with back turned, in the process of locking it. It probably should have struck Nathan harder than it did that, even though this was a church, it was odd at this late hour to see what appeared to be a cowled monk.
‘Sorry … father,’ he burbled, reality swimming. ‘I just … I thought I heard …’
The monk turned around to face him, and for an amazed second, Nathan, intoxicated as he felt, was transfixed.
‘Wha’ … wha’ the fuck … fuck happened to … you?’ he stammered.
The monk didn’t reply, because at that moment, three steel points were driven forcefully into Nathan’s back. His senses were so dulled now that his reaction to the sudden, astonishing pain was sluggish. It didn’t help, of course, that the middle prong of the pitchfork pierced his upper spine, causing his head to jerk back, his torso to stiffen, his hands to claw into talons.
It made it easy for the monk, who produced a large, heavy-bladed knife, complete with a cross-guard, and swept it once across Nathan’s exposed throat, opening it clean to the back of the windpipe.
As the paralysed trainer sagged to his knees, his lifeblood boiling away in a raging crimson torrent, the monk with the mangled face lowered the knife, leaned down close and, phone in hand, commenced taking photographs.
Chapter 18
‘Yo, Lucy?’ the voice on the hands-free said. It was the next morning, and Lucy was driving in to work. The caller was PC Nina Pettigrew, the family liaison who’d been assigned to Alex Calderwell. ‘Can you talk?’
‘It’s fine,’ Lucy replied. ‘What’ve you got?’
‘Sorry it’s taken me so long to report. First chance I’ve had.’
‘It’s okay.’ Lucy felt secretly guilty that, with everything else in her head, she’d actually forgotten that she was waiting on this. ‘Shoot.’
‘This boyfriend of Lorna Cunningham’s … he seems genuinely upset.’
‘Does he seem worried?’
‘Oh, yeah … jumps every time the phone rings. Pacing the house like a cat.’
‘You’ve been with him a couple of days now, Nina, and you’ve had a chance to get a proper look at him. No fresh injuries that he might have been able to conceal during his interview with Judy Stryker? No marks on his knuckles, no facial scratches …?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Okay, thanks, love. Stick with it for the time being, yeah?’
They cut the call and Lucy drove on sourly, furious with herself that even in the midst of what was turning into a major criminal enquiry, her thoughts were still ranging over domestic issues. But they had to. The fact that she’d been brooding on it all night, barely sleeping, was hardly a surprise, because what was going on at home was not routine stuff; it had the potential to plunge her life and career into a crisis from which there might be no escape.
And then there was the emotional context.
On the few occasions she’d met with her father previously, he’d been a mischievous, patronising presence, comfy in the knowledge that he could toy with her while she couldn’t ever risk calling his bluff because she shouldn’t have been conferring with him in the first place. Doubtless, that was always the way of it when coppers and underworld bigwigs were involved in shady dealing. But with Frank McCracken, it was aggravated by the father and daughter thing, McCracken often assuming a teacherly role, as if she needed to know how things were really done in this business and he was the ideal man for it. It was also true that he’d helped her out when she’d been in over her head. Lucy repeatedly told herself that this had mainly been to help himself, because, a couple of times at least, their aims had been the same. But it was hard to deny that there’d been something else there too.
McCracken had never been a dad to her. She’d met him just two years ago and before then had known him only as a gangster. And even though he’d known about her, he’d made no effort to get acquainted until it had become unavoidable. But now that they did know each other, he’d related to her increasingly differently, expressing guarded interest in her career, showing admiration at the things she’d got right, even offering advice when it came to the things he thought she was getting wrong.
She couldn’t bloody believe it, to be honest.
The closer she felt he was to her, the more frightened she was that the whole thing was suddenly going to go pear-shaped. Because it was impossible to overstate just how high in the criminal hierarchy Frank McCracken was, and, for all his civilised airs, just how dangerous. She couldn’t even guess how many people he’d killed or beaten, or ordered to be killed or beaten. And just because they were his fellow villains, that didn’t make it okay.
And now there was this.
It was a subtle change in his demeanour, but it was a change nevertheless, his connection to the Clayburn family suddenly taking a turn for the personal, as if they were no longer just a fact of life for him, but something he was starting to care about.
As Lucy drove along Tarwood Lane, everything her mother had said, even though it had been said heatedly and in a wishful way rather than a thoughtful one, seemed to be coming true. Perhaps he was getting tired in his middle age, perhaps the pleasures of the glamorous but high-risk world he inhabited were palling. Perhaps he did miss the everyday affection he’d draw from a genuine, caring wife. And it wasn’t as if he and Cora hadn’t been close once. He’d only stayed out of Lucy’s early life because Cora had asked him to, not bec
ause he’d sought that.
Strange behaviour for a brute who’d supposedly never cared.
‘God almighty!’ she said, proceeding past Robber’s Row, bound for Penrose Mill, because she still had to get a statement from Sister Cassie (in truth, the last thing she needed now was to have to go searching for the ex-nun among the backstreets and fleapits again).
But no. Most likely, he was rekindling his interest in Cora because he wanted someone to look after him in his dotage. Where Carlotta Powell was concerned, once a high-class hooker, always a high-class hooker. But Cora would clean for him, cook for him, toast his slippers on the fire on cold winter nights, all that ridiculous, old-fashioned Northern bullshit.
‘He’ll still go and see Carlotta whenever he feels like it,’ she said aloud, not for the first time in the last few hours.
It was a simple equation. Bad people were bad people because they were bad. It was part of their DNA, it was hardwired into them. You couldn’t change it just by wishing they were different.
At which point, Lucy hit her brakes, going into a screeching skid.
Halfway down Adolphus Road, a figure had hurried across it ahead of her. But it wasn’t that she’d nearly hit him – he was still a good forty yards in front – it was because she’d recognised him. He was a young, thin guy with long, greasy red hair, wearing grey drainpipe jeans, black cowboy boots and a black leather jacket with biker tassels. The only difference since the last time she’d seen him was that he hadn’t bothered today with his stylish leather trilby. As he hit the pavement, he continued walking in the same direction she was driving, but when he realised she was following him, she expected him to bolt. So she stayed behind the wheel, slowing to walking pace and powering down her front passenger window as she drew up at his shoulder. At first, he didn’t react, and she soon saw that this was because he was wearing earbuds.
Lucy’s Suzuki Jimny was her own car but, since she’d been cleared to drive it on police duty, she’d had blue flashers incorporated into her standard external light system, and a discreet siren fitted. She hit the button for both, giving them a fleeting whirl. The guy with the tassels jumped and spun to look at her. It was definitely the same young bloke she’d seen last Saturday night, the one with the shark tattoo on his neck and the rampant acne, the little bastard who’d been selling drugs to the homeless occupants of Penrose Mill.
