by Paul Finch
Chapter 41
As Lucy pulled onto the drive of her bungalow on Cuthbertson Court, she heard the landline ringing inside. She hurried indoors, just in time to catch it.
It was Tessa Payne at the other end. ‘Lucy … glad I caught you. I’ve been trying your mobile, but—’
‘Don’t worry, it’s kaput,’ Lucy said.
‘Well … at least it’s not you, eh?’ Once again, the trainee detective sounded breathless and excited. Doubtless, this fast-moving enquiry, with its potential enormous pay-off, was just the sort of thing she’d joined CID to get involved in. Evidently, she hadn’t yet learned that Lucy was persona non grata.
‘I suppose I agree with that,’ Lucy replied, too emotionally exhausted even to make it sound like the sarcasm she’d intended. ‘Sorry, Tessa. Yeah … least I’m alive.’
‘I’m so sorry … I mean, sorry you had to go through all that alone.’
‘Two of us being nabbed wouldn’t have improved things, Tess. Thanks for the thought, though. How’s it going?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The search for the Torgau girls.’
‘Oh … well, the house is getting turned over. Their escape route led through an old sewer and came up again in a derelict garage about three streets away. We’ve located a lock-up near the town centre too. Think that’s where they were keeping the van. There’s a respraying kit in there, goggles, paint-stained overalls, a load of fake registration plates and spare clothes. The van’s not there though, obviously.’
‘No indication where they might have taken it?’ Lucy asked.
‘Not yet. But I heard some of the Serious crowd talking. They don’t reckon they’ll get very far. I mean, they can travel as far as the petrol takes them, obviously, but we’ve put an all-points out, so it won’t be easy getting a refill. On top of that, what are they going to do in the middle of the night? Park in a layby and sleep? Maybe one night, maybe two, but that can’t go on indefinitely, can it? Even if they change vehicles, that situation won’t improve.’
‘Unless they’ve got somewhere else to lay low,’ Lucy said. ‘Somewhere more secure.’
Payne thought about that. ‘You mean if they’ve got more accomplices?’
‘It’s hardly going to be the Crew. But the Torgau girls are bound to know other folk. They’ve not been living like nuns … hang on, whoa!’
‘What’s up?’ Payne asked.
‘Nuns,’ Lucy said, mainly to herself.
‘What do you mean, “nuns”?’ Payne wondered. ‘You said something about that before.’
‘Nothing, it’s all right.’ A compelling new thought had just occurred to Lucy, and it was already taking a deep, fast root. ‘Just let me know if you hear anything, yeah?’
‘Aren’t you off sick?’
‘Yeah, but this was my case, I want to know how it pans out.’
But Payne now sounded intrigued. ‘What did you mean, “nuns”?’
‘Tessa, I’ve got to go. Stick with the footage.’
Lucy cut the call and stood thinking.
Nuns …
She dashed back outside, jumped into the Jimny, threw it into reverse and swung it onto the road.
The Torgau girls could be anywhere. They could have another vehicle, another lock-up, not to mention all kinds of well-resourced associates that no one in the police knew about. But most likely the latter did not apply. Martin Torgau had been successful for so long because he’d kept everything in-house. He’d flown under the law enforcement radar, shielded by a façade of decorum. By playing the good neighbour, socialising only with respectable people, he’d done nothing whatsoever to draw police attention to him – which also meant that he’d kept his fraternising with fellow criminals to a minimum. Even if that hadn’t been the case, the Crew had tried to wipe both him and his daughters out. So how many hoodlums would seriously be willing to offer them refuge? And yet those two girls had taken off like bats out of Hell, like girls with a real purpose.
And that purpose wasn’t just to ride the roads until they ran out of fuel. They were headed somewhere they could hole up, somewhere they could lie low and reorganise, somewhere no one outside themselves and their father knew about.
With one possible exception.
Lucy turned her vehicle in the direction of St Clement’s.
This enquiry had seen her gamble on some genuine long-shots, and yet this would be the longest shot of all. It was tenuous as a strand of chewing gum, but just at present, as her entire career was hanging by it, she’d take any chance that came her way.
‘Oh dear, look what I’ve found,’ Lucy said, after kicking open the door to the only cubicle in the row that had a door attached.
It was obscenely filthy in there, the walls covered with brown smears and scrawls of vile graffiti, the stench thick enough to knock a person down. But unlike all the others, this toilet had a seat and a lid on it, though the lid was currently closed, Sister Cassie’s satchel lying on top, and on top of that her a slim metal box lying open on several key items: a foil wrap, a cigarette lighter, a blackened spoon and a small plastic syringe cap.
The ex-nun herself was on the floor, crammed into the niche alongside the porcelain throne, her left sleeve unfastened and rolled back, and a cord tied around her upper arm. In her right hand, a syringe filled with clear fluid hovered over one of several ugly bruises.
‘If it isn’t someone in possession of controlled drugs!’ Lucy declared.
Sister Cassie’s face looked pinched and pale. Now it turned peevish. ‘My child, let’s not be foolish. You know that I’m purely a user. I never distribute this material.’
Lucy pulled one of her leather motorcycle gloves on and flexed her fingers. The ex-nun watched, helpless, as the cop reached down and took the syringe away, fitting its cap in place and sliding it into one of her jacket pockets. After that, she took the wrap of heroin.
‘You’re still in contravention of the law, Sister.’
‘And are you really going to arrest me?’
Lucy backed out of the cubicle, beckoning. ‘Come on, on your feet.’
Sister Cassie stayed where she was. ‘It wasn’t my fault about this morning. I came to the police station, like you said, but you weren’t there.’
Lucy was briefly regretful. It was correct that she’d arranged for the ex-nun to come in and give her statement, but in the fury-ride of overtaking events, she’d forgotten all about it. Not that it made any difference now.
She beckoned again. ‘Come on, Sister. Move it.’
Whimpering with frustration, the ex-nun released the cord and put what remained of her bits and pieces back into the flat tin, which she carefully lidded. ‘Lucy Clayburn, I am very disappointed in you. I thought you were different from the others.’
She got to her feet, shivering as she tightened her cloak against a chill that Lucy didn’t feel. She was sweaty too, her nose running, all of which implied that she was strung-out, which wouldn’t help. But it could have been worse. She could have been high.
Shouldering the satchel, she emerged into the main body of the toilet block. It was the one Lucy had been told about, on the end of the row of derelict shops near Penrose Mill, and it was a dank, dingy hole, filled with litter and broken glass, and strewn with old syringes.
‘I thought you were different too,’ Lucy said. ‘You might not be a dealer, but you keep the dealers in business, don’t you? And what about this place? It’s supposed to be a public convenience, not a dump site for dirty needles.’
‘Those are not my needles,’ the nun protested. ‘I always take mine to the Exchange.’
‘Unless you’re too stoned to remember.’
Sister Cassie looked shocked at the suggestion. ‘That’s never happened.’
‘How would you know? Uh? When you’re walking down the street like the living dead, throwing away that wonderful education you gained at the taxpayer’s expense? Do you ever wonder about the generations of kids you didn’t inspire af
ter you became an addict?’
‘What’s all this about?’ The ex-nun looked puzzled, at least partly because she’d offered her hands to be cuffed, and it hadn’t happened yet. ‘You’ve never moralised like this before.’
‘I’ll tell you what this is, Sister … I’m about to do the world a favour. I’m going to throw you in the slammer. They’ll break you of the habit in there. They’ll make you get clean.’
‘And what about my regulars? Who will look after them?’
Lucy shrugged. ‘They chose this bed to lie on, so that’s their problem. Unless …’ She raised a cautionary finger. ‘Unless there’s a way we can help them too.’ She paused. ‘What does “Maggie” mean?’
Sister Cassie looked bemused. ‘Isn’t it a name? Short for Margaret?’
‘Yeah, but it’s a name I’ve heard used twice in the last couple of days … on both occasions in reference to you.’ Lucy paused again, but the ex-nun merely shrugged. ‘The girl who attacked you yesterday night. You said she called you a “stiff-arsed virgin bitch” and said that she would “take you back to fucking Maggies”. And then, not four or five hours ago, the same girl referred to you as a “Maggie slut”.’
Sister Cassie looked even more baffled. ‘I honestly have no clue. Obviously, a disturbed individual, who—’
‘None of this “disturbed characters who don’t know what they’re doing” crap.’ Lucy grabbed her by her wrists. ‘Listen to me, Sister … it’s vital that you help me. Otherwise, your regulars are going to find there’ll be no one to tuck them up at night for quite a few months. What does “Maggie slut” mean?’
‘How could I possibly know?’
‘Because I had a thought earlier on. It’s got to be in reference to what you are, or what you once were. That girl I spoke about, she and her sister spent some time in a Catholic care home … when their father was in prison.’
‘But that had nothing to do with me. My students were O Level and above. There were no special needs, no children with any kinds of problems that I … oh!’ Her expression changed, as if something remarkable had just occurred to her. ‘Oh, my word … Maggies.’
‘Yes?’ Lucy prompted her.
‘Bless my soul. I’d never have … oh, but it can’t be that.’
‘Can’t be what?’
Sister Cassie’s eyes, previously clouded with pain and misery, had suddenly cleared. ‘The term Maggies might refer to Santa Magdalena.’
‘Santa …?’
‘Santa Magdalena.’
Now, it was Lucy’s turn to look bewildered. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘It was a childcare community operated by the archdiocese. On the outskirts of Crowley. If memory serves, the children used to refer to it as St Maggies.’
‘Take you back to Maggies,’ Lucy said slowly.
‘I only visited occasionally, but it was run by my own order,’ Sister Cassie added. ‘The Carmelite Sisters.’ She looked sad. ‘Rather a pejorative term for some very hard-working women … but they would most likely have been the “stiff-arsed virgins” that this ungrateful girl referred to.’
‘You say the kids used to call it St Maggies?’
‘That’s my point. It’s been closed for ten years at least. It’s no longer used for anything, but the buildings are still there. Some kind of dispute is raging about who owns them—’
‘Where is it?’
‘I don’t know the address, but it’s over towards Glazebury.’
‘Could you find it if we got in the car?’ Lucy asked.
‘We aren’t going to the police station?’
‘If you can direct me there, Sister … we’ll call it time served.’
Chapter 42
Frank McCracken’s official residence was 17, Yellowbrook Close, Didsbury, in South Manchester. The house, a five-bedroom detached, surrounded by extensive gardens, was located on a swish but secluded housing estate, where the average property price could be anything between £700,000 and £1,000,000.
At present, though, there was no one home. It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening, and Mrs Hepplethwaite, McCracken’s housekeeper, finished no later than six. Most of the neighbours were indoors, their children along with them because it was a school night. Overhead, the evening sky turned from lilac to indigo, while down below, the dim orange bulbs of streetlights flickered to life one by one.
Slowly, unusually cautiously, Mick Shallicker drove along the empty street, parking the Bentley in front of McCracken’s house rather than using the fob on the key-ring to open the electronically operated gates. Yellowbrook Close was a cul-de-sac, which always made him feel hemmed in, even in normal circumstances, so to go onto the drive now would seem like sheer folly. He climbed from the car and loitered on the pavement, scanning the surrounding gardens, paying particular attention to other parked vehicles, seeing if there were any that he didn’t recognise. No one would think it strange to see him here, for all that his size made him an eye-catching individual. He was known locally as an employee of McCracken’s, a security man who often lived on site, though this behaviour might have appeared a little strange.
At present, of course, he had too many other things on his mind to be worried by that.
He finally used the fob on the pedestrian gate, which stood to one side. It swung open, and he walked up the drive, unlocking a side-door to the house. Inside, he deactivated the alarm and stood for a second, listening. The palatial interior was perfectly still and smelled clean and fresh.
Satisfied, Shallicker trotted upstairs to the third bedroom, which was reserved for guests. In an upper section of its wardrobe, he found a series of matching tan suitcases of decreasing size, each one placed inside the next like the parts of a Russian doll. He selected one of the smaller ones, though not the smallest, and took it through to the main bedroom. Opening the wardrobe in there, he yanked out various clothes and threw them all into the case. He then moved through to the bathroom, which was all gold and chrome and crystal, the tub large enough to accommodate several people at once – and that had happened at least a couple of times to Shallicker’s memory, his employer frolicking two and even three at a time with some of his favourite ladies.
In the mirrored cupboard, he found a zipped toiletries kit, containing everything for the man on the move. He tossed that into the case too, and then hovered, trying to ensure there was nothing else he’d missed. McCracken already had his wallet and his laptop, and any data files he might need on the pen-drive he always kept on his person. Shallicker then remembered the other thing – in some ways, it was the most important item of all. He could have slapped himself on the head. Hunkering down alongside McCracken’s four-poster bed, he pulled out a drawer. Inside it, there was a shoebox, and inside the shoebox a Walther P22, with six full magazines. Shallicker threw those into the case as well, compressed everything down and tugged the zip closed.
He glanced at his watch. It was now after eight. What daylight remained was diminishing fast. He descended the staircase, humping the heavy bag alongside him. At the bottom, he stopped to think one final time, dying sunlight lying in crimson stripes across the whole of the downstairs. It would be dark by the time he hit the M60, which while it didn’t give him any kind of decisive advantage, would be more useful to him than broad daylight.
He left the house the same way he’d come in, reactivating the alarm and then closing and locking the side-door behind him. As he walked down the drive, Yellowbrook Close still looked deserted. He retreated backward through the pedestrian gate, pushing the suitcase onto the pavement with his foot, while turning and using both hands to ensure that the gate closed and locked behind him.
‘Going on holiday, Mick?’ someone asked.
Shallicker twirled around and found Benny B a couple of yards away, with three of his black-suited goons at his back. Further movement drew his attention down to the end of the street, where two of the Crew’s security chief’s trademark black Audi A6s trundled into view.
Sha
llicker shrugged. ‘Getting Frank a change of togs. He’s been discharged.’
‘Already?’ Benny B wasn’t clever enough to affect mock-surprise. He sounded genuinely surprised, but two of the trio behind him were visibly wielding handguns inside their jacket pockets, while the other one wore a raincoat over his shoulders, mainly to screen the Uzi submachine gun he was carrying. So Shallicker had no doubt that this wasn’t a courtesy call.
‘Frank’s walking around,’ he ventured. ‘No point him staying in hospital.’
‘Well … he’s certainly walking around,’ Benny B agreed, the two Audis now gliding into place and braking, blocking the Bentley in. ‘That much is truthful. That’s why he discharged himself earlier on. So, where you really going, Mick? And where you taking that gear?’
‘Look, Ben … I just do what I’m told.’
‘Don’t we all?’ Benny nodded towards the nearest Audi, the front passenger door to which had clunked open. ‘After you, pal.’
More nervous than he’d ever been in his life, Shallicker picked the case up.
‘Leave that,’ Benny B said. ‘Frank may not know it yet, but he’s actually going nowhere.’
‘Can’t leave it on the street, Ben … there’s a piece inside.’
‘Speaking of which … arms up.’
Shallicker leaned against the Audi, hands outspread. One of Benny’s goons made a quick search of his upper body, extricating the Colt Cobra from his shoulder-holster, and then searching his pockets, taking charge of the keys to the Bentley. Another one picked up the suitcase.
‘Okay,’ Benny said. ‘You’re good to go.’
Shallicker climbed into the front passenger seat, back and shoulders tense as hardboard, especially when he sensed Benny and two of his men climb in behind. Doors slammed.
‘Don’t be too worried,’ Benny said. ‘We just want to know what’s going on.’
Shallicker shrugged again. ‘Frank discharged himself and he’s going away for a few days to recover. What’s the big deal?’
‘The big deal,’ Bill Pentecost’s voice sounded from the dash, ‘is that first he ordered a hit on a high-level affiliate of ours without running it by the board!’
