Stolen

by Paul Finch

‘You may have closed a significant number of cases. That trophy-shelf alone links these guys to quite a few deaths and disappearances.’

  ‘We’ll never know how many, though, will we?’ she retorted, too weary to feel real anger, but disgruntled with just about everyone, including herself. ‘That shelf’ll help us a bit. I’ve already seen the relics of Harry Hopkins and Lorna Cunningham … that’s sick enough, but at least it provides proof of who they were and what happened to them. But that was because they had families who were concerned. What about the homeless those two nutcases practised on? How many of them were there? How many were even missed?’

  ‘Lucy—’ he tried to interrupt.

  ‘By the sound of it, Torgau preyed on them in exactly the same way, for practice, God knows how many decades ago—’

  ‘Lucy!’

  ‘And they didn’t always melt down the evidence. According to Alyssa Torgau, there were others they killed who they just dumped, or hid in ruined buildings. More randomers, Stan, targets of total convenience …’

  ‘And it’s over!’ he said firmly. ‘Because of you … yeah?’

  ‘Because of me …?’ Momentarily, the words meant nothing to her.

  ‘Who else?’

  Lucy glanced towards the twisted body of Alyssa Torgau. Several streams of blood had trickled across the gravel before congealing. ‘If it’s such a win, why do I feel so lousy?’

  ‘Probably because you’re a decent person,’ Beardmore said. ‘Carnage is a never a cause for celebration. But that doesn’t mean this isn’t a result. How’s the hand, anyway?’

  Lucy examined her thickly bandaged paw, still baffled that it had happened at all. ‘Eighteen stitches … but I’ve still got to go to Casualty. They want to give me some shots.’

  ‘Sensible precaution.’

  From somewhere to their right, a pair of female voices intruded. They looked round and saw Sister Cassie being ushered into a CID car by Kirsty Banks. At long last, they’d pinned her down for an official interview.

  ‘Our nun friend again,’ Beardmore commented.

  ‘She is a friend,’ Lucy replied. ‘And an observant one. She saw me operate the blues and twos at some roadworks on the way in here. And thank God she did.’

  ‘She doesn’t seem any the worse for wear, I must say.’

  ‘She’s a tough one, that’s for sure. I didn’t let her go down into the cellar, though.’ Lucy swallowed in revulsion. ‘That place would have tested even her faith in God.’

  ‘This girl who got the acid in her face … I don’t know whether she’ll ever be fit for interview.’

  Lucy shrugged. ‘I’m amazed she’s even alive.’

  ‘You can probably thank the heroin for that. Knocked her out cold, while that stuff burned her almost to the bone.’

  Lucy brooded on the human stew in the plastic drums. ‘She got off easily.’

  ‘DI Beardmore!’ someone called, and he made his apologies to Lucy, heading across the drive to speak with the FMO.

  Briefly, Lucy lowered her head, trying to shut out the lights and noise. She felt nauseous but put that down to shock rather than the chemical fumes she’d been exposed to, though the ambulance crew had wanted her to get that checked out at hospital too. They’d told her that the ultra-concentrated acid in the cellar had likely been weakened by the pollutants – in other words the multiple organic remains that now clotted it. If it had been fresh and uncontaminated, just being in that room would probably have blinded and poisoned her.

  ‘Well, miss …’ someone else said.

  Lucy got tiredly to her feet. ‘Ma’am?’

  Priya Nehwal’s stony expression was as merciless as ever.

  ‘You’ve got some explaining to do,’ she said.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, ma’am.’ Lucy didn’t see what she could do other than apologise. She doubted that even one of Nehwal’s infamous bollockings would make her feel any worse at present. ‘I had to keep going … I had to prove that I’m still onside.’

  ‘That admission itself, after I had specifically ordered you to go off duty, could be sackable.’

  ‘Then … fuck it. Yeah, that’s it.’ Lucy couldn’t keep the charade going. She plonked herself back on the wall. ‘Fuck it. Give me the heave-ho, why don’t you? Christ … you’d be doing me a favour. You think I’m enjoying this bloody abattoir—’

  ‘Enough!’ Nehwal said firmly. ‘Don’t make things worse for yourself.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m a bit dizzy at present. I mean, on one hand you want to kick me out—’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘And on the other, DI Beardmore wants to commend me.’

  ‘And you deserve a commendation.’

  Lucy regarded her uncertainly.

  The DSU still seemed unimpressed, but perhaps had softened a little. ‘If you’d given me a chance to speak, I’d have told you that myself.’

  ‘Look, ma’am … I’m sorry,’ was all Lucy could say, again. ‘I know you won’t send me packing. I know you wouldn’t do that even if I hadn’t made this score. But to be frank, I’m not sure I care any more. I mean, some future I’ve got in the job, eh … related to a major player in the Northwest underworld? I might be estranged from him, I might hate the ground he walks on … but that shadow of suspicion will follow me around throughout my career, won’t it?’

  Nehwal glanced back towards the trestle-table and its heap of plastic-wrapped paperwork. ‘Less so after tonight, possibly. That cardboard tube you directed us to. The one with the bulldog on it. You saw me inspecting the contents?’

  Lucy nodded glumly. ‘I hope it was useful.’

  ‘It appears to be a kind of hand-written memoir … an account of Martin Torgau’s entire career as an assassin working exclusively for the Crew.’

  Lucy looked up slowly.

  ‘It details almost every murder he’s ever committed, those he could remember … going way back to his earliest days.’

  Initially, Lucy couldn’t respond. This was too good to be true. ‘Why would he create such a record?’

  Nehwal shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe as a form of insurance against the Crew ever turning on him. Perhaps as a training guide for his daughters. There’s some grisly detail in there. And making his daughters au fait with every aspect of the family trade seems to have been his focus these last few years.’

  ‘Does it name and shame the bastards who hired him?’

  ‘Well …’ Nehwal was careful how she replied to this. ‘We’ve not gone through it closely yet, but some players are mentioned by name. Not that it will necessarily be useful against them. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a treasure trove in terms of new leads appertaining to a number of open cases dating back several decades. We’ve already dispatched search teams to look for key missing remains. But in terms of convictions, well … when you’ve only got the written word of a dead man, who was also a psychopath and mass murderer in his own right. Plus, you know what top-level mobsters are like. They’ve got the best legal representation, they’ve got fake witnesses coming out of their ears, foolproof alibis, the lot.’ She shrugged again. ‘We can certainly bring in a few Crew underbosses for questioning, but whether it’ll go further than that … who can say?’

  Lucy nodded.

  ‘Of course –’ Nehwal looked sternly down at her ‘– the question you really want answering is whether Frank McCracken is mentioned?’

  Lucy glanced up at her. She didn’t deny it.

  ‘Not, as I’ve seen so far,’ Nehwal said. ‘Though, as I say, I haven’t gone through it with a fine-tooth comb. Your father must have been a smart guy to reach the level he has, Lucy. If he ever did use Torgau, all the contacts were likely made by underlings, all fees paid in cash so there’d be no electronic trails to follow. On which subject, the death of Martin Torgau himself still needs investigating.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t you say you thought you recognised one of the team that hit him?’

  Lucy
pondered this. She hadn’t seen Mick Shallicker’s face, of course, but had clearly recognised him by his voice and height. Even so, she replied: ‘I didn’t see anyone well enough to identify them, ma’am.’

  Nehwal’s face turned stony again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy said. ‘They were all masked, so how could I have recognised anyone?’

  ‘Only yesterday, you told me—’

  ‘I was wrong. Probably because I was so shaken up.’

  Lucy was adamant about that, at least. If the Greater Manchester Police were going to make life difficult for her now, and they would in some shape or form, she was damned if she was going to make it easy for them. Besides, she owed Shallicker. Twice now, he’d saved her life. That wouldn’t always give him a pass – he was a brute criminal, a murderer – but on this occasion, his target had been the Ripsaw Man. She could hardly judge him for that.

  ‘I must take you at your word, of course,’ Nehwal said coolly. ‘But if it ever comes to light that your father was involved …’

  ‘Do you seriously think he would be?’ Lucy interrupted. ‘He’s a top dog, isn’t he? Haven’t you just said that he’s virtually immune from prosecution? Is he then going to endanger all that by killing someone right in front of a police officer’s eyes?’

  Nehwal considered this long and hard. She still didn’t seem happy. ‘I know you’re not supposed to be on duty at present. But you’re not going anywhere, okay.’

  It wasn’t a question.

  ‘I need to go to the hospital,’ Lucy said.

  ‘The medics have patched you up, so it can wait.’ Nehwal edged away. ‘Given that you’ve already, very inconveniently, started forgetting things, I want everything that’s happened this last couple of days written down quickly … before you forget that too.’

  Lucy nodded resignedly as the DSU stalked off.

  With Sister Cassie still making statements, Lucy drove back towards the nick alone, swinging by her bungalow at Cuthbertson Court first, just to freshen up a little. A shower and a quick change of clothes later, she was heading out again, when her landline began to ring.

  One glance at the clock showed that it was almost three in the morning. Clearly, this wasn’t the kind of call she could just ignore.

  ‘Sorry about the hour,’ Frank McCracken said. ‘But I’ve been trying you on your mobile, and I was getting worried.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about me,’ Lucy replied. ‘Though I must admit, I’m surprised to hear that you’re still alive.’

  McCracken was on the penthouse suite balcony at the Astarte Hotel, a large malt whisky and soda in his hand. The entire city centre was spread below him, its glittering streets and ritzy premises, the shops, bars, nightclubs, the temples of finance, the trendy boutiques, the high-class restaurants. It was quiet now, but the traffic would soon be thronging again, the commercial life of Manchester throbbing to its own tireless, ever-prosperous beat. It was a heady moment to look down on it from such a height; it almost made him giddy.

  ‘Yes, I’m alive,’ he replied. ‘And likely to stay that way for some time. You see, I’ve handled things at my end, Lucy. I’m just wondering how you’re doing?’

  ‘I’m not flavour of the month,’ her voice replied sulkily. ‘But I don’t think I’ve lost my job. At least, not yet.’

  ‘If you ever do, you can come and work for me.’

  Rather to his surprise, she chuckled.

  ‘You think that’s funny?’ he said.

  ‘No. I’m just amused that you’re being so nice about it when my own side are likely to give me the cold shoulder for the next ten years.’

  ‘They say blood’s thicker than water.’

  ‘And that’s the only reason for your attitude, is it?’

  ‘Not quite. I’ll be honest, Lucy … I reckon you’ve helped out with a real knotty problem. You see, your reckless action has provoked me into doing something that has needed doing for some considerable time.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to know what that is.’

  ‘No, best if you don’t.’ He sipped his malt. ‘But you’ve got some rewards coming, my love.’

  There was a brief pause. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘No doubt we’ve got some heat coming our way, thanks to the Ripsaw Man,’ McCracken said. ‘But internally at least, I’m in what you might call an unassailable position. So I don’t think anyone will object if I drop a few names your way.’

  Another pause. ‘What do you mean, exactly?’

  He smiled, as though she was right in front of him. ‘You’ll need the arrests, won’t you? Make sure your lot understand that you’re still one of the good guys.’

  ‘Oh, I see. So, anyone you want off the streets, anyone who doesn’t get with the programme … I get to lock them up, and the problem goes away?’

  ‘And we’ll both be happy. What’s not to love, eh?’

  ‘You don’t think the rest of your people will see it differently, Dad?’

  ‘Maybe that was part of the package I sold them. How useful it can be, me having a copper for a daughter, rather than how risky.’

  ‘Well my people won’t be so forgiving.’ Her voice thickened with anger. ‘Not when they twig where it’s all coming from.’

  ‘Will it matter what the grunts say if you’re Manchester’s top thief-taker, if you’ve put more villains away than the average chief constable’s had three-course lunches?’

  A silence followed. McCracken wished he could believe that she’d be mulling it over, working out the pros and cons, and ultimately, inevitably, figuring that the advantages outweighed the disadvantages. But he knew that wouldn’t be the case, because, in the end, his daughter was actually very like him. She was a battler, and she had pride and ambition, and her own code of ethics. The fact that she’d be jailing criminals purely because other criminals didn’t want them on the street was hardly the crime-fighting career she’d dreamed of.

  ‘You’ve not had that crusader spirit knocked out of you yet, Lucy?’ he wondered.

  ‘It’s not about being a crusader, Dad. It’s about being able to live with myself.’

  ‘Having overly high expectations of yourself is often the route to failure.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘So, we’re still at daggers drawn?’

  ‘There can’t be any other way,’ she replied. ‘Look, you do your thing and I’ll do mine, and sometimes our paths will cross, and sometimes it may even suit us to scratch each other’s backs … I’ve had that much of the crusader spirit knocked out of me. But let’s not pretend we’re a real family, eh? Because I find that very objectionable.’

  ‘In times of crisis who else can you rely on?’

  Another silence followed. She was a realist too, his daughter. She ought to know that she’d need all the help she could get in the months ahead, and who else was offering her a hand of friendship?

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ she said, and she actually sounded as if she meant that. ‘But if we cross swords when we’re about our business, I’ll have to take you down. It may even be that that’s the only outcome possible for me … if I want to have a genuine police career.’

  ‘As I say, Lucy, those are some high expectations. Don’t be surprised if you crash and burn.’

  ‘That’s the other possible outcome,’ she replied, and she cut the call.

  A Stranger is just a killer you

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  Do you know who’s

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  About the Author

  Paul Finch is a former cop and journalist, now turned full-time writer. He cut his literary teeth penning episodes of the British TV crime drama, The Bill, and has written extensively in the field of children’s animation. However, he is probably best known for his work in thrillers and crime. His first three novels in the Detective Sergeant Heckenburg series all attained ‘bestseller’ status, while Strangers, which introduced a new hero in Detective Constable Lucy Clayburn, became an official Sunday Times top 10 bestseller in its first month of publication.