‘Mr Todd, your taxi’s here, sir!’ Marissa called.
Lucy probably wouldn’t have thought anything of this, except that Mr Todd – a tall, balding chap in a purple blazer and tie, both bearing the same serpentine public school crest – who now approached the coat-check counter to reclaim his overcoat and scarf, was someone who had only deposited them there about ten minutes earlier. He said nothing of course; merely smiled at her, and then graciously departed the building.
Even then it might not have seemed curious had it not happened a couple of times already.
Lucy had been working at the brothel for three nights now, and had noticed on various occasions that some of the customers – not many, just a few – seemed to come for the company and a drink rather than the girls. They’d sit at one of the bars, chatting with the other customers, and then, after quarter of an hour or so, Marissa, dolled up to the nines herself in the evening, would call their names out and announce the arrival of their taxi.
In the light of this, it was impossible not to recollect Tammy’s cryptic warning about the so-called “SugaBabes Taxi Service”. Whether this had any relevance to that was uncertain – who knew what was going on inside Tammy’s head? – but ever since that semi-unintelligible conversation, Lucy had kept half an eye out for anything anomalous involving a taxi.
Not that she had much time to worry about it on this particular evening, because half an hour later she finally encountered members of the Crew.
No one introduced them to her officially, but that wasn’t necessary – their mugshots were plastered all over the walls back in the Ripper Chicks office. In addition, they were treated like royalty the second they entered the place, Marissa and even Jayne McIvar busy-bodying around them frenetically.
The first of them was near enough the scariest bloke Lucy had ever seen. Apparently his name was Mick Shallicker, or so Delilah whispered in a consciously awe-stricken voice. Lucy estimated that he stood six foot nine inches tall, in addition to which he was massively framed, and yet he moved with lithe, athletic grace; there was nothing clumsy or awkward about him. Needless to say, his face was terrifying in its own right: square-jawed, heavy browed, with sunken, apelike eyes and a broad mouth full of slabby yellow teeth. It was nicked and scarred aplenty, but not as excessively as these guys’ faces usually were. Lucy suspected this was because very few of his opponents had ever been able to throw a punch high enough. His preferred clothing appeared to be a black suit and a thick, black roll-neck sweater. There was something vaguely stylish about that, though the lump of gum he noisily chewed on put paid to any impression it might have given that he was a sophisticated guy.
This was explained when Delilah told Lucy that Shallicker was mainly muscle. Apparently, he only ever appeared as a minder to Crew underboss and – if Lucy remembered rightly – Shakedown merchant, Frank McCracken.
It was McCracken himself who was the first Crew member she actually spoke to.
Like all the others, McCracken brought her his coat, scarf and gloves. Up close, he was every bit as menacing as his reputation, but in his case because he was cruelly handsome: lean-faced, with dark, brooding eyes, diamond-cut features and that razored shock of silver-grey hair. His well-tailored, pale-grey suit had Savile Row written all over it.
Lucy avoided making eye contact as he handed his garb over, but for some reason, during the process, she caught his attention. She sensed him scrutinising her as she tore him a cloakroom ticket and pushed it across the counter.
‘We know each other from somewhere, darling?’ he wondered.
His accent was ‘Albert Finney’ Manchester: tough, raw, easily betraying its working class origins, and yet moderated slightly as though from years of mixing with the right people.
Lucy’s hapless smile was an attempt to conceal her rising anxiety. Was it possible she’d run into him on the job without realising?
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
McCracken lingered at the counter, the giant Shallicker hovering behind him, still noisily chewing. ‘I’m sure we’ve met somewhere before.’
‘I honestly don’t think so.’
‘Problem, Frank?’ Suzy McIvar asked, approaching.
McCracken shrugged. ‘Nah, no problem.’ He winked at Lucy. ‘Sorry, love … ignore me. Getting dizzy in my old age.’
Suzy McCracken gave Lucy a curious once-over, before escorting the gang-boss away.
And that appeared to be that. Up until now, Suzy McIvar hadn’t even noticed that a new staff member was present, and McCracken himself didn’t seem interested in making an issue of it. In fact, for the next couple of nights the Crew lieutenant mingled easily and comfortably with the other customers, spoke to the girls politely when they came downstairs, and generally conducted himself like the civilised man he definitely wasn’t.
Until Lucy’s sixth night working there.
It was around eleven o’clock and she was on her first break of the shift. At the rear of the cloakroom, a narrow fire-exit door connected with a small, walled yard. There was no further egress via this route. The yard had once possessed an outer gate, but that had been bricked up in recent times to provide extra security. The coat-check girls took staggered breaks, so Delilah would go out into the yard for the first hour; she kept a deckchair out there under a stoop, where she could sit and smoke and read a gossip mag by the light from the open door. Lucy didn’t smoke, but willingly went out when it was her own turn, slumped into the deckchair, nibbled a butty, sipped from a flask of coffee and tried to get her thoughts in order.
On this particular night, she’d been outside only five minutes when she heard a car screech up on the other side of the wall, a couple of doors bang open and feet come clomping across the cobbled road and up the narrow passage to the club’s entrance. More car doors opened and closed, and then there was a grunting, hissing and a subdued but prolonged swearing.
She stood up, ears suddenly straining.
More feet sounded in the entry passage, this time making their way back out to the road, but in leisurely fashion.
‘Well, well … Pixie,’ a voice said. It was Frank McCracken’s. ‘Seems you’ve been on the rob again?’
Lucy knew she couldn’t let this pass. On one hand, common sense bade her go back into the club and close the fire door behind her, but the hell with that. Thus far she’d gleaned nothing of value from her time at SugaBabes; whether this thing would turn out to be relevant to the case or not, she had to start poking her nose around.
Trying to climb the wall and look down the other side would only attract attention. But there was an older section of brickwork to the right of the point where the gate had once been. Numerous chinks had appeared there where grouting had rotted and bricks had dislodged. She placed her eye at one such and was just able to see the unfolding scene beyond.
Two heavies had climbed from a dark green BMW, and, between them, were restraining a short, thin man with a mop of black curly hair, wearing blue tracksuit pants and a baggy pink sweater, both of which were already stained with blood. He had a youthful face, but even from this restricted angle he struck Lucy as one of those who maybe wasn’t quite as young as he appeared. On this occasion, of course, that face was already half-pulverised, its nose broken sideways, gore glutting the nostrils and dripping down over the twisted mouth. This ugly sight didn’t faze McCracken, who ambled across the road with hands tucked into the pockets of his suit trousers, Mick Shallicker in tow.
‘What stone was he under, Nicko?’ McCracken asked one of the beaten man’s captors.
‘Lying in bed with his bird,’ came a grunted reply. ‘Like he had nowt to worry about.’
McCracken shook his head. ‘Never saw the bigger picture, our Pixie, did he?’
‘Please,’ the man called Pixie whimpered, fresh blood bubbling from his nose.
‘How long you been out, Pixie?’ McCracken asked.
‘I’ve not … I’ve not done nothing, Mr McCracken …’
‘I didn’t ask you that, I asked you how long you’ve been out.’
‘Year … year and a half.’
‘A year and a half, and already you’re at it again.’
‘I said I haven’t …’
‘I heard you the first time, you little twat. But it’s a lie, isn’t it?’ There was no anger in McCracken’s voice. He spoke matter-of-factly; only half-interestedly, as if this whole thing had become a tedious routine. ‘Everyone knows it’s a fucking lie. You and your team have been at it again. This year alone … two big townhouses down in Wilmslow. Plus a farmhouse out in Delamere Forest … way out there in the lovely Cheshire countryside. Every time the same thing. Three blokes wearing ski masks, one pistol each. Occupants battered and tied up. If they aren’t forthcoming about the safe and other valuables, one of the burglars gets to work on their toes with a set of pliers. Doesn’t usually take long after that, does it, Pixie? Properties get ransacked. High-quality merchandise only. Always a decent haul.’
‘It … wasn’t me,’ Pixie stammered. ‘I’m keeping my nose clean these days.’
‘That’s the last lie you’ll tell me, you little turd, if you know what’s good for you.’
Pixie hung his head, coughing, hawking up blood.
‘All together, these three breaks have netted you … how much?’ McCracken asked.
‘Mr McCracken … please!’
‘According to the newspapers, it’s at least three hundred grand’s worth.’
‘But it’s … it’s not cash,’ Pixie stuttered. ‘So we can’t divi it up that easy.’
‘So … what?’ McCracken feigned astonishment. ‘We don’t get paid?’ He chuckled. ‘Is that seriously what you’re trying to tell us, Pix?’
‘It takes time. There’s stuff to fence, you know?’
‘Ah, so … you actually were going to pay what you owe, just at some point in the future?’
‘Yeah, yeah, sure … same arrangement as always.’
‘Except … you didn’t tell us you were back in the game.’
‘There wasn’t time, Mr McCracken.’
‘But there was time to lie in bed with that skanky bird of yours.’
‘Look … I can get the money in a couple of weeks. Soon as we’ve unloaded enough stuff. The jewellery alone should fetch a hundred grand.’
‘Trouble is, Pix … it’s two hundred.’
Pixie’s eyes widened in his blood-spattered face. ‘That’s two thirds …’
McCracken nodded, chuckled again. ‘And that’s not the end of it, either.’
He signalled to one of the heavies, who came around from the other side of the BMW with a string and brown paper parcel. Cheerfully, McCracken unwrapped it, shaking out what looked like a transparent plastic raincoat, and a pair of transparent plastic gloves.
‘Oh, come on, please!’ Pixie wailed.
‘Now I can see the lads have already given you a seeing-to, Pix,’ McCracken said, as he donned the protective clothing, ensuring to button the raincoat all the way to the top. ‘But I’m guessing that was because you played hard to get.’
‘Mr McCracken, please … I’m gonna get you the money.’
‘Oh, I know you are, Pix … otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But …’ McCracken ensured the gloves were a comfy fit by flexing his big, knobbly-knuckled hands inside them. ‘But, you see … I can’t just let you walk away with a busted nose. I mean, what would my reputation be worth if I did?’
‘Mr McCracken, please!’
Pixie writhed in his captors’ gasp, but they held him firm. And as such, he never even saw the right hook that caught him smack-bang in the middle of the face. His nose, which might finally have been congealing from the earlier beating, splattered wide open again. Ruby droplets sprayed over McCracken’s plastic coveralls.
Pixie gave a choked gasp of agony.
A left hook followed, slamming into the same spot, the resounding smack of fist on bone echoing across the otherwise empty cul-de-sac. The third blow caught him in the ribs, the fourth under the jaw, the fifth to the left side of the face, the sixth to the right,
Lucy lost count after that. She withdrew from the hole in the wall, heart thundering.
It was the gravest problem any undercover officer could face – what to do in the event of serious criminal offences being committed in your presence. Especially when the overriding priority was to maintain your covert status. On the face of it, if the victim was a criminal himself there was perhaps less of an impulse to intervene … but by the sounds of it, this was a savage and protracted beating. Even now it was going on, and the impacts of the blows were deafening. The guy wouldn’t die. That was expressly not their aim. But for a police officer to witness such torture, to stand there and do nothing … and yet what could she do?
And then another voice intervened. Jayne McIvar’s. By the sounds of it, she too had emerged onto the road from the club’s entry passage.
‘Not outside my place, Frank … please.’
‘Your place, Jayney?’ McCracken replied, breaking off from his exertions, breathing hard.
‘You know what I mean. Anywhere but here, please. It’s bad for business.’
Lucy went back to the wall and peeked through.
Jayne, who during the evenings glammed up in make-up, jewellery, an ankle-length cocktail dress and uber-high heels, made an incongruous figure on the grimy backstreet. Pixie meanwhile, still suspended with arms spread between two of McCracken’s goons, but now slumped downward, was a bloody wreck; like a man who’d died on a cross. McCracken himself was sprayed crimson, though of course his transparent plastic coating had protected his expensive suit, if not his face.
He took care of the latter by dabbing his cheeks and forehead with a silk handkerchief.
‘When I tell you how to package high-class pussy, darling,’ he replied, ‘you can tell me how to run my end of the operation. Now why don’t you be a good girl and go back inside?’
Very reluctantly, Jayne withdrew. McCracken turned back to his victim, from whom there wasn’t so much as a twitch, let alone a groan.
‘But … ultimately, I think we are done here.’ McCracken lowered his fists. ‘Take him to that shithole pad of his. Leave him to the tender mercies of his girlfriend. Let’s see if she’s worthy of the name. When he comes round, remind him he’s got a week and that we’re in for two hundred K.’
The goons hauled Pixie’s lifeless form around to the rear of the BMW. Someone flipped the boot lid open, and they deposited him inside. McCracken peeled off his gory plastic, handed it to Shallicker, then straightened his tie and headed back indoors.
Lucy backed away from the hole and turned – just as a dark form flashed across the yard towards her from the door; a burly figure, but moving with catlike agility and a frantic clatter of spike-heeled boots. Before Lucy could draw breath, a leather-clad forearm had slammed her backwards against the bricks, and now exerted incredible force as it crushed her windpipe crosswise. In the same blur of speed, a partially gloved hand brought a cigarette lighter to Lucy’s face and spurted out a long tongue of flame, which flickered so close to her left cheek that she was certain she could smell her own skin as it singed.
She gagged and whimpered and tried to turn her head away, but her captor was larger and vastly stronger than she was, and held her locked in place.
‘Who the fuck are you!’ Suzy McIvar demanded in a snakelike hiss. ‘And what the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’
‘Nothing, Miss McIvar,’ Lucy stammered. ‘Please, I thought I heard …’
‘WHO ARE YOU, I SAID?’
‘Hayley Gibbs, Miss McIvar … I’ve only just started here.’
Suzy continued to hiss but now as she breathed, glaring into Lucy’s face from point-blank range. Bizarrely, her eyes were odd-coloured, one green, one a muddy brown – another testimony to her violent life, no doubt. Her clenched teeth glinted white between tightly drawn lips. ‘What are you?’ she demanded.
‘Ex-tom, miss. I work on the coats. Sorry, I just …’
‘You seem very interested in everything that’s going on here for a coat-check girl!’
‘I couldn’t … I couldn’t help it. Please …’
It wasn’t difficult for Lucy to pretend she was so frightened that her words tumbled over one another, because she was. Nor was it purely down to the proximity of that long, wavering flame, which could surely be no more than a centimetre from her flesh. Partly it was due to the craziness imprinted on the face behind the flame. Up close, Suzy McIvar’s eyes looked glassy, dead – like they weren’t real. The Head of Security resembled her sister, even if she wasn’t identical to her, but there was an icy derangement there that even Jayne the brothel-queen lacked. With effort, Jayne McIvar could pass as a respectable woman, but no matter what fancy feathers this creature donned, she’d always be a street-hoodlum.
‘You lie to me, girl, and I’ll blowtorch that pretty nose right off your face,’ Suzy snarled. ‘You’ll spend the rest of your life with two bony holes where the snot comes out!’
The lighter-flame felt as if it was performing this task already, Lucy’s left cheek flaring heat and pain.
‘Just thought I heard something weird,’ she stuttered. ‘I got curious, that’s all …’
‘I’ve never seen you around before. Who’d you tom for?’
Before Lucy could blurt out her reply, another voice intruded. ‘Don’t spoil her face, if you don’t mind!’
Over Suzy’s shoulder, beyond the tear-inducing glare of the flame, Lucy saw that Jayne McIvar had stepped into the yard. Delilah was loitering worriedly behind her – possibly she’d alerted her mistress to what was happening.
Suzy snapped her lighter closed, the intense heat instantly extinguished, but continued to bore into Lucy’s head with her weird, doll-like eyes.
‘Did you hire this smackhead bitch?’ she replied.
Jayne’s heels clicked the flagstones as she approached. ‘What’s going on?’
Suzy still didn’t look round. ‘Came out for a smoke and found this one fixing her beady little gaze on Frank and his team.’
‘Sorry, Miss McIvar,’ Lucy said, addressing Jayne. ‘I overheard them … I just didn’t know what it was …’
‘This surprises you?’ Jayne told her sister. She too was stony-faced with rage, but apparently her ire was aimed elsewhere. ‘Right fucking pantomime … bang outside our front door! If there was any neighbourhood left here, they’d all have been looking!’
‘I said did you hire her?’ Suzy said.
‘She checks out,’ Jayne retorted. ‘What’s the exact problem?’
What seemed like a minute passed, during which Suzy breathed hoarse and heavy like some predatory beast besotted with the scent of blood, her eyes never once leaving Lucy, her prey – until slowly, very slowly, she leaned backwards, dropping her elbow.
Lucy gasped and coughed.
‘Maybe there isn’t a problem.’ Suzy backed off. ‘But Hayley Gibbs … if I catch you sticking your nose where it isn’t wanted again …’ She gestured with the lighter, before ramming it back into her pocket. ‘Well … I’ve told you, haven’t I?’
‘I know you’re pissed off,’ Jayne quietly advised her sister. ‘We all are. But taking it out on the help won’t get us anywhere.’
Suzy chose to ignore that. Instead, she pointed at Lucy one last time before heading back inside, stiff-shouldered and with loud, stumping footfalls.
Lucy could only lean against the wall and gently knead at her bruised trachea. Jayne walked over to her and irritably fingered the chink in the brickwork.
‘Not a very good idea, love,’ she said. ‘Spying on Mr McCracken’s business is the last thing that’ll win you friends round here.’
Lucy shook her head, struggling to enunciate words that didn’t hurt her throat. ‘I had no idea that’s what I was doing, Miss McIvar … honestly. I don’t even know who this Mr McCracken is.’
‘I believe you, Hayley. You know why? Because if you did –’ Jayne placed her fingertips under Lucy’s chin and turned her head sideways ‘– you wouldn’t have been doing what Suzy’s just caught you doing.’
‘I was on my break. I thought I heard something bad, I wasn’t sure …’
‘You’ll hear a lot of bad things while you’re here, Hayley. If you haven’t got the stomach for that, you’re in the wrong place.
‘Yes … erm, yes, miss.’
‘It’s understandable you’re curious, of course.’ Jayne frowned, her brows knotting with frustration. ‘Bastard gangsters. They lord it over us like kings. We all have to scrape and bow, even me and Suzy. But at present we also have to know what’s good for us.’ She released Lucy’s chin and edged backward. ‘No damage done there, at least … so you could still make the Talent Team, if ever you’ve got a mind to. But until then, Hayley, follow my sister’s advice … get on with what you are supposed to be doing, and you’ll be fine.’
‘Yes, Miss McIvar. Of course.’
Taking it that the interview was over, Lucy scuttled back indoors.