The remainder of that night was something of a blur to Lucy. They insisted on taking her to hospital, which she steadfastly maintained she didn’t need – only to remember, somewhat belatedly, that in actual fact she did need it, because she had a broken arm.
While she waited to see a Casualty doctor and then waited for a late-night X-ray and then for the diagnosis, which was a hairline fracture to the ulna, and lastly, as she waited for treatment in the Fracture Clinic, she gave innumerable statements to various officers of different rank and from different departments. But it was increasingly difficult to work out who these people were or why she was talking to them – not just because of shock and fatigue, but because she was also by this time on a heavy dosage of painkillers and antibiotics. All the while she remained in a bedraggled, bloodstained state, until at some point in the night one of her colleagues brought her a change of clothes: a black GMP tracksuit with white piping, which was neat enough to look at but too large for her, and a clean pair of trainers. She wasn’t really aware who was responsible for this or at what time it happened, but was vaguely cognisant that her own clothing had to be taken away for forensic analysis, as she too had fired shots during the roadside battle.
It was confirmed to her repeatedly that Tammy Nethercot had been pronounced dead at the scene, having suffered fatal gunshot wounds. Each time, Lucy received the news dully and without further comment. Deep in the stew of her thoughts, she was already one hundred per cent certain about this, because she’d been there and had seen it for herself. But during the few occasions that long torturous night when she was able to snatch some sleep, usually while propped up in one of those uncomfortable, plastic waiting-room chairs, she relived the incident in vivid if disjointed fashion: stroboscopic flashes of gunfire; wooden workmen’s cabins flying to pieces; broken, gritty ground hitting her in the face; the smell of blood and cordite; and then a terrible tunnel, a long concrete tube filled with refuse and ditch-water and rats, and then Tammy’s face, bluish/white and yet peacefully reposed as if she was asleep, and improbably beautiful, not a speck of dirt to mar her girlish looks aside from a tiny droplet of red at the left corner of her mouth.
But of course that hadn’t been right at all; it had been much, much worse than that. And so Lucy would always wake in a state of grogginess and confusion, and would ask the first person she saw: ‘What happened? Did Tammy survive?’
This was a repeating, seemingly endless pattern, thanks to which she barely noticed the hours creep by or the changes of staff in the hospital, or the return of gloomy November daylight to the car park outside. She actually managed to sleep properly, or so she thought, while they were working on her in the clinic. If not, it was a mystery why she had no recollection afterwards of who was responsible for encasing her lower left arm from the elbow downward in plaster and gauze, and suspending it across her chest in a sling. However, when she finally emerged into the waiting room, which, as it was now almost noon, was buzzing with the next batch of patients, she felt a little bit fresher even if still deeply tired.
In that regard, the first person she saw was probably the last person she particularly wanted to converse with, but the look on Priya Nehwal’s face as she came down the central aisle between the rows of occupied seats was less truculent than usual.
‘So … what exactly am I supposed to do with you?’ was the DSU’s opening gambit. But she still didn’t look vexed. If anything, her tone bordered on the affable.
‘Sorry, ma’am?’ Lucy replied.
‘Let’s chat.’ Nehwal indicated a far corner where most of the seats were still empty.
Wearily, Lucy limped over there and slumped down. Nehwal sat on the seat next to her.
‘In the last couple of days, PC Clayburn,’ she said, staring directly ahead, ‘you’ve broken just about every rule that British police officers are supposed to abide by. Including disobeying a direct order from me, which is the one I’m really narked about. But –’ Nehwal shrugged, as if it were all now beyond her control ‘– you’ve also displayed remarkable courage and tenacity, and have cleaned out a whole nest of villains in the process; a bunch of lowlifes whom most of the rest of us thought were immune to any serious charges. So I repeat … what am I supposed to do with you? How exactly do I reprimand the woman of the moment?’
‘I …’ Lucy struggled to find an answer. ‘I don’t know what’s been going on, ma’am. I mean while I’ve been in here.’
‘Well …’ Nehwal lowered her voice. ‘To start with, Suzy McIvar has been arrested on suspicion of murdering Tammy Nethercot and of attempting to murder you.’
‘Already?’
‘You said it yourself. These people are good. We had to move fast.’
‘Pity no one moved fast enough to save Tammy.’ Lucy felt like crying, though no tears seeped from her tired eyes.
‘Suzy McIvar’s not having it, obviously,’ Nehwal added. ‘But the evidence we’ve got seems pretty conclusive. Your statement wouldn’t serve on its own, but we also found the ski mask she dropped at the scene, which has blood and saliva on it. It’s currently being tested, but the DNA will almost certainly turn out to be hers. You said she shot at you with some kind of machine-pistol?’
Lucy nodded. ‘I think so, yeah.’
‘Well, the spent magazine that we recovered indicates that it was a Shipka, a Bulgarian-made 9mm submachinegun. Particularly deadly at close quarters. We haven’t found the weapon itself, but after arresting McIvar a couple of hours ago, we searched her apartment and found the same kind of clothing you described. Again, it’s a bit early to say for sure, but forensics already reckon there’s firearms residue on it. The Corsa was reported stolen a few days ago of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s been found too. Dumped and burning.’
‘Great,’ Lucy groaned.
‘But not completely incinerated. There’s still plenty evidence of the shots you fired at it, and there are even a couple of bloodspots on the bonnet.’
Lucy looked round. ‘That’ll be Suzy’s too. She got hurt …’
‘And that’s the other thing,’ Nehwal said. ‘You mentioned in your statement that the gun-woman was wounded in the side of the neck.’
‘Yes …?’
‘Well, Suzy McIvar has a fresh graze on her neck. It’s only slight, but I think it’ll be more than enough to send her down for life.’
‘Even without the gun, ma’am?’
‘We’ll find the gun, don’t worry. Or what’s left of it. We’ll also find those two Russians, though we’re having trouble putting hands on them at present.’
‘They’re probably illegals,’ Lucy said.
Nehwal shrugged. ‘Unless they run home to Mother Russia, it won’t matter. The whole of the McIvars’ firm is unravelling, and everyone involved is now looking to make a deal … that’s chiefly because they’ve actually got a much bigger problem hanging over their heads.’
‘Trestlehorn Avenue?’
Nehwal nodded. ‘That address was raided a few hours ago by the NCG’s Organised Crime Division. There were no customers there. The warning had already gone out.’
‘But is it what Tammy said it was?’
‘You really don’t want me to go into the detail of what they found there,’ Nehwal said, her expression briefly distant. ‘Put it this way, a significant number of children were removed to places of safety. Some British, some foreign. All the usual sorts – runaways, street kids … They’d been trafficked, groomed, plied with drugs and drink, you name it. Several arrests have followed, and unsurprisingly, quite a few McIvar underlings are suddenly being very cooperative indeed. Particularly this girl, Marissa Cudworth. You know her?’
‘Yeah.’ Lucy snorted as she remembered the ex-dancer’s hard-ass routine. ‘She’ll be talking for her life – she was an active participant in the Taxi Service.’
‘She plays her cards right, she could end up being a star witness.’
‘Against Jayne McIvar as well as Suzy, I hope?’
Again, Nehwal nodded. ‘The Twisted Sisters are the main object of interest. At present, both are locked up. But, good news though all this is, none of it really helps us, does it?’
‘No, ma’am. I suppose not.’
‘The Lay-by Murderer is still on the loose.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘You know, Lucy …’ This was the first time Nehwal had ever called Lucy by her first name, and it wasn’t at all unpleasant; it almost felt like a verbal thumbs-up. ‘I have a reputation in this job for being a toughie. But after your sterling efforts of the last few days, somewhat wayward though they were, even I would struggle to live with myself if I decided that Jill the Ripper’s ongoing liberty was your fault. Don’t you think?’
‘I really thought we were onto her.’
‘We are.’ Nehwal stood up. ‘Whoever she is, she’s not that clever. Oh, she’s choosing her targets carefully, she’s scoping out her ambush points before she lures them there, but she’s still riding her luck. Even if we don’t catch her, at some point one of these blokes is going to turn round and plant her on her backside.’
Lucy stood up too. ‘I just hope my interest in Carlotta Powell didn’t divert vital resources from real lines of enquiry.’
‘Even if they had done, it wouldn’t look very good if I made a song and dance about it … you with an arm shattered in the line of duty and most likely heading for a commendation, not to mention a promotion, I suspect.’ She eyed Lucy sidelong. ‘If you want one.’
‘I’d rather have a transfer,’ Lucy replied.
‘You still hankering after detective work?’ Nehwal sounded surprised. ‘After all this?’
‘Especially after all this. It’s something I’m good at, I think.’
‘You’re a bit of a wrecking-ball, Lucy.’
‘Yeah, but this time it’s the underworld that’s come tumbling down, isn’t it, ma’am. Or at least a good chunk of it.’
A shadow of a smile touched Nehwal’s lips. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘How’s Des, by the way?’
‘Concussion, fractured cheekbone, two fractured eye-sockets. But otherwise fine.’ They walked out into the main corridor. ‘See for yourself, if you want. He’s in the next block. Wallingford Ward.’
‘I will, thanks.’
‘You’re going home after that, I take it?’ Nehwal said, though it sounded less like a question and more like an order.
‘I’m on sick leave, ma’am … so unless someone needs me for something, yeah.’
‘If someone needs you, they’ll knock on your door, don’t worry. By the way, Traffic brought your bike back to Robber’s Row. They even recovered your helmet. But it’ll all be safe there until you’re fit for duty again. Get yourself a taxi home from here. Charge it to us.’
‘I will, ma’am.’
They prepared to part ways, Lucy heading off to the Wallingford Ward while Nehwal exited into the car park. But briefly, they faced each other across the corridor. For an absurd moment, Lucy thought the DSU was going to embrace her. Needless to say, that didn’t happen, but Nehwal had never seemed as amiable as she did at present; no doubt this was down to members of her team having secured an unlooked-for but pretty decent result. Of course, Nehwal couldn’t have reached the level of respect she enjoyed in the service now if she’d been all snarl and aggression. You had to be tough, that went without saying; you had to be extra tough if you were a woman. But no one liked a personality with no give in it whatsoever. Lucy had always surmised that she’d have to earn DSU Nehwal’s friendship, and diverting from the established protocols had hardly been a short cut to that. But now at last, thanks to having put her body on the line, some kind of happy juncture seemed to have been reached.
‘Go home, Lucy,’ Nehwal said again. ‘I mean it. Go home and put your feet up.’
Lucy nodded. Only to glance back when they were a few yards apart. ‘Ma’am?’
Nehwal looked round from the exit door.
‘Thanks,’ Lucy said.
‘For what?’
‘For not launching me off the front step. We haven’t worked together that long, but I’ve given you half a dozen reasons why you could and maybe why you should.’
Nehwal looked briefly thoughtful. ‘Everyone makes mistakes, Lucy. Even professionals. It’s human nature, and there are various degrees of seriousness within that – there are some foul-ups that simply can’t go unpunished. But the only people I don’t want in this job are the people who aren’t actually coppers. People who are playing at it, people who are only here for career advancement, people who’d rather be anywhere than on duty. No one could accuse you of that. Now, like I say … go home and get some rest. You need it.’
Lucy didn’t enter the private room that Des was located in, because when she glanced through the glass panel in the door, she saw that his wife, Yvonne, was already in there, alongside his two youngest children, a pair of cute pre-school girls wearing pigtails and, despite the autumn bleakness outside, bright, flowery dresses.
Des, for his part, though bandaged around the head, with his neck in a brace, lint looped under his chin, lots of stitching visible and one eye still firmly closed, was sitting up in bed in a hospital gown, grinning broadly as they showed him colouring books they’d recently filled in. An enormous bunch of grapes sat on a dish on the cabinet alongside him. There was also a preponderance of flowers, cards and boxes of chocolates.
Yvonne Barton was perched at the far end of the bed, while her daughters did all the talking. Lucy had never met her, nor had even been shown a picture of her until now, but was unsurprised to see a beautiful lady in her mid-forties, elegantly dressed in a dark skirt-suit and heels, her hair done up in a luxurious beehive. In comparison, Lucy felt like a scruffy urchin, her own hair still dripping dirt and leaf-mould, her face and hands grubby, her plastered arm zipped up inside a tracksuit top that barely fitted her. Quite a change from the ‘glam’ attire she’d adopted for SugaBabes. No one could say this case hadn’t brought out the chameleon in her. But none of this was why she decided not to intrude. The plain fact was that Des looked happy. He was with his family, those who totally and unconditionally loved him. Whatever he remembered about the beating he’d received, if he remembered anything at all, this was the perfect antidote to it. It hardly seemed fair crashing in on the cheery reunion like some brutal reminder of the nasty world waiting outside.
So she turned and walked away, exiting the hospital on its side where the taxi rank stood.
As soon as Lucy stepped outdoors, the cold embraced her viciously. She stumbled to the crash barrier, lightheaded. She was already in thrall to that curious physical weakness that always seems to kick in after hospital treatment. Despite the painkillers, her arm was hurting and her fatigue running bone-deep.
There were no taxis at present. So she leaned on the metal barrier and gazed bleary-eyed across the car park. In her addled state, it seemed to elongate, to telescope outward in length and breadth, acres and acres of damp, leaf-strewn tarmac. Lucy rubbed at the back of her neck, suddenly suspecting that she was going to be sick. She retched, but it was so long since she’d eaten that nothing came out. And then someone spoke to her.
‘Lucy?’
Lucy looked round – to spy her mother, coated and gloved against the chill, coming cautiously along the crash barrier. A padded anorak, one of Lucy’s own, was folded over Cora’s arm. Her face wore a deep frown of motherly concern.
‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘It’s nothing,’ Lucy stuttered. ‘Nothing a … a six-month luxury cruise wouldn’t put right.’
‘Lucy … you need to come home now, so I can look after you.’
‘Yeah, course, Mum …’
‘I’m serious, darling. You need to stop this foolishness … and come home.’
Lucy straightened up. Stiffly, defiantly.
And yet despite the anger of recent days, not to mention the sense of betrayal still nagging at her, it was difficult in her bruised and battered state to continue feeling hostile towards her parent; she was the sole stable fixture in Lucy’s life, the one person who’d always been there, who she’d always been able to turn to whether with a cut knee or a broken heart, the person who’d offered comfort and control in equal measure.
‘You know, Mum,’ Lucy stammered. ‘Because of your friends … a girl who never had a chance in life died last night … in a sodding sewer.’
‘I’m aware what happened,’ Cora said sadly. ‘And I’m aware there’s some culpability on my part.’
‘Some culpability!’ Lucy did her best to bristle. ‘This wonderful guy you once knew signed Tammy’s death warrant the instant you gobbed off to him about me!’
‘We can talk about that later. First, you’ve got to come home.’
‘I don’t have to do any such thing. Quite clearly, me and you live in different worlds … only you don’t seem to have realised it.’
‘I can’t help the past, darling.’ Cora imbued the word ‘darling’ with absolute sincerity. This was Lucy’s mother at her sympathetic, soft-hearted best, and yet Lucy still wondered if she knew the woman anymore.
‘The past, yeah,’ Lucy said. ‘But now you’ve brought it to the present. And someone’s dead because of it. I’m lucky I’m not dead. You know they shot my bloody shoe off!’
‘Look,’ Cora said. ‘You’ve got a serious injury. It’s patched up, but you can’t go back to that half-furnished bungalow, where there’s probably no hot water, no central heating …’
Lucy shook her head, which effort alone toppled her against the barrier. ‘Aren’t you even sorry?’
‘Of course I’m sorry.’ Cora put an arm around her shoulders. ‘But I did what I did for the best … or so I thought. I realised almost immediately afterwards that it was a mistake, but I can’t do anything about that now.’
‘You really don’t know these old friends of yours at all, do you?’
‘Again, we’ll talk about that later. Look at you, love … you can barely stand up.’
‘This is nothing.’ Lucy shook herself free, and tottered again. ‘Just … just tired.’
‘When did you last have something to eat?’
‘I could’ve had something last night when they brought me in, but they advised against in case I needed surgery … which I didn’t. So I’m fine.’
‘You still have to come home, Lucy. I told your superintendent that’s where you’d be if she needed you. Yes, that’s right …’ Cora nodded, bright-eyed; an effort to infuse some stern motherly humour into the conversation. ‘She called me at home to let me know you’d been hurt, and I chatted with her for quite some time while we were waiting for you to get your arm fixed. I got to know her pretty well.’
‘I hope you were careful,’ Lucy snorted. ‘It’s not quite as easy to pull the wool over Priya Nehwal’s eyes as it was mine.’
Cora remained determined. ‘Is this the way it’s going to be? Every time I say anything, you try to get the better of me with some smart-arse reply? Fine, I accept. It’s the price I’ll pay for what happened. In the meantime, you need to come home.’ She draped the spare anorak over Lucy’s shoulders and looped a scarf around her neck. ‘And as your mother, I have to be there to supervise it … so that cold, dreary bungalow of yours is not an option. Do you understand?’
Lucy didn’t argue further. She’d already decided that she couldn’t go back to Cuthbertson Court; not at present. The thought of a warm drink, a warm bed and someone to assist if she needed help was just too seductive.
‘One thing you did right, Mum,’ Lucy said as they trudged across the car park, leaning on each other. ‘You made me realise how hard this job can be. I had no idea before. But whatever you think, tough … I’m staying in it.’
‘Fine,’ Cora said. ‘But one thing at a time, eh?’