On arriving home, Lucy had as thorough a wash as she could with one arm immobilised, accepted a bowl of chicken soup and a mug of milk, and then, as her mother instructed, limped upstairs, lay on the quilt in her bedroom and dropped her head into a soft pillow.
She’d often found at the end of unpleasant shifts that she didn’t slide into sleep easily, despite being physically and emotionally drained. Some police officers could hit an internal switch and it all went away. Lucy had never possessed this gift, though she was good at putting on a front. Now that she was alone, with no one to impress, she had no choice but to lie there and relive it. And though it wouldn’t be true to say that she didn’t sleep at all – she certainly dozed – she tossed and turned constantly, her mind awash with half-formed memories trawled from the difficult hours that had recently passed, snippets of reality interwoven with fantasies and imaginings. None were in any way relaxing.
‘Why are you so wedded to this awful job, Lucy?’ Tammy asked from the end of the bed, where she stood with a cup of tea clasped in her hands.
Lucy mumbled in response. There was no energy left in her body with which to wake up and tackle this thorny issue. Besides, somewhere deep down, she knew that it wasn’t Tammy; it was her mother.
‘What are you trying to prove? Who are you trying to prove it to? You ride that terrible motorbike, you get shot at for a living. I’m at my wits’ end every day you go on duty.’
Lucy couldn’t respond to that either. In fact, she wouldn’t. They’d had this conversation so often before that it was no longer worth a reply, especially as it was clear that her mother now had other, less admirable reasons for not wanting her daughter to remain a police officer.
Of course, that didn’t stop Cora talking. Mumbling in fact, continually as Lucy tried to sleep. No longer conversing with her daughter as such, but with someone somewhere else in the house – for what seemed like hours.
At first Lucy fancied she was dreaming this too. But gradually, as her room swam properly back into focus, and she squinted at the digital clock on her sideboard and saw that it was now two-thirty in the afternoon, she understood that it was reality; that her mother was discussing matters with someone downstairs. They weren’t talking loudly, but their voices were intense and animated. Whoever the visitor was, it was a man – she could tell that from his masculine tone. The words were inaudible, or so Lucy thought – until she levered herself upright on her one good arm, to listen.
‘So what are we going to do about this, Cora?’ the man asked.
‘At some point she’ll have to listen to me,’ Lucy’s mother replied.
‘Why would she?’ he said. ‘She’s on a mission.’
‘A mission? To do what?’
‘To be the man of the house. What else?’
‘That’s a very sexist point of view.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake … with all this crap coming down, you’re giving me PC bullshit!’
And now Lucy realised who was speaking – at last the voice was familiar to her, horribly so – and she could scarcely believe it.
‘There are reasons behind everything everyone does,’ the man said. ‘Would I have got to the top of the tree if I hadn’t been desperate to put my abysmal childhood behind me? Not very likely. She’s grown up with a mum who’s a perfect lady. But she needed some of the other stuff too, to counterbalance … someone who’d raise his voice now and then, who’d throw a punch if the family was threatened. She needed a dad. So now she’s fulfilled that role, herself. She’s opted for the most macho career she could find. And that’s not a criticism, by the way … I think it’s praiseworthy. But it still gives the rest of us a big, big problem.’
Lucy almost tripped in her haste to get downstairs, where she burst into the lounge, kicking the door open so hard that it slammed on the wall, shaking the ornaments in her mother’s display cabinet.
‘What the hell is this maniac doing here?’ she bellowed.
Cora was seated on the couch, hands joined on her lap as though in prayer. On the other side of the room, Frank McCracken – now ‘dressed down’ in a sweater, slacks and deck-shoes, slouched in the armchair. Before Cora could reply, Lucy rounded on the gangster.
‘Get your arse out of here!’ She jabbed a vicious finger at him. ‘Right now, or I’ll beat your sodding brains out!’
McCracken shrugged at Cora. ‘Told you she reminded me of me.’
Cora, suddenly flustered, opened her mouth to reply but nothing came out.
Glaring at her with accusation, Lucy stormed across the room to the front window to see how many goons he had waiting outside. But the terraced street was deserted.
And then, belatedly, his last comment struck home. She turned stiffly back to look at him.
‘What did you say?’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘You mean you haven’t worked it out yet?’
Lucy’s spine crawled as she stared from McCracken to her mother. It more than panicked her when the latter hung her head, refusing to meet her gaze.
‘Mum … what is he talking about?’
Cora still said nothing.
‘I said what the hell is this bastard talking about?’
‘Sorry I wasn’t around much, pet,’ McCracken replied on Cora’s behalf. ‘But I suspect you’d have preferred it that way … wouldn’t you?’
‘I’d prefer to get a straight answer!’ Lucy snapped, though she determinedly didn’t look at him. ‘Mum, what’s happening here? You’ve got to tell me!’
Cora analysed the carpet. ‘All I ever wanted was what was best for you …’
‘Don’t give me that Saint Cora crap!’ Lucy shouted. ‘What’s going on? Why the hell is he here?’
Cora finally glanced up. Her eyes glinted with moisture. ‘All those years ago, me and Frank … we weren’t just friends.’
‘You’re not …?’ Lucy shook her head. ‘You’re not … telling me what I think you’re …? No!’ She shook her head again, violently. ‘This is a lie! This is a total fabrication! He’s got you onside somehow, he’s made you think you’re actually part of his team and that I’m the enemy. Mum, he’s a career criminal, a murderer …’
‘He’s also your father.’ Cora said this in a calm but firm voice, as though there was no soft way to do it. But she’d turned white as a sheet in the process.
‘This is a lie,’ Lucy whispered harshly. ‘This has to be a lie.’
‘I know it’s a shock,’ McCracken chipped in; the only one in the room who looked unfazed by the situation. ‘It was a shock to me to learn my daughter was in the fuzz. But why else do you think I thought I recognised you in SugaBabes that first time?’
Lucy looked round at him, unable to form words, barely hearing what he was saying. She rubbed at the tears of rage blurring her vision.
‘Your mum sent me a photo of you when you were sixteen,’ he explained. ‘At my request. I’d finally got curious. I admit I probably haven’t looked at it for a decade or more. So when I saw you in the club that night, I didn’t make the immediate connection … but something about you seemed familiar. Your mum confirmed it when she came to see me last Wednesday.’
This had to be rubbish, Lucy told herself. It had to be. Rubbish of the vilest, most disgusting kind. But was it? Hadn’t she perhaps suspected something like this? Why on Earth would her mother have even gone to see McCracken? Just a friend, she’d said. But it was a strange thing, staying in touch with a friend when he’d morphed into one of the deadliest criminals in Britain. What kind of friend did you ask favours of, who, with a click of his fingers, could and would have people killed?
She gazed at her mother again, wet-eyed. ‘What … what about the likeable rogue bus driver? All that guff you filled my head with when I was a girl!’
‘It wasn’t total guff,’ Cora said. She at least had the good grace to look embarrassed by this part of it. ‘He was real. The only difference was, I was seventeen at the time and he was twenty-four. That day he turned up at our house in his bus, when he was supposed to be delivering passengers, my dad sent him off with a flea in his ear. I never saw him again, much less slept with him.’
‘Always been a sore point with me, that story,’ McCracken said chattily, fingers steepled. ‘I mean, I’ve never minded not getting any credit for producing a fine specimen like you, Lucy. But the thought of some prat with a big plastic badge on his lapel and a stupid hat. Probably fancied himself a regular Reg Varney …’
‘Shut up!’ Lucy howled. After all the violence and terror he and his kind were responsible for! After what had happened to Des Barton! Just sitting here in their living room like … like he belonged. ‘Just don’t talk again in this house!’
McCracken smiled blandly, and made a zip-fastener motion across his lips.
Lucy looked at her mother again. ‘And you never told me? Not even before I decided I was joining the police … you never once told me the truth?’
‘I didn’t want you in any way connected with that life,’ Cora replied. ‘Lucy, I experienced it for myself, and I wanted so much better for you. And Frank agreed.’
‘Oh, Frank agreed, did he? Very bloody big of him!’
‘He stepped back,’ Cora said. ‘Agreed to respect my independence and keep out of it. He even offered me money to help me through, but I refused …’
‘That’s money he now spends on high-class whores!’ Lucy blurted.
‘We went our separate ways by choice,’ Cora said. ‘I’m not going to criticise him for finding other girlfriends later on.’
‘No, but don’t you go thinking he ever regretted that decision.’
‘Oh now, fair’s fair,’ McCracken complained. ‘I did wonder from time to time how you were getting on.’
‘And he offered me money more than once,’ Cora added.
‘Blood money,’ Lucy scoffed. ‘Mob money. He robs other criminals, Mum … and if they refuse to pay up, he tortures and kills them. That’s what he does. That’s his job.’
Cora remained pale-faced, but apparently wasn’t shocked.
‘You don’t even look surprised,’ Lucy said.
‘What was I supposed to do, Lucy?’ Cora said. ‘Get rid of you … on the off-chance my evil boyfriend had planted some kind of demon seed in my womb? To protect you from someday making a discovery like this?’ She paused to let her words sink in. ‘What was done was done. I did the best I could to try and fix it, and your father did too.’
‘Don’t call him that!’
‘It’s only a biological term, love,’ McCracken commented.
‘And don’t give me “love”!’ Lucy spat at him.
‘Frank’s here now because he’d heard you got shot,’ Cora said.
‘Incorrectly, as it turned out,’ McCracken added.
Lucy laughed bitterly. ‘I bet that was disappointing for you.’
‘Lucy,’ Cora said, ‘you don’t know Frank.’
‘I know him better than you do! For God’s sake, mother, he’s probably here to finish me off. He’ll have been the one behind the original attack.’
‘Uh-uh,’ McCracken said in a firmer, sterner tone, as if this was one point he quite categorically wanted to make. ‘I was not. And if you don’t believe me, officer, you can pat me down right now.’
‘Wild accusations won’t resolve this, Lucy,’ Cora said with a hint of reproof.
‘Wild accusations?’ Lucy jabbed another finger at McCracken. ‘This so-called man is the exact opposite of everything I stand for. And you’ve got the nerve to …’
‘I didn’t choose your career for you!’ Cora’s tone had finally toughened, as if the time for tantrums was over. ‘I always told you I’d much rather you became a teacher or a nurse or a librarian or even a shop girl … anything to keep you from sliding back into that world I left behind.’
‘So that’s why you’ve always hated me being a cop?’ Lucy said scornfully. ‘Because you were afraid it might one day expose your dirty little secret.’
‘It’s not unproblematic for any of us,’ McCracken opined.
‘Yeah, but she had me thinking she was actually worried about me.’ Immediately, Lucy felt like kicking herself. She couldn’t believe she was actually talking to this guy.
‘Of course, I was worried about you,’ Cora said. ‘Every day you went on duty, I worried. Because I’ve seen it from the other side. I know what can happen when things turn ugly.’
‘Yeah, well, they’re really going to turn ugly now.’ Lucy chuckled harshly. ‘In fact, you’d better kiss this fella goodbye while you’ve still got the chance, mum. The Twisted Sisters are facing imminent annihilation, and he’s going down with them.’
‘And maybe not.’ McCracken smiled at her; again blandly, with that infuriating air of easy confidence. ‘Sorry to burst that balloon, pet.’
‘Are you on some kind of fantasy kick?’ Lucy wondered, genuinely flabbergasted by his manner. ‘Your whole attitude since I walked in is that at some point I’m going to start liking you … that whatever I say now, I’ll eventually be your mate. Are you for real, McCracken? I’ve had ten years of cleaning up the messes in this town that people like you leave behind. The ruined lives, the bereaved parties … you may be my father in the dictionary definition of the term, but I’m never going to pay that more than lip service. Because you see, I’m a police officer and I uphold the law … while you mug people, and arrange assassinations, and run child prostitutes …’
‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up about making that latter charge stick,’ he replied. ‘My associates and I knew absolutely nothing about that underage brothel.’
‘Yeah … tell it to a judge.’
‘I won’t need to.’ His tone was now tolerant, as though he was imparting a difficult lesson. ‘It’ll never get to a judge. I mean, the McIvars will, but they’re a busted flush. No doubt your colleagues are trying to pitch a deal to the pair of them as we speak, hoping to net themselves some bigger fish. Am I right?’
‘Like I’d tell you,’ Lucy sneered.
‘I’m right. I know I am. But it won’t work.’
‘McCracken … you’re a fucking nonce.’
The smile on his lips tightened a little. ‘I wouldn’t push your luck too far …’
‘Luck won’t come into it. You’re going down.’
‘You say you’ve been a copper ten years, Lucy. If so, you ought to have learned by now not to listen to the assurances of solicitors. They’re professional liars. Especially when they’re representing clients facing life imprisonment.’
‘We’ll see.’ Lucy strode to the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Cora demanded.
‘Where do you think? Home.’
‘This is your home.’
‘Not as long as he’s here! And not as long as you’re here, either. My own mother … a gangster’s bloody moll!’
Lucy raced back up the stairs, still in a state of horrified bewilderment. She almost diverted into the bathroom so that she could vomit into the toilet bowl, but, determined to remain strong, she barged into her bedroom instead, where she unzipped her tracksuit top and ripped her sling off. If there was any pain to be had, the fresh-flowing adrenaline accounted for it. Besides, she needed something warmer if she was getting out of here. She pulled on a thick, fleece-lined hoodie, grimacing a little as she gingerly fed her plaster-sheathed arm through its sleeve, and then threw the padded anorak over the top of that. As an afterthought, she tugged the trackie bottoms off and climbed into a fresh pair of jeans and trainers, before grabbing her personals, which the hospital had given her in a small plastic bag: her keys, her wallet, her warrant card, her phone and such.
When she got back downstairs, her mother and McCracken stood by the lounge door.
‘Lucy, you’re not thinking of telling anyone about this?’ Cora said.
‘Course I am,’ Lucy mocked her. ‘I’m always looking for new ways to hammer nails into the coffin of my career. Mind you –’ she smiled coldly at McCracken ‘– it’d be the end of your career too, wouldn’t it? Might be worth it just for that.’
‘We’d both have an awful lot to lose,’ he agreed.
Lucy headed to the front door. ‘Be thinking about that when you make your next move.’
‘One other thing I came to tell you,’ McCracken said; she glanced back. ‘Mick Shallicker’s legal rep won’t be pressing any further claims against you.’
Lucy shrugged. ‘What’s that, an attempted bribe?’
‘A statement of fact. No one on our side considers there was any police brutality during the course of Mick’s arrest.’
‘Next time I’ll try harder.’
Lucy banged out through the front door, but halted on the step. It was only mid-afternoon, but already a dank autumn dimness lay along the street, through which the dull glow of the streetlights barely seemed to penetrate. Fat, icy droplets spat from a sky as heavy and grey as concrete. She’d never seen less promising conditions for a brisk outdoor walk. But she didn’t have much choice. Behind her, she heard them move back into the living room. Their voices were muffled, but as long as the door was open she could hear.
‘She’s a real piece of work,’ McCracken remarked.
‘Her father’s daughter,’ Cora said tearfully. ‘And don’t smile like that, Frank. This has ruined my life.’
‘You were living a lie anyway, love.’
‘It was a lie I liked.’
‘I can sort this out.’
‘So long as it doesn’t involve killing anyone.’
‘Lucy was exaggerating about that.’
‘I hope so.’ Cora’s tone turned harsh. ‘I mean … I’d really hate to think that you were the one who tried to have our daughter shot last night.’
‘Do you think that’s even vaguely possible? Given that I came here incognito, unarmed, unaccompanied …?’
Lucy couldn’t bear to listen to any more and struck out on foot into the rain, which, by the time she’d reached the end of the street was pouring heavily. With no option and nowhere else to go, she grabbed the first bus that came along. It was bound for the town centre, but conveniently, one of its stops was close to Robber’s Row.
When Lucy entered the nick, it was a quarter-to-four. She’d hoped to sneak in unnoticed through the rear personnel door, creep upstairs, grab her motorbike helmet, which with luck had been left somewhere where she could easily find it, and then quietly leave again, reclaiming her bike en route and heading over to Cuthbertson Court.
It didn’t quite work out that way.
Almost immediately, she met people she knew, both coppers and civvy staff, and a succession of shoulder-slaps followed. If anyone felt peeved with her for getting yet another of her colleagues injured, it was forgotten, at least for today. Word of the previous night’s incident had got around quickly, and congratulations were heaped on her both for her bravery and her quick thinking, along with commiserations for the loss of her witness. Some she met, mainly CID officers who’d been filled in on the bigger picture, wanted to shake her hand for the damage she’d done to the McIvars’ firm and because her exposure of the child brothel in Whitefield was going to send several scrotey characters down for some lengthy stretches.
It was all very enjoyable, but it was a hollow victory too, because internally she was still raw. Lucy’s home life as she knew it was over; the agony of that burned her like acid, and she had no idea how she was going to make such pain go away. At the same time, no amount of heroic do-gooding would secure her future in the police when she harboured a damaging secret like this. At some point, inevitably, the truth would come out.
Despite all this, Lucy kept a brave face, insisting that she’d just been doing her job. When someone enquired how she was feeling, expressing surprise and admiration that she was even here after being gunned down herself, she tried to correct this, assuring them that she hadn’t taken a bullet even though she had been slightly hurt – though this only elicited further questions and answers.
In one way, these delays worked in Lucy’s favour. They prevented her going straight upstairs, so by the time she finally did, moving past the door to the MIR on cat-like feet in case she ran into Nehwal, the rest of the Ripper Chicks had already gone out. The office was empty and, even better, the crimson globe of her helmet sat on her desk, awaiting collection. She didn’t rush straight in to reclaim it, but glanced first into Geoff Slater’s office. This too was empty. His laptop was closed, which implied that, wherever he was, he wasn’t about to return imminently.
Relieved, Lucy went into the main office. But she’d no sooner reached her desk than one of the civilian researchers from downstairs entered the room behind her.
‘Sorry … can you help me?’
Lucy glanced back awkwardly. ‘Erm, yeah … if I can.’
The girl was young and rather gawky, wearing ill-fitting jeans and an open-collared shirt, with unruly orange locks and large-framed glasses. Her staff-badge indicated that her name was Tara Rutherford. ‘I’m looking for a DC Barton. I was told he works on this floor, but all these offices are empty.’
‘Des is off sick,’ Lucy said. ‘He won’t be in for a few weeks, at least.’
‘Ah … right. He requested this lot, you see.’ Tara presented a thin sheaf of printouts, which she clearly hoped Lucy was going to take off her hands.
Lucy didn’t, but glanced down. It looked like a bunch of intelligence sheets.
‘Apparently, DC Barton requested some info concerning the owners of several cars he’d developed suspicions about?’ Tara said.
‘Oh yeah, that,’ Lucy replied. ‘Red cars going through the Rake and Harrow roundabout near Abram, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right, but there were over three hundred, which he’d kind of expected … so he asked me to refine it further.’ Tara now all but shoved the sheaf into Lucy’s grasp. ‘These are the ones whose owners have got criminals records. There are ten in total.’
Lucy’s interest was only half-pricked. In the light of recent calamitous events, this minor lead she’d generated over three weeks ago seemed completely unimportant. It had been the longest of long shots anyway, according to Des, and he was probably right. However, if all she had to do was check out ten names, it could hardly hurt.
She flipped quickly through them, immediately seeing that the vast majority were unrelated to the case: drugs offences; TWOC; assault; drunk and disorderly.
And then prostitution.
This one was right at the end, and it stopped Lucy in her tracks. Not just because of the nature of the offence, but because it was the only female rap sheet in the pile.
Her interest somewhat more kindled, she read the accompanying notes.
The name of the offender was Darla Maycroft. She’d been born in Kersal, Salford, on June 23rd 1980, which made her thirty-five years old. She had five convictions for soliciting in public places – all between 2006 and 2012. She’d been in her late twenties and early thirties at the time, so it wasn’t just a bad patch she’d gone through when she was a kid. However, no offences of any sort had been recorded since then. The last known address for Darla Maycroft was 16 Moorhill Close, Lostock, Bolton – a fairly well-heeled district, if Lucy remembered correctly, and only five or six miles from the border with Crowley.
A grainy black and white image depicted a young, blonde-haired woman, though it wasn’t great quality. But again … blonde hair.
Lucy lowered the notes in order to think.
‘Will you make sure DC Barton gets this stuff when he’s next in?’ Tara Rutherford asked, clearly impatient to be dismissed.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.’
Tara nodded and left the room. Lucy barely noticed as she flipped more pages concerning Darla Maycroft, her attention now caught by a biro notation in the margin, which indicated that she was the owner of a red Volkswagen CC. Lucy was familiar with the CC; it was famous among motoring buffs as the family sedan that resembled a sports car. Which would explain both the chippie man’s mistake and the reason why it hadn’t been flagged up during the first search.
Again Lucy pondered.
Was it possible?
Was this Darla Maycroft, a known former prostitute, the same woman who’d made a quick recce of the fatal woodland only a few days before Ronald Ford died there?
She knew that she ought to go straight down to the MIR and hand this lot over. If not to Priya Nehwal herself, to DI Dawson, who was Action Manager for the taskforce.
But again, on the surface it still seemed unlikely. By the chippie man’s own admission, hundreds of people came and went in that place. It proved nothing.
Okay, it was probably worth looking into … but it could hardly be a priority.
And yet Lucy was even more agonised by that, wondering if all she was doing now was trying to find reasons for not pushing this intel up the chain, if deep down what she really wanted to do was to check the lead herself.
There was no doubt that after the trauma of Tammy’s death, or maybe because of it – the kid had died as a direct result of Lucy’s enquiries – she still felt attached to this case. And with that awful new truth currently wrecking her life at home, she had nothing else anyway. That alone had to be sufficient motivation for cranking out some kind of result here.
Her own mother and father, for Christ’s sake!
If those lowlife bastards thought they were going to take her down with them, they had another thing coming. Lucy Clayburn wasn’t just a cop, she was one of the best cops going. And she’d damn well prove it. Whatever it took. Sodding bastards …
Priya Nehwal would understand. Not that she wouldn’t still go ballistic of course. She might now have decided that Lucy was her kind of copper, but she’d still be absolutely furious. And she’d have every reason to be.
Or then again she might not.
On reflection, it couldn’t really hurt if Lucy made a few discreet enquiries before sharing this lead. If she mooched around first and it led to nothing, fine … it wouldn’t matter; no one would be any the wiser. While on the other hand, if it did lead to something – like Jill the Ripper! – Nehwal would hardly be in a position to complain.
But really, seriously … Darla Maycroft, who drove a pricey motor and now lived in the middle-class suburb of Lostock, was the Lay-by Murderer?
Lucy had to be kidding herself. These psychopathic freaks usually demonstrated a pattern of antisocial behaviour and violent offending long before they switched to killing. Plus they tended to come from the most abusive backgrounds. All that said, just because there was no such detail on Darla’s sheet, that didn’t mean she hadn’t had issues.
The printout was frustratingly sketchy, but Lucy scanned it again for anything that might help persuade her she wasn’t barking up the wrong tree. Her eyes finally fell on a physical description of the subject. This had been taken at the time of her last arrest, which was in 2012, when she’d been thirty-two years old.
One passage in particular caught Lucy’s attention:
Blue eyes. Natural blonde hair. Sturdy, athletic build.
And more important still:
5ft11ins tall.