When they reached the ICU entrance, a single uniform was on duty outside. They flashed their warrant cards and he passed them through. At the interior door, the day nurse, also after checking their IDs, buzzed them in. Two firearms officers in full battle-kit, MP5 carbines held across their chests, were standing outside McCracken’s room, talking and chuckling together as they sipped from paper cups. They knew Nehwal on sight and nodded to her as they stepped aside.
Inside the room, the gangster looked in better shape than he had done the night before. He’d regained his complexion and was sitting upright, a rack of pillows behind him, his left arm fixed in a sturdy but comfortable-looking sling. A trolley stood to one side, the remnants of his breakfast on top of it. A newspaper lay on the coverlet.
He gave them his trademark wolfish smile. ‘And who might you lovely ladies be?’
‘You can save the smarm, McCracken.’ Nehwal showed her warrant card and stuck it back into her pocket. ‘I’m not lovely and she’s not a lady … she rides a Ducati and she bangs idiots like you in jail for a hobby.’
He glanced from one to the other, his mouth a perfect O. ‘Now you’ve got me intrigued.’
‘Actually, we’re the ones who’re intrigued. I’m Detective Superintendent Nehwal, Serious Crimes Division. This is Detective Constable Clayburn, who once locked you up, you may recall.’
McCracken arched an eyebrow at Lucy, but no light of recognition came into his eyes. ‘Sadly … it’s happened so often.’
‘Hey,’ Nehwal said. ‘It may happen again.’
He frowned. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it me who got shot?’
‘Yes, but you weren’t the only one who got hurt last night, and that’s a problem for us.’
‘Ah … so, do I need to have my solicitor present?’
‘I don’t think we need to make any of this official just yet. And I think it’s safe to say that, whoever did what we’re here to talk to you about … it wasn’t you.’
He shrugged, wincing slightly. ‘In that case I’ll endeavour to assist you any way I can.’
‘Great. So how well do you know Miles O’Grady?’
Again, he looked blankly from one to the other. ‘I don’t know him at all. Am I supposed to?’
‘He’s a former police officer,’ Nehwal said. ‘An ex-detective chief inspector with the Fraud Squad, no less. Three years ago, he was dismissed on suspicion of corrupt practices.’
‘Oh dear. Another one, eh?’
‘Though we actually suspect he may have been guilty of a whole lot more.’
McCracken tutted. ‘The standard of your recruits has taken a real nosedive in recent years.’
‘Either way, it’s all irrelevant now. Because he’s dead.’
‘I see.’
Lucy watched McCracken carefully; he expressed only mild surprise and concern at this, which would be the expected response if the deceased was someone he didn’t know. But then her father was an expert at playing this game.
‘He died last night,’ Nehwal said. ‘About five hours after you got shot.’
‘Well, Manchester’s a rough old city these days.’
‘He died rather unpleasantly, I’m afraid.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’ He still didn’t seem overly affected.
‘We found him in a burnt-out bus.’
He shook his head. ‘Disrespect for private property as well …’
‘Alongside the body of the bus driver.’
There was no immediate chippy response to that. For the first time, Lucy thought she spotted a flicker of emotion on her father’s face, a very slight tightening of his features, as if that last bit of info was something he really hadn’t wanted to hear. And this, she now realised, was exactly what Nehwal was aiming for. McCracken was an underworld professional. He’d never hesitate to kill if he deemed it necessary, but he wouldn’t like collateral damage, because that was always messy.
‘Maybe it was just an accident,’ he said in a reasonable voice. ‘And this O’Grady guy was the last passenger on the last bus home.’
‘If only it was that simple,’ Nehwal replied. ‘Both bodies were extensively burned, but not to such an extent that we couldn’t identify the cause of death fairly quickly.’
‘I’m sure you’re dying to tell me what that was.’
‘Strangulation. With some kind of steel wire. There’s no question that they both suffered. This was an exemplary kind of hit, wasn’t it, Frank?’
He frowned again. ‘A hit?’
‘Let’s not play silly buggers,’ Lucy couldn’t resist saying.
He regarded her coolly.
‘Not only exemplary in that it would teach a lesson to anyone else thinking of taking on the Crew,’ Nehwal said. ‘But also, unintentionally, as a stand-out example of how not to do these things.’
He frowned all the more. ‘If you say so.’
‘What I mean is, Frank … we don’t just have the bodies, we also have a weapon.’
He remained bemused. ‘The steel wire?’
‘No,’ Nehwal said. ‘There was a gun there too. A Taurus .357. It was badly burned, obviously. We’ll not lift any prints off it, but there’s enough of it left for our ballistics lab to give it a good going-over. See if it matches up with any recent shootings we might be investigating.’
‘Like mine, for example.’ He smiled. ‘Now wait a minute, don’t tell me … if that gun is the same gun that fired the shots that downed me and Charlie, you will definitely be coming back to talk to me, and on that occasion, I will need my solicitor.’
‘You seem very relaxed about that,’ Lucy said.
‘And why shouldn’t I be, DC Clayburn? As you yourself have already admitted, I was lying right here. There’d be nothing I’d be able to tell you, under caution or otherwise, that I couldn’t tell you right now.’
‘After you were dumped outside the hospital last night,’ Nehwal said, ‘before you were taken into surgery, you made a statement that you had no clue who the shooter was.’
He nodded. ‘Pretty sure I was hit by the first round. Charlie and I were just getting into the car when someone called my name. I looked, but there wasn’t enough light to see who it was. The next thing though, bang-bang. And we both went down.’
‘He called your name?’ Nehwal said. ‘Not a professional, then?’
‘Not much of one, no.’
‘Or he wanted you to know who was shooting you?’
‘If so, he failed.’
‘So you definitely didn’t see his face?’
‘Do you think I wouldn’t tell you?’
Lucy snorted. ‘You don’t seriously want us to answer that question, do you?’
‘A witness inside the restaurant kitchen says that he only caught a glimpse of what happened through the window, but he could have sworn that someone in your party returned fire,’ Nehwal said. ‘Not a lot. Just a single shot.’
McCracken shrugged. ‘I’m sure you’ll agree that neither me nor Charlie were in any fit state to do that.’
‘You said in your initial statement that you were knocked unconscious instantly, or at least you assume you were, because you weren’t aware of anything else for quite some time.’
‘If you disbelieve that, I suggest you try taking a pistol shot to the collar-bone yourself, Detective Superintendent Nehwal. See what impact it has on you.’
‘I’ll pass,’ Nehwal said, watching him carefully. ‘But the thing is … what I have real trouble believing is your assertion that you’ve got no idea who it was who whisked you away from the restaurant and dropped you off here.’
‘Your mysterious kitchen witness can’t assist with that?’
‘Sadly, he’d gone to get help. When he came back with others, you’d already gone. As had your assailant.’
He made a gesture. ‘One of life’s good Samaritans, I guess.’
‘The vehicle that dropped you off at the hospital was caught on several different surveillance cameras and identified. But it was one that had been stolen several months ago in Burnley. We’ve found no trace of it since. Likewise, we’ve found no trace of your rather swish Bentley. It certainly wasn’t in the car park, where you supposedly left it.’
McCracken responded with a helpless shrug. ‘Perhaps not quite so good a Samaritan then.’
He gave Lucy a brief stare, and she had to avert her eyes. She’d never felt worse as a policewoman, standing here alongside her boss, knowing full well what really happened after the Crowley Old Hall shooting, and not just keeping schtum about it, but allowing her superior to continue the line of questioning, inadvertently making a complete fool of her.
‘You’ve nothing else to add?’ Nehwal said.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Well … in that case there’s nothing else to ask. We’ll leave you in peace.’
McCracken nodded and gave them a genial smile.
‘But I will send word when we get the result of that ballistics test,’ Nehwal said from the doorway. ‘I’m sure you’re dying to know the outcome.’
It was late morning when Lucy and Nehwal returned to Robber’s Row. There was minimal space on the personnel car park, lots of bodies from the Serious Crimes Division having arrived. Nehwal, already gabbling on the phone, went upstairs to the Incident room to brief her team. Lucy would have gone with her, but Tessa Payne accosted her in the corridor outside the DO, waving two sheets of print-out.
‘Lucy, you sent a request to the forensics lab last night, concerning an attack on a homeless person?’
‘They’ve done it already?’
‘Sounds like they’re clearing the decks now there’s been a double murder on the patch.’
‘Okay, so what’ve we got?’
‘A result … of sorts.’ Payne handed the paper over. It comprised two rap-sheets. ‘I took the liberty of pulling these off the system for you. The one on top is the one you’re looking for. It was her DNA under the assault victim’s fingernail. Very minor form, though.’
Lucy saw an image of a gawky teenage girl with long but messy blonde hair. Her OTT makeup was blotched by tears; she’d clearly been upset at the time of her arrest.
‘Alyssa Torgau,’ Lucy said, reading the details. ‘Fifteen years old … shoplifting.’
‘Like I say, hardly the villain of villains.’
‘This was back in 2014, which would only make her nineteen now.’
‘I was wondering about that … think they could have made a mistake?’
‘No.’ Lucy recollected the lithe, blonde-haired figure that had eluded her through the industrial basements. ‘But it’s a puzzler. I’m just wondering when this silly young cow went and joined the commandos.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Lucy flipped the papers around. ‘Who’s the other one?’
‘That’s her dad, Martin Torgau. I only include him because he’s the only known associate she’s got.’
This suspect – though ‘suspect’ was probably too strong a word at this stage – had a little more form. His last and only arrest had been in 2002, in Liverpool, when he’d been imprisoned for a year and a half for illegal possession of a handgun and for carrying a banned knife, though he was released after eight months for good behaviour.
Lucy was intrigued that he’d been jailed at all, but there were plenty of additional notations on his sheet to explain this. It seemed that he’d been arrested after paying a taxi fare, his overcoat falling open and the driver catching a glimpse of what looked like the butt of a pistol hanging in a shoulder-holster. On being taken into custody, the pistol was found to be a loaded Beretta M9, which was heavy stuff. A full body search had then found what was described as a ‘Rambo knife’ strapped to his lower left leg – which made Lucy think about the cross-guarded fighting knife she’d seen in the possession of her assailant at St Clement’s. But more important than any of this, Torgau had refused to explain his possession of these implements during interview. He’d admitted his guilt and apologised but had pointedly said nothing else.
The Merseyside detective on the case had been so concerned by this, because he’d felt that possession of such weapons meant the guy was more than he appeared to be, that he’d made a big issue of Torgau’s lack of cooperation, which the CPS later reflected in court, and the trial judge agreed with.
An additional footnote added that Martin Torgau, who’d been a widower at the time, had two young daughters, Alyssa and Ivana, twins, who, as there were no other living relatives, were placed in a Catholic care home for the brief time he was imprisoned.
Lucy wondered if she was going crazy. ‘Alyssa Torgau attacked a nun … having been held in a Catholic care home when she was a kid. Is that some kind of link?’
‘Not following,’ Tessa Payne said.
‘Sorry, Tess. Thinking aloud. And then that bloody commando knife …’ Lucy tried to concentrate on the paperwork. ‘Home address was 27, Cedar Lane, Cotely Barn. Do they both still live there?’
‘Yeah. I checked with the Voters’ Roll.’
‘Excellent work, Tessa. I mean it … this is great.’
Payne beamed in response. ‘I’m guessing we’ve got a new lead?’
‘Well … we’ve got a lead on whoever attacked Sister Cassiopeia. And that’s something.’ Lucy lowered the documents. ‘How are you doing with the CCTV?’
‘A bit to go yet. Boring as hell.’
‘No hits, though?’
‘There’s no shortage of transit vans. The trouble is they’re all registered to legitimate companies.’
‘You’re making a list of them anyway?’
‘Sure. But there are none running under dummy plates. None that I’ve spotted. And I’ve got lots more footage to look through yet.’
‘Because now that Malcolm Peabody’s off sick, someone’s going to have to do the mission halls and shelters as well.’
For all the enthusiasm she wanted to project in the presence of her idol, Payne looked wearied simply by the prospect of this.
‘Sorry, babes,’ Lucy said. ‘But we’re all pulled out.’
Payne nodded. ‘Least it’ll get me out the office.’
‘Plus, I’ll be able to help you. For the meantime, though, get on with the flicks.’ Lucy folded the print-outs. ‘I’ll check out the Torgau situation.’
Payne wandered back into the DO, while Lucy went out to the car park, jumped onto her bike and hit the streets. She already had more than enough to arrest this Alyssa Torgau, but that would not have been the clever way to do it. Circumstantial evidence, very circumstantial, connected the girl – and maybe her father, because someone had been driving that van she escaped in – to the other abductions, and that in its turn connected them – possibly, maybe – to the dog carcasses on the landfill, which – possibly, maybe – connected them to the double strangulation on the Aggies, which – also possibly, maybe – connected them to the shooting of Frank McCracken.
That was an awful lot of possibles and maybes to use as a basis for going crashing in. So the first thing to do was check out the lie of the land at Cedar Lane. She would head over there now, but not on her Ducati, because that would likely attract interest in a quiet neighbourhood. Instead, she went first to her mother’s terraced house in Saltbridge, where she’d left her Jimny the previous day.
When she arrived, the Jimny still sat at the front. She rode around to the back, installed her bike in the yard shed, briefly examined the visor on her dented helmet, which still hung loose at one side, and deciding to take it with her to try to get it repaired later, walked through the house. It was empty, her mum being out at work, so she locked up behind her, threw her helmet into the Jimny’s rear seat, climbed in and headed back across town towards the much more prosperous suburb of Cotely Barn.
She was there within fifteen minutes, her driver’s window down as she cruised, seeing lush front gardens, a few now reddening in the early days of autumn, and pleasant detached houses built in cottage and country styles. The neighbourhood was quiet, as she’d expected, most folk now at work, and the kids at school – which was not necessarily a good thing, as it made her more noticeable. The trick in that case was to keep her visit short and sweet.
On Cedar Lane itself, she spotted No. 27 straight away. It was only different from the others in that it was prettier than most, a large detached in handsome beige brick, with neatly pruned ivy cladding its front. However, the thing that caught Lucy’s eye most was an extension on the left side of the house. It looked as if it had been constructed relatively recently, and now connected what had formerly been a free-standing garage to the main building. Ostensibly, of course, this had been to accommodate a fifth bedroom over the top of the garage, but it also meant that if someone was to park inside the garage, any illicit cargo could be transferred indoors without any danger of prying eyes.
Despite that, when Lucy glided to a halt opposite, she wondered if she’d ventured too far into the realms of supposition. The route she’d followed here was tenuous enough without going back to Priya Nehwal and telling her that she’d found the killers because they’d recently added a new room to their house. Nothing about the building stood out otherwise. On first appearances, the whole place was terribly respectable. The car on the drive was a silver Volvo V90 estate, while further up, inside the open garage, Lucy could see what looked like a black Audi A3. Both carried relatively recent registration marks, which meant they’d be expensive – and wealth rarely went hand in hand with violent crime.
Unless it’s violent crime of the organised variety, her inner detective told her.
Lucy considered that.
And DNA rarely if ever lied.
She studied the Volvo estate, thinking that you probably couldn’t find a better kind of car if you wanted to smuggle bodies or prisoners, or both, into and out of a house in a built-up area. She glanced past it to the Audi, and for the first time noticed that its front nearside light-cluster had been broken and was now covered with cellophane.
Everyone’s car got bumped from time to time. Nicks and scratches were commonplace. But was it really too much of a stretch to – possibly, maybe – link this damage to the unresolved shooting incident in central Crowley the previous night?
Then someone stepped in front of her, blotting out her view of the property.
Lucy was so surprised that at first she couldn’t react.
Whoever it was, they’d stolen up from behind, and she’d been so absorbed in the house and the two cars that she hadn’t realised. She glanced up and saw a girl of about nineteen. She had spiky blonde hair with red highlights, shaved at the sides. She was wearing a large denim jacket over a summery dress, but both hands were deep in her jacket pockets.
‘House-hunting, are we?’ the girl said.
‘Sorry.’ Lucy tried a disarming smile. She was in plain clothes, so there was no reason for anyone to assume the worst. ‘Yes, actually. I was just checking the area.’
The girl didn’t return the smile. Anything but. Her blue eyes literally blazed. ‘Had a bump on your bike recently?’
Immediately, with a gut-thumping shock, Lucy realised her error: the helmet in the back seat.
‘Out!’ the girl hissed, her hands still in their pockets, but the right one pushed forward against the material, the metallic object she clearly held in there aimed directly at Lucy’s face.
Instinctively, Lucy’s hand strayed towards the pocket where she normally kept her radio – only to remember that, thanks to rushing to respond to the Malcolm Peabody situation that morning, she hadn’t yet thought to check one out.
‘Quickly and quietly!’ the girl instructed her. ‘Don’t think I won’t shoot! There’s no one round here during the day … I can do what I fucking want!’
Lucy felt like contesting that, asking why, if there were no potential witnesses here, the girl was concealing her gun, but there was something about that crazed expression that brooked no argument. So she complied, turning her engine off, climbing from the car.
‘Keys!’ the girl said, her left hand coming into view. ‘You fucking bitch.’
Hand shaking, Lucy handed the car keys over.
‘Across the road … up the drive and into the garage.’
This time Lucy resisted, until the girl stepped behind and prodded her in the spine with a cloth-covered muzzle, which indicated that she really did have a gun down there. ‘You want I should do it this way?’ she asked. ‘Sever your nervous system with a single shot?’
Sever my nervous system … Christ.
Lucy started forward across the road, praying that another car would come along, or some friendly neighbour step outside for a chat. Though what would they see if they did? A neighbour’s daughter whom they’d known all their lives? A potential house-buyer being shown around? Lucy could shout for help, of course, but her captor seemed to be reading her mind.
‘Quickly!’ she hissed as they walked up the drive. ‘And don’t open that pretty trap of yours, or it’ll be the last thing you ever do.’
This message was delivered with such harsh intensity, that Lucy had no doubt it was true.
‘I mean it, pig,’ the girl added, as they entered the garage alongside the Audi. ‘You’ve given us no choice. I’ll blow you the fuck away.’
If Lucy had harboured any doubt that she was onto the right team, it ended there.
You’ve given us no choice, the girl had said. Us. She and whoever else she was involved with really were playing for high stakes, and were so alert, so paranoid, that they’d immediately fingered a casual observer as law enforcement.
Lucy heard a click. With a slow, grating sound, the garage door levered downward behind them, closing off the daylight.
‘You know it was never part of our plan to kill a copper,’ the girl said. ‘And we could’ve killed one last night. We nearly did. We thought that might be the best way to cover our backs. But then we said, “Nah … they’re good lads. They work hard, they have families. We don’t want to hurt decent chaps like that.”’
With a resounding thud, the garage door closed.
The girl chuckled loudly. ‘Actually, no.’ Her voice became hard, scornful. ‘We didn’t even think anything like that. We just didn’t want you coming after us with everything you’ve got. But seeing as you’ve done that anyway, maybe we should’ve put a match to him, hey?’ She chuckled again. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, doll … we’ll certainly be putting a match to you.’