Читать книгу Strangers: The unforgettable crime thriller from the #1 bestseller - Paul Finch - Страница 11

Lucy was home by nine, though, strictly speaking, it was her mother’s home. Several years ago, Lucy had bought herself a bungalow on Cuthbertson Court, in another part of town. It was little more than a crash pad really, and at the time she’d acquired it mainly as an investment with a possible view to renting it out at some point. It had been in a poor state of repair back then, and to an extent it still was, Lucy increasingly seeing it as a long-term project, something she could slowly but surely refurbish when she finally got around to it. Whatever she opted to do with it when it was finally finished, in the meantime she was still in her old bedroom in her mother’s small terraced house in Saltbridge, another former mill district close to the border with Bolton.

She yawned as she wheeled her Ducati through the back gate, and opened what had once been the coal bunker but now had been adapted into a shed with a felt and plastic-lined waterproof roof. She pushed the vehicle into the interior, which, though unlit and stinking of oil, was all very orderly. The tools with which she maintained the majestic beast were arrayed neatly on the walls. There were cleaning materials on the shelves, and several spare canisters of Ultimate Unleaded stored in a locker in the corner.

As Lucy closed and padlocked the shed door behind her, her mother stepped out from the kitchen. Whereas Lucy was dark-haired and coltish in build, Cora Clayburn was fair haired and buxom. She’d been quite a beauty in her day, or so Lucy would imagine – she had to imagine, because they had no other living relatives and she knew no friends from her mother’s early life who could confirm this. Though age was catching up a little – Cora was now fifty-three and a lot of that lovely fair hair was running to silver – she was still trim and shapely, an appearance she preserved through careful eating and regular exercise. Lucy had always thought that her mum looked amazing in the pink Lycra top and tight, black tracksuit bottoms she wore each day for her five-mile evening constitutional. Less attractive, though, was the shapeless blue smock with the plastic name tag she was currently clad in for her role as assistant manager at the Saltbridge MiniMart.

‘Now?’ Cora said, looking relieved. Shortly after midnight, Lucy had left her a message that she’d be late, but it wouldn’t have stopped her worrying. ‘Long shift, that?’

‘Yeah, but a good one.’ Lucy pulled her gauntlets off and tucked them into her helmet. ‘Bloody maniac grabbed this eighteen-year-old lass on her way home from babysitting.’

‘My God … where?’

‘Top of Darthill Road.’

Cora didn’t look surprised. ‘The Aggies?’

‘The edge of it.’

‘I wish they’d take action about that place. Build on it, or something.’

‘No chance, Mum … they’ll want to find a nice green space for that.’ Cora sidled past her and went indoors, where the mingled aromas of cooked bacon and fresh coffee set her empty stomach rumbling. ‘Anyway, the bastard – pardon my French – gave her a real smacking. Smashed her teeth, broke her nose and cheekbone.’ She unzipped her leather jacket and peeled it off the thin, sweat-damp T-shirt underneath. ‘I got him over in Bullwood. He still had her phone and purse in his pockets. Talk about banged to rights.’

‘Thank God for that,’ Cora said. ‘Who is he?’

‘A total lowlife called Wayne Crompton.’ Lucy folded her leather over the back of a kitchen chair, and stretched. ‘He’s got form as long as your arm, but this time he’ll be off the streets for a while. Charged him a couple of hours ago … robbery, GBH and attempted kidnapping.’

‘Like you said, a good night’s work.’ But Cora’s tone remained neutral, as it always did when Lucy got enthusiastic about cop stuff. ‘But I thought you were back on duty this afternoon?’

‘Was,’ Lucy confirmed. ‘Not any more. They offered me the money or the time in lieu, dropping extra-strong hints that they wanted me to take the time. So I’m going to – today.’

Cora nodded approvingly as she shrugged her mac on.

‘Mum, there’s something else I need to talk to you about,’ Lucy said.

‘Tell me quick, because I’m running a bit late.’

‘It’s okay … it’s not important.’

Cora stopped by the door. ‘Go on … I can tell you want to.’

So Lucy did, all about Operation Clearway, not specifying the exact role she’d be playing of course, but outlining the basics of the case and the new lines of enquiry the taskforce would shortly be embarking on.

Cora frowned. ‘So what are you saying … you’re a detective again?’

‘Not quite. It may be a way back for me though.’

‘I’m surprised you want a way back in after the way they treated you last time.’

‘Mum, come on … I’m lucky I’m still in the job.’

‘Some of us wouldn’t mind if you weren’t.’

‘I know that, but look –’ Lucy embraced her ‘– this is me. It’s my life, okay?’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’ Cora returned the embrace but a little stiffly. ‘And we’ve had this conversation before … so stop going on about it, you silly old trout.’

Lucy pecked her on the cheek. ‘I’ve never called you “a silly old trout”.’

‘You’ve thought it, I’m sure.’

‘The thing is, I’m mainly going to be working nights for the next few weeks.’

Cora considered this with visible apprehension.

Lucy knew why, and that it would be unrelated to her mother’s own safety.

With its edificial industrial ruins and rows of red-brick terraced houses, Saltbridge was not the most salubrious part of Crowley. Like so many working class neighbourhoods in the post-manufacturing era, it was extensively unemployed, drugs and alcoholism were rife and it suffered higher than normal crime rates. But Cora had lived here all of Lucy’s life at least, a dauntless single mum who’d never once been oppressed or intimidated by the environment in which she’d been forced to raise her child. These days, having held a management position for several years, she could probably afford to move out to the suburbs if she wanted to, but she had friends locally and was comfortable here.

‘How long will this assignment last?’ Cora asked.

‘As long as it takes. Could be a few months. But don’t worry. I’m not going to be in harm’s way.’

‘I bet you thought that last time too. And then look what happened. You were relieved you didn’t lose your job. All that mattered to me was that I didn’t lose my child.’

Lucy smiled tiredly. It was tempting to retort with the provable fact that uniformed patrol, her current role, was one of the most dangerous jobs a police officer could undertake, and that detectives didn’t encounter violent criminals half as often as bobbies on the beat did. But that would hardly help. Perhaps if Lucy had earned herself some stripes by now, or maybe an inspector’s pips, things would be different. She’d be able to con her mum into thinking that each shift was spent in the hermetically sealed environment of a supervisor’s office, rubber-stamping reports all day. But though Lucy had already passed both her sergeant’s and inspector’s exams, she hadn’t received the call just yet. Positive discrimination was a big thing in the service these days. The top brass were keen to advance the careers of their female underlings, but perhaps not when said underling was the child of a single parent from the wrong side of town – a child who didn’t even know her father, and especially not after that foul-up in Borsdane Wood.

‘So you’ll be here this evening when I get home?’ Cora said, opening the back door.

‘Certainly will. I’ll have tea ready and waiting.’

‘Lovely. That’ll make us square. Your breakfast’s in the oven.’

‘Oh cool … I’m starving.’ Lucy pulled on a padded glove and drew out the hotplate, and was delighted to see bacon, eggs, sausage, beans, grilled tomato and toast. ‘Mum! You shouldn’t have gone to this much trouble.’

‘I know I shouldn’t, but I have to make it worth your while coming home, don’t I? Otherwise one day you might not.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Lucy kissed her on the forehead. ‘Go on … you’ll be late.’