Читать книгу Stolen - Paul Finch - Страница 12

It was Cora Clayburn’s fifty-fifth birthday, in honour of which she was done up even more impressively than usual, and she was rarely ever seen out of the house minus lippy or eye-liner.

In appearance alone, Lucy was very different to her mother, five-foot-eight tall and, thanks to years of sporting activity, possessed of a trim, athletic build. She was naturally tanned and had glossy, crow-black hair, which these days, as a plain-clothes officer, she wore well past her shoulders. Her green eyes and sharp features had a feline aspect, which men seemed to find both attractive and intimidating. In contrast, Cora was more of an English rose: she only stood five-foot-six, was more buxom than her daughter, and had silver/blonde hair currently styled in a short bob, blue eyes, pink lips and a soft, pale complexion. Age had caught up with her a little. She was ‘no longer wrinkle-free’, as she would frustratedly say while standing in front of the bathroom mirror, but, thanks to her exercise regime, plus the fact that she ate like a bird, she was still in terrific shape.

She also knew how to dress.

When they met at The Brasserie that evening, while Lucy was in kitten heels and jeans, with a stonewashed denim jacket over her black sleeveless vest, her mother wore stiletto heels and a flowery, figure-hugging dress which instantly took ten years off her. The Brasserie was a small place just off the town centre. It had once been a stable block or saddlery, and it attempted even now to retain that aura, with intricately paved floors, period timber beams, and walls adorned with framed, sepia-toned photographs depicting the Bridgewater Canal during the horse-drawn era. But it provided good service and very good food, and was perfect for a quiet midweek celebration. Lucy and Cora were allocated a table alongside the huge stone fireplace, but it was a mild September so far, and though the hearth was stacked with logs and kindling, no flames had been lit.

‘Late night?’ Cora asked, after they’d ordered a couple of drinks.

Lucy flipped through the menu, only vaguely aware that she’d just stifled a yawn.

‘Sort of.’ In fact, she’d only hit the sack after ten that morning, and even then had only managed to grab a couple of hours in an armchair in the rec room at Robber’s Row, as she’d needed to get back on duty in order to bottom the paperwork.

‘You couldn’t take today off?’

‘Would’ve been nice, but no. Finishing off a big job.’

‘Well … you still found time to send me a very thoughtful present. Thank you very much.’

‘It was only a voucher,’ Lucy said.

‘A voucher is good. No point taking a wild guess, is there? And no point giving me money, either. Where’s that going to go, if not on bills?’

Lucy picked up her glass of prosecco. ‘Happy fifty-fifth.’

They clinked glasses, even if Cora pulled a face. ‘Don’t say that, please …’

‘Hey, I’m no spring chicken,’ Lucy replied.

‘You’re thirty-two. I wish I was.’

‘Well … theoretically, I’ve got my best days ahead of me.’

‘Not theoretically. You have, trust me. Just don’t waste them.’ Cora leaned forward, staring at her daughter meaningfully. ‘Promise me that … you won’t waste them.’

In reality this meant: Please get yourself a fella. So Lucy opted to change the subject. ‘How’s the shoulder?’

‘Stiff, but I’ll live.’

The previous year, Cora had accidentally become embroiled in one of Lucy’s more extreme cases and had suffered a pistol shot to the left shoulder. The wound was relatively clean, the bullet passing through, and quick emergency surgery had prevented any life-changing damage, but it had still seen her spend several weeks in hospital, and even now she was on a course of recuperative physiotherapy. It was typical of Cora’s courageous self-confidence, though, that despite the very obvious scar, she was still happy to wear a strappy summer dress, and to look good in it.

‘Get anything nice?’ Lucy asked. ‘Apart from my voucher?’

‘Well … I’ve been meaning to tell you this.’ Suddenly, Cora looked cagey. ‘On the basis that you were bound to find out anyway, you having such a nose for trouble …’

‘Okay … go on.’

Cora sighed. ‘Yesterday morning, a florist’s van turned up at the house. And delivered … well, I don’t know for sure … maybe a couple of thousand pounds’ worth of summer blooms. Living room’s currently like a greenhouse at Kew Gardens.’

‘Two grand’s worth of flowers?’ Lucy said, astonished.

‘At least.’

‘So … what is it, a secret admirer?’

Cora took a sip of prosecco. ‘Hardy secret, Lucy.’

‘Ohhh, you’re not telling me …?’

Their eyes met, and Lucy shook her head with angry bewilderment.

To say that her father, Frank McCracken, was estranged from her would have been the euphemism of all time; in truth, the mere mention of his name put Lucy on edge as almost nothing else could.

He was a gangster. It was that simple. But not just an ordinary gangster; he held high rank in the Crew, the most influential crime syndicate in the whole of Northwest England. It hadn’t always been that way, of course. Thirty-two years ago, he’d been a small-time enforcer, one of whose duties was to mind the girls and watch the punters in a mob-owned strip-joint in central Manchester. It was there that he’d met a young Cora Clayburn, who, in a completely different life to the one she led now, had been one of the stars of the show. She’d taken to McCracken quickly; he was handsome, tough, intelligent, and he had the gift of the gab – his role at the club had been more ‘cooler’ than ‘bouncer’. They’d embarked on a relationship, but when Cora fell pregnant, she’d quickly reappraised her life. First of all, she’d decided that she wanted to keep the baby. Secondly, it was obvious that a rowdy strip-club was a completely inappropriate environment in which to raise a child. Thirdly, urbane though Frank McCracken could be, he was a criminal – and a violent one – and so were all his friends, so it didn’t take long for Cora to decide that she didn’t want him in her youngster’s life.

It still wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision to leave. Cora was open and honest with McCracken, and he accepted it, partly because he wasn’t ready for fatherhood but also because he could take his pick of the other strippers and was still at an age when playing the field was viewed as a male birthright. He’d offered Cora money to assist her, but she’d even turned that down, insisting that she wanted to make a complete break, advising her former beau that he would likely never see or even hear from her again.

And that was how it had remained. The child, a girl called Lucy, was born in Crowley, where Cora made her new life. She grew up never knowing who her father was but, ironically, joined the Greater Manchester Police. It was only two years ago, in the very dramatic circumstances of Operation Clearway, an undercover mission she and numerous other policewomen had undertaken in order to catch a killer called Jill the Ripper, that Lucy had finally come into contact with McCracken – now a major player, of course.

When they became aware of each other, there was immediate distrust on both parts, though the man had been more intrigued than the girl, almost feeling proud that his daughter had overcome the difficulties of having a lone parent in a rough part of the city. Lucy, in contrast, was overtly hostile to him, but, by necessity, a truce had eventually been reached, both parties understanding that if word ever got out that they were related to each other, their careers would both be damaged, if not ruined. Even now, only four people knew about it, as far as Lucy was aware: she and her mother, and McCracken and his second-in-command, a psychotic bruiser called Mick Shallicker.

The truce had held, even though they’d had dealings with each other several times since then, but increasingly, Lucy felt, her father was becoming lax in his efforts to keep things secret.

‘There was even a signed card with it,’ Cora added, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Just so there couldn’t be any mistake. The card was so big, it wouldn’t have gone through the letterbox.’ Her voice was almost wistful. ‘He not only signed it, he put fifty-five kisses on it.’ She glanced up, her expression suddenly hard. ‘So, go on … if you’re going to start shouting and bawling, let’s do it now and get it over with.’

‘What’s the point shouting?’ Lucy asked. ‘You didn’t give him any encouragement … I’m assuming?’

‘Of course I didn’t.’ Cora whipped her napkin off the table, a bit too aggressively, and arranged it on her lap. ‘But I’ve not needed to. It’s not like he’s come back into our lives through ordinary circumstances, is it?’

‘Well … not exactly ordinary.’

‘But through no fault of ours.’

Lucy shrugged. ‘And what are you trying to tell me … he likes what he sees?’

‘Why shouldn’t he?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Mum!’ Lucy leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘You’re in fab shape for your age, but he’s walking around with Supertramp on his arm. Or he was.’

Carlotta ‘Charlie’ Powell was Frank McCracken’s current squeeze, a Pamela Anderson lookalike, who had once been the most expensive hooker in Manchester.

‘I can’t explain his motivation,’ Cora said. ‘All I’m telling you is what’s happened.’

‘I take it you haven’t done anything daft in response … like sent him a thank-you note or something?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Not yet?’

‘Lucy … will you stop behaving as if you’re the mother and I’m the child?’ Cora said heatedly. ‘Or as if you have a monopoly on common sense?’

Lucy sat back again, feeling admonished.

‘For all the reasons that you constantly warn me against him, I dumped that man thirty years ago. And in the process I condemned myself to a lifetime of anonymous single-motherhood. All this happened before you were even wearing nappies. Now, some might argue, given the pillar of righteousness you’ve become, that my sacrifice was worth it … and that maybe I’m finally entitled to a little me time.’

‘Mum … you’re not actually thinking of getting back with him?’

‘Lucy … just because you don’t want a man in your life, that doesn’t mean I don’t.’

‘But he’s already with someone.’

Cora shrugged. ‘You think that’ll bother your father?’

‘What?’ Lucy was aghast. ‘You’d be happy to be the other woman?’

‘I …’ Fleetingly, Cora struggled with this dollop of common sense. ‘Of course not. It’s just that I …’ Again, she had trouble articulating. ‘I really liked Frank. Back then, I mean.’

‘You left him easily enough.’

‘The decision was far from easy, trust me.’

‘You’ve had loads of chances to get to know other guys. I know you’ve been asked out at least three—’

‘None of them measure up, Lucy. That’s the trouble.’ Briefly, Cora was wistful again, lost in a dreamy past. Only to snap out of it suddenly. ‘Anyway, it’s easy for you to talk. You’re young, you’ve got your looks, your health …’

‘So have you.’

‘But you’ve still got years ahead of you. The pages on my calendar are turning fast.’

Lucy didn’t know what to say. The idea of her mother taking up with a notorious gangster was intolerable, of course, the antithesis of everything she stood for. But ultimately this was her mother’s business, not hers. Did she really have a right to intervene?

‘If you want the truth,’ Cora said, ‘I think Frank’s feeling the years too. He might have that ex-porno queen, or whatever she is, in his bed, but she’s not like a real wife, is she? She won’t keep him a tidy home, she hasn’t raised his children.’

‘So now you’re saying Frank McCracken’s missing his family?’ Lucy scoffed. ‘A family he hadn’t even met until a couple of years ago?’

‘God, you can be harsh when you want to.’

‘I’m stating a fact. And I don’t want you to get hurt.’

‘You’ve a funny way of showing it.’ Cora threw down her napkin and stood up, much to the surprise of the waitress, who had just arrived with their first courses.

‘Mum … please!’ Lucy tapped the tablecloth placatingly. ‘Come on … don’t be silly.’

Cora sat down again but looked grumpy. Rather nervously, the waitress served their dishes. The twosome ate in sulky silence.

‘Obviously this means more to you than I thought,’ Lucy said when she’d finished her starter. She dabbed at her mouth. ‘But you know the situation with him and me. As soon as word gets out, we’re both finished in our respective careers.’

‘And do you really believe that, Lucy?’ Cora scrutinised her in a firm, motherly way, as though trying to wheedle the truth out of a deceitful child. ‘Do you? Honestly?’

Again, Lucy considered this. Coming clean to her bosses about who her father was would be a huge risk. How would they ever be able to take her seriously as a police officer again?

‘Just say, for the sake of argument,’ Cora ventured, ‘that I did start seeing him –’ Lucy suppressed a shudder ‘– do any of your lot even know I’m your mother? I can count on one hand all the times during your career when other police officers have been to my house.’

‘It’s not just that,’ Lucy replied. ‘Look – Frank McCracken’s a hardened criminal. Oh, I get it, don’t worry. That refined aura, that rough-diamond charm. He could win anyone over. But he’s a murderer. He’s surrounded by murderers. I can’t stress that enough. The man he works for is one of the most feared gangsters in Britain. He’s literally a homicidal maniac.’

Cora looked unimpressed.

‘But you know all this already, don’t you?’ Lucy said, deflated.

‘I’m not saying I’m about to tie the knot with him. I just don’t think we can keep pretending that he isn’t part of our lives. And quite clearly, neither does he.’

Again, Lucy didn’t know how to respond. All this had come completely out of left field.

‘If you insist on it, I won’t thank him for the flowers,’ Cora said. ‘But this won’t be the last time I hear from him. I can feel it in my bones.’

I’d love to know why, Lucy suddenly wondered. What is he up to?

Was it conceivable – was it even faintly possible – that Cora was right, and that McCracken was hankering after a proper family? If so, he surely couldn’t imagine that she and her mother would provide that?

‘How’s work anyway?’ Cora asked, trying to change the subject. ‘Sounds like you had a busy day yesterday.’

‘Yeah …’ Lucy frowned as the waitress removed their plates. ‘I had a bit of a score, but it was none of it very edifying. Think of the quietest, leafiest neighbourhood you can, and there’ll be monsters there. Hiding behind the privets and the chintz curtains.’

‘And yet some of the lowliest people in society are exactly the opposite.’

Lucy shrugged. ‘Good and evil don’t make class distinctions.’

Briefly, Cora stared at nothing. ‘And no one looks out for them.’

‘Well … we try to.’

‘You think so? What happened to that bloke Walter Brown?’

‘Walter who?’

Cora relapsed into thought. ‘I didn’t know him very well. Gardener … but he had a drink problem. Lost his job, lost his flat. For a time, he was selling the Big Issue at the top of Langley Street. Then he went missing.’

‘I’m sorry, what?’

‘Used to see him every Wednesday lunchtime, when I went shopping,’ Cora said. ‘He was a nice man, when he was sober.’

‘What do you mean, “He went missing”?’

‘One week he just wasn’t there. A week later, there was a young girl selling it. I asked her what had happened to Walter. She said she didn’t know. They thought he’d just moved on. But he wouldn’t have moved on, I’ll tell you. He was a Crowley man. Been here all his life.’

‘And did no one report this disappearance?’ Lucy asked.

‘Like who? He didn’t have a family, didn’t have any friends.’

‘So, there’s no actual evidence that anything bad happened to him?’

‘No, but let’s be fair, Lucy … if I was to tell you this about a neighbour, someone who actually lived in a house and paid their taxes, I reckon the next thing you’d do as a police officer would be to knock on their door, to see what was what.’

Lucy mulled this over and was sad to admit that it was probably true.

Homelessness was a major story in Britain today, and rightly so given that it was a national disgrace. At one time, you’d only see those poor wretches in the forgotten backstreets of big cities, but now they were everywhere, right under society’s nose. And yet so few people even noticed them.

‘I’m sorry, love …’ Cora reached out and patted her daughter’s hand. ‘You’re a good police officer. It’s not your fault.’

Lucy didn’t reply. For a moment, all she could think about was Stan Beardmore’s comment the previous day: They’re just dogs … we’ve got a longer list of missing people who we haven’t got time to look for.

That ‘list’ comprised dozens of missing persons posters, each one depicting a grainy photograph of some poor individual – and there were all ages there, all races, all classes – who had dropped out of sight, never to be seen again. In many cases, it was so long ago that their posters had yellowed and curled. And it was the same story in police station foyers all over the UK.

And now they had more people vanishing from Lucy’s own streets, and yet it had taken a homeless heroin addict dressed as a nun, and an off-handed comment from her mother, to draw her attention to them.

‘No, it’s not our fault,’ Lucy agreed. ‘But maybe we can do a better job than we are doing.’