Paul Finch - Stolen

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.