Paul Finch - Strangers

‘Yeah, but that’s not an issue. You won’t have an investigative role.’

‘Okay, so let me see …’ Lucy’s brief thrill of interest rapidly deflated. She arched an eyebrow. ‘When you say you want young women, you mean you want secretaries to run the MIR?’

‘Erm … no.’ Nehwal cracked another smile, again minus humour. ‘The job you’ll be doing won’t be anything like as clean and safe as that.’

‘Decoys then? You want undercover decoy units?’

‘Well … you won’t be decoys as such. The killer’s not targeting women. But unfortunately, if you take this job it still means you’re going to be out there in your tarty gear, rubbing shoulders with the girls who work the roads.’

‘Covert enquiries?’

‘Basically. Hang around with them, talk to them, make friends. Collate as much intel as you can.’

‘Sounds like a pretty desperate ploy.’

‘No …’ Nehwal re-rolled the newspaper. ‘ This was a desperate ploy. Releasing that it’s a woman to the press. But the new footage means the time’s come to openly warn the travelling salesman crowd. So we’re not just in the papers, we’ll be on all the news bulletins too. Whether it works’ll be anyone’s guess. Some of these fellas couldn’t keep it in their pants if a one-eyed hunchback flashed her knockers at them. But basically you’re right … we’ve got to nip this thing in the bud right now.’

‘What’s the actual process going to be?’

‘Just what I say.’ Nehwal headed towards the park gate. ‘Start pretending you’re a hooker. You’ll each have a bodyguard, of course. We’re bringing a few Tactical Support Group lads in. A couple will be parked up covertly wherever you’re walking your pitch. Others’ll be driving round undercover. They’ll pick you up from time to time. Make it look like you’re working. But I’m not going to pretend it isn’t going to be a bag of crap. You’ll have nasty-piece-of-work johns to deal with, not to mention hostile pimps and aggressive suspicion from the real working girls. And a lot of the time you’ll have to deal on your own. We can’t have the TSG monkeys showing their hand for every little thing. It’s going to need to get very tasty indeed before we blow our cover. But you’ve done this sort of thing before, haven’t you?’

‘Ish,’ Lucy replied.

They reached the edge of the pavement. Rush-hour vehicles trundled back and forth in front of the towering Victorian façade of Robber’s Row.

‘Just don’t take too long making your mind up,’ Nehwal said. ‘We go live on Monday, and before then I’ve got to see twenty other girls.’

‘Any chance there’s a way back into CID for me, ma’am?’ Lucy wondered. ‘I mean if this thing comes off.’

Nehwal mused. ‘We never say “never”.’

‘They more or less said “never” when I fouled up last time.’

‘Jill the Ripper has changed every priority, PC Clayburn.’ Nehwal strode forward as a break opened in the traffic. ‘All bets are off from now on. Anything can happen.’

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?’