Shadows

‘So, let me see,’ he said, biting down on his fear – this was only going to end one way, so the best he could do now was try to affect some kind of damage limitation. ‘I’ve got to source my own product, pay the advance on it, arrange importation, storage, security, distribution, delivery … with no input from you whatsoever, and you still get paid? Is that correct?’

The man who had to be Frank McCracken sat back. ‘You make it sound like you don’t win.’

‘It depends how much.’

McCracken made a show of thinking this through – for about two seconds. ‘I reckon sixty/forty’s a fair split, to be honest.’

‘Sixty/forty?’ It could have been worse, Lazenby supposed.

‘In our favour, of course.’

‘In your favour …?’

‘You sound doubtful, which I suppose is understandable.’ McCracken thought it through, again. ‘So, let’s make it seventy/thirty. Until we get to know each other better. Oh, and we’ll take our first payment from the two hundred-thou you’ve pulled in so far this year.’

‘This … this …’ Lazenby struggled to suppress his helpless rage. ‘This always the way you do business?’

‘Not at all. We’d normally be having this conversation out back. But out of respect for your status, I thought we’d do it differently today.’

‘And I suppose if I say “no”, those gloves will come off, will they?’

McCracken shrugged. ‘No rush for that. But anything can happen.’

‘I could’ve been a good friend to you.’

‘You still will be, I’m sure.’

‘You reckon?’

‘You live off Mulberry Crescent, don’t you? Nice part of Crowley, that.’

Lazenby didn’t suppose he should be surprised that they knew where he lived. He said nothing, however, neither confirming nor denying it.

‘Not as nice as Carrwood in Altrincham, mind you,’ the gangster added. ‘Or Bromley Cross in Bolton, or Worsley in Salford, or Ellesmere Park, or Hale, or Timperley …’

Neither, Lazenby supposed, should he be surprised that they knew his main sales areas.

‘Nice places,’ McCracken mused. ‘Tree-lined streets, green lawns at the front of every house, couple of cars on each drive.’ Suddenly, there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘Be a real shame if things changed. You know, if the yobbos turned up … and the crackheads, and the gangbangers, and the boy-racers. Looking to party every night up and down those quiet streets. The residents would call the fuzz of course. Probably again and again. I mean, they’re not used to that kind of disorderly conduct. But is that really what you want, Joe?’

‘And let me guess … if I pay my taxes, none of that happens?’

McCracken finished his drink and stood up. ‘There are no guarantees in this line of work. But if I was you, I’d hedge my bets. I mean, you may be a refined kind of guy, you may live in a detached house and mix with culturally correct people, but I reckon you’re a gambler too. I’m sure you know a safe option when you see one.’

He edged around the table, to leave.

‘I’ll think about it,’ Lazenby said.

‘No, you won’t.’ McCracken backed towards the cocktail lounge door, still smiling. ‘You’re not that stupid.’

Chapter 7

Detective Inspector Stan Beardmore was a short, squat chap in his mid-fifties. He had snow-white hair, which he always kept close-cut, and was habitually clean-shaven and well-groomed, though this tended to clash with his shabby tweed jackets; he had a brown one and a green one, and he alternated them on a weekly basis – even though both had seen better days, with frayed cuffs and leather-patched elbows. He was a good boss, though. Lucy had quickly come to realise that his affable nature masked a sharp mind and years of experience. On top of that, rather than being a stickler for paperwork or procedure, he was trusting of his detectives and encouraged independence of thought.

On this occasion, however, he seemed a tad dubious.

He sat behind his desk in his own office, an annex to the DO, and leafed through the pile of print-outs that Lucy had handed him. For the most part, these were selected extracts from the policy file of the Major Investigation Team down at West Midlands CID, mainly crime-scene reports and glossies, witness statements (for what they were worth, which wasn’t much), several e-fits, and a detailed psychological profile, as prepared by a forensic psychologist.

‘So, West Mids were happy to share?’ Beardmore flipped pages but only really skimmed what they contained.

‘Think they’re keen to wrap this thing up,’ Lucy replied. ‘Any help GMP can give them and all that.’

‘And what exactly do we know about this Creep fella?’

‘According to the notes, he’s a biggish bloke. About six-one, six-two, heavy build. The psyche profile makes him a young-to-middle aged male, most likely white, probably out of work or in low-paid employment.’

‘No kidding.’ Beardmore turned one of the e-fits around; it depicted a pale moonlike face under a heavy hood, with tiny, narrow eyes, a near non-existent nose and a jack-o’-lantern grin which split the visage from ear to ear. ‘Thought they’d be queuing up to recruit this fella.’

‘I spoke to a DS Broadhurst, who’s Document Reader in the West Mids MIR,’ Lucy replied. ‘He says they reckon this Creep business is a bit contrived. The manic grin, the sword … it’s his theory that they could be looking for someone a bit more stable than that suggests.’

‘Someone who’s capable of putting an act on?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And if that’s the case, why do we assume he’s going to reoffend while he’s on his holidays up here?’

Lucy paused before responding. She’d been through all the November Division crime reports taken that last week, and though there was the usual quota of assaults and street robberies, none were like-for-like with the attacks in the West Midlands. As such, with no actual crime for Crowley CID to investigate, she was now proposing that they put some spotters on the street at night in anticipation; maybe even use decoys. If the Creep’s past form was anything to go by, he’d commit his offences in proximity to town centre cashpoints. Lucy had even produced a map of central Crowley and had earmarked certain hotspots they could prioritise.

‘In answer to your question, boss,’ she said, ‘we don’t know whether he’ll reoffend while he’s here, or not. But just because the psyche evaluation suggests he’s an organised offender, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have mental problems. It also, see …’ she indicated a particular paragraph, which she’d underlined with red biro, ‘… it proposes the possibility that, whoever he is, he’s suffering from Antisocial Personality Disorder.’

‘So, he’s a sociopath. There’s a surprise.’

‘At the very least he’s a sociopath, I’d say. Look at this section.’ She read aloud: ‘“The offender demonstrates a considerable degree of delusion. For example, taking precautions to avoid identification but at the same time not realising that such a distinctive and exaggerated MO will in itself narrow his chances of remaining at liberty. The same conclusion may be drawn from his chosen attack-zones, the vicinities around cash machines, which any ordinary thief would surely expect to be progressively more heavily policed. Highly likely, the offender knows right from wrong, and is thus able to function normally when it pleases him, which will be most of the time. However, there are clear indications that when his desire to inflict violence becomes overwhelming, there is little to hold him back.”’

Beardmore looked to be lost in thought.

‘In other words,’ Lucy said, ‘it’s quite possible that when he slips back into this deluded state, whether he’s down in Brum or up here in Crowley, he’ll go straight back to work, as Jerry McGlaglen calls it.’

‘That McGlaglen’s an oddball. Are we sure he’s given us everything on this he’s got?’

‘Well … we’re never sure of that, are we.’

‘He’s grassed for us a few times, hasn’t he?’

‘Been good as gold up till now.’

Beardmore eyed her carefully. ‘What does Harry Jepson think?’

She shrugged. As Jerry McGlaglen’s joint handler, Lucy had spoken about it to Harry on the phone, but in truth he hadn’t been especially interested, pointing out in his usual frustrated way that they had more than enough work to be getting on with already.

‘He thinks it sounds promising,’ she lied, feeling certain she could pull Harry along.

‘Well …’ Beardmore planted both hands on the spillage of paper in front of him. ‘I can see you’ve done quite a bit of spadework on this, Lucy. An impressive amount, given the short time you’ve had available.’ He arched a busy white eyebrow. ‘But I can’t help wondering what it’s got to do with the burglaries I assigned you and Harry to look into on Hatchwood Green?’

Her cheeks coloured, but she’d been expecting this. ‘Harry’s still over there.’

‘I wanted both of you over there.’

‘I’ll be going there soon … I just thought you’d want this bringing to your attention.’

‘Hmm.’ He pondered. And then sighed. ‘Crowley CID certainly hasn’t got the time or resources to mount a surveillance on every cashpoint in town on the off-chance this nutcase breaks his cover. But … DI Blake may be a different story.’

‘DI Blake?’ Lucy was a little surprised. ‘You mean the Robbery Squad?’

‘Why not?’ Beardmore scrabbled the various documents and photographs together. ‘They’re in trouble, aren’t they? Could be just what they need, this, a big case to get their teeth into. A result wouldn’t do them any harm, either.’

No, Lucy thought to herself, somewhat ruefully. Nor me.

Chapter 8

Crowley Robbery were a branch of Greater Manchester Police’s Serious Crimes Division, and were formerly the Manchester Robbery Squad, whose original purpose was to investigate commercial armed robberies across the whole of the Greater Manchester area. However, the current age of cascading budget cuts had seen them reduced significantly in size and divided into smaller units which were now allocated to GMP’s various divisions. Highly likely even that wasn’t the end of it; as Beardmore had alluded to, with police expenditure still being slashed across the board, talk was rife that Crowley Robbery – like Salford Robbery, Rochdale Robbery, South Manchester Robbery and so forth – were luxuries that local law enforcement could not really afford, at least not currently.

Despite this, Crowley Robbery – or ‘Robbery Squad’ as they were still referred to in rank-and-file parlance – were highly valued by most CID officers, who saw them as an elite outfit. Headed up by the highly decorated Detective Inspector Kathy Blake and, in the short time they’d been operating from out of Robber’s Row, already responsible for taking down a number of high-profile blaggers, Lucy in particular had been fascinated that the fabled bunch of thief-takers were suddenly working only a couple of floors overhead.

Not that she wasn’t nervous in their presence, even with Beardmore by her side.

Though she’d passed various Squad members in the station corridors and the canteen, this was the first time she’d been up close to them, particularly to their mythical leader, whose desk she and Beardmore now stood in front of, though she also felt vaguely surprised. Lucy had half been expecting a policewoman with DI Blake’s reputation to be a real hard-bitten toughie. But in fact, she was attractive and looked rather refined. She was also surprisingly young. Lucy was thirty-one, but she doubted DI Blake was more than a year older than her, if that. In addition, she was short – perhaps no more than five-six, whereas Lucy was five-eight. She had long, honey-blonde hair, which she wore in a ponytail, and was ‘peaches and cream’ pretty, with a dusting of freckles and intense green eyes. In fact, DI Blake’s unblinking, laser-like gaze was something Lucy had heard about before; even the most rugged customers were said to have struggled to meet it during interrogation.

However, that intense gaze was now directed downward as she rifled through the heap of documentation that Stan Beardmore had brought up from CID.

Lucy glanced around the Robbery Squad office, while she waited. It was a big room, which had been put to lots of different uses in the past, but currently was cluttered with desks, tables, filing cabinets, VDUs and whiteboards covered in scribble, its walls adorned with paperwork and pictures. One thing she noticed in particular was an entire section of room that appeared to have been cordoned off with workbenches. Two detectives were currently in conflab there, discussing a series of blown-up CCTV screen-grabs pasted onto a Perspex screen and apparently depicting an armed robbery in progress: two figures in khaki fatigues and stocking masks were unloading money bags from a G4S security van on a shopping centre forecourt. The security staff lay face down, and were covered by two other masked figures, one wielding a pickaxe handle, the other a sawn-off shotgun.

DI Blake’s desk was at the opposite end of the room from this, set against the wall, to an extent lost among the desks belonging to the bulk of the lower ranks, and certainly no larger or grander. However, one thing that was different was the wall behind it, on which a series of large square photographs had been pasted in seven orderly rows. Each one depicted a face, the bulk of them ugly and brutish – clearly the headshots of known criminals, one or two of whom Lucy thought she recognised straight away – but approximately half of them defaced by a big red X, which had been drawn in vivid marker-pen, and with some vigour.

It fleetingly distracted Lucy from DI Blake herself. But not for long. While most of her team wore casual gear – jeans, sweat-tops, trainers and the like – the DI was almost formally attired in a neat grey skirt-suit, pearl blouse and heels. She tapped her pen on the desk as she checked through the last few pages that Beardmore had supplied her with.

‘Do you trust your informant, DC Clayburn?’ she suddenly asked.

‘I suppose so, ma’am,’ Lucy replied.

‘He’s no track record for giving you duff intel?’ Blake wondered.

‘Not so far. This one’s thin on detail though, I must admit.’

‘Well …’ Blake had another long think, ‘technically, these are robberies and that puts them in our ballpark.’ She glanced at Beardmore. ‘I think we can run with this for a couple of weeks, Stan. But we haven’t got the resources to cover every cashpoint in the borough.’

‘I anticipated that, ma’am,’ Lucy said, unfolding another sheet of paper, this one a street-map of central Crowley. ‘That’s why I suggest we focus on these particular cashpoints here.’ She spread it on the desk, indicating ten separate locations which she had marked with biro crosses.

DI Blake stood up to assess it properly.

‘Ten of them,’ she said. ‘Only ten?’

‘I guessed we’d have to concentrate our resources to a degree,’ Lucy explained. ‘So, these, to me, will be his most likely targets. I’ve chosen them on the basis that he’ll do his research. He’ll have to – he’s a stranger in town, or at least he’s not a resident, so he’s not going to be overly familiar with the layout.’

She glanced at Beardmore, who remained studiedly indifferent. She could imagine that he wasn’t best pleased at the amount of attention she’d clearly been paying to this particular case, when she was supposed to be concentrating on something else. On the other hand, he ought to be a little proud that she was now demonstrating to the head of a specialist unit just how thorough and professional his own divisional officers could be.

‘Go on,’ Blake said. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Well … all of these work in his favour, ma’am,’ Lucy said. ‘They’re all in areas extensively covered by CCTV, but he’s got a hood. And the fact it’s a mucky October means he can walk the streets with his hood drawn up and not attract any attention. So, he’s got that base covered. In addition, they’re all out in the open.’ She moved her index finger from one point to the next. ‘A high street, a junction with traffic lights, the edge of the market square …’

‘And that’s an advantage to him?’ one of Blake’s underlings asked.

Detective Sergeant Danny Tucker had been summoned over to join them by Blake as soon as she’d learned about the case. Lucy had spotted him walking around the station before, but hadn’t really known who he was. This was the first time they’d been up close together, let alone had spoken. It was perhaps a minor distraction that Danny Tucker was just about the best-looking guy Lucy had seen in the job for quite some time. Of West Indian extraction, but by the sounds of it born right here in Manchester, he was tall, about six-three, with hair cut short and an athlete’s build, which was visible even through his figure-hugging polo-neck sweater. He had a square jaw, high, strong cheekbones, and bright, intelligent eyes.

‘Well, yeah,’ Lucy said. ‘He attacks late at night, and not many people are likely to go out to a cashpoint late at night unless they feel relatively safe. These particular cashpoints, because they’re out in the open, will probably be deemed safer than most.’

‘So, if he hangs around these, there’s basically more chance he’ll get lucky,’ Blake said.

‘That’s my reading of it, ma’am, yes.’ Lucy’s finger roved further across the street map. ‘These points also benefit from having getaway routes everywhere. A side passage through to a pedestrianised shopping mall, from where there are half a dozen other points of egress. A subway … An overpass that leads to a housing estate. Plus, and this could be very important, they’re all in close proximity to free on-street parking.’

‘You think he’s mobile?’ Blake said.

Lucy shook her head. ‘I don’t know, ma’am. You dress up like a lunatic, pick someone at random, cut them down with a sword and just run off into the night, in most cases leaving them alive to shout for help … you’d normally be asking for trouble. I mean that wouldn’t just draw attention to the scene of the crime, but to you and to whichever route you’ve used to get away. That would normally be the trademark of a disorganised attacker who’s doomed to get nicked pretty quickly. Unless, as we’ve already said, it’s a part of an act, the purpose of which is to conceal the fact he’s actually a very organised offender indeed. I mean, while the cops are running around looking for a grinning maniac, he’s removed his disguise and miraculously become an ordinary citizen again, happily driving home to his house in the suburbs … or something like that.’

Blake contemplated this.

‘Of course, he’s not going to leave his motor on an actual car park,’ Lucy added. ‘I mean, they’re covered much more intensively by security cameras than on-street, and that would reveal his VRM.’

‘You’ve really done your homework on this, haven’t you?’

Lucy shrugged modestly.

Blake sat back on her swivel-chair to chink. ‘DC Clayburn? Aren’t you the lass who arrested Timothy Lennox? Cleared up a whole bunch of historical murders?’

‘That’s right, ma’am. Last winter.’

‘Good collar, that. You also led the undercover op that brought down the Twisted Sisters over in Longsight, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t lead the op, ma’am.’

‘She was a leading light in it,’ Beardmore grunted. ‘They couldn’t have done it without her.’

Blake chewed on her pen. ‘Have you ever thought about coming to work for me in Robbery Squad?’

Beardmore pointedly harrumphed – a message Lucy received loud and clear.

‘It’s certainly something I’d be interested in, ma’am,’ she said. ‘But well, I’ve got quite a bit of work on in CID at the mo.’

Blake shrugged. ‘We haven’t got any vacancies at present, anyway. But if something comes up, I’ll get Danny here to give you a shout, so you can get your application in early.’

‘I will, ma’am. Thank you.’

‘Okay.’ Blake shuffled the paperwork. ‘Leave this lot with me. I’ll keep you informed.’

Lucy nodded and smiled, and as she left the office, walking side by side with Beardmore, felt completely re-energised. It was always a thrill to think you’d made an impact on someone who counted.

But they were only halfway down the stairs, when Beardmore said: ‘Don’t get any ideas about that. Robbery Squad are an effective unit, but you know what things are like. One day the money’s there, the next it isn’t. Friday night, they lock up a load of blaggers. Saturday night, they celebrate it. Monday morning, they’ve all been shunted back to Division.’

Lucy wasn’t sure how to respond, but she knew that he was right.

‘Hey, Lucy!’ someone called down from the top of the stairs.

They turned and saw Danny Tucker descending.

‘Sarge?’ she replied.

‘Quick word?’ he asked.

Taking the hint, Beardmore turned and continued down. ‘Just remember, the jobs are piling up,’ he said over his shoulder.

Lucy turned back to Tucker, who grinned, displaying a neat row of pearly whites.

‘This is good stuff you’ve brought us,’ he said. ‘Thanks very much.’

Unsure how to reply, she nodded.

‘We’re actually working a big case at present,’ he said.

‘Yeah, I saw the pics. That’s the Saturday Street Gang, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, you heard about that?’

‘How could I not? Seven cash-in-transit robberies in two months. But I didn’t know Saturday Street had done any jobs on the N.’

‘Well … they haven’t,’ Tucker admitted. ‘But when we were still the Manchester Robbery Squad, our unit was getting very close to them. It only seemed reasonable we should continue the enquiry after they broke us up. It’d be a feather in our cap if we could pull those bastards in. But it’s the same with this case you’ve brought us. I mean, we’re busy … but we can never be too busy at present, if you know what I mean. Got to justify our existence somehow. Anyway …’ Fleetingly, he seemed awkward, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to say next. ‘You’ve done a lot of groundwork for us here. This is great, so thanks very much for that. I’ll keep you clued in, let you know how we get on.’

‘Thanks, sarge.’ Lucy couldn’t help wondering why he’d come downstairs to repeat DI Blake’s promise.

‘Hey, listen …’ He smiled again, which he seemed to do a lot – and why not, it was far from unattractive. ‘This is Robbery Squad. We don’t do titles. Call me “Danny”.’

‘I will … thanks.’

He headed back upstairs. Lucy watched him go for a teensy bit longer than she perhaps normally would, before turning and walking on down to CID.

Chapter 9

Ordinary Joe Lazenby didn’t particularly want to go home that evening.

Immediately after the incident in Hogarth’s Cocktail Lounge, he drove aimlessly around the town for perhaps an hour. All along of course, he’d known that there were higher powers in this world he’d infiltrated. Yet, things had gone so smoothly for so long that he’d begun to feel, perhaps not invincible, but certainly a master of his own destiny. During the working day, he headed up a relatively lowly admin department at Crowley Technical College. He earned a reasonable wage from it, and he was treated with civility and taken fairly seriously by the academics on campus, even if in truth he suspected that they thought him a jumped-up little jobsworth who was no more than a glorified paper-pusher. But he made an okay living. He owned a large detached house on Coxcombe Avenue, which was on the Cotely Barn estate on the edge of Crowley golf course, an affluent part of town; he drove a decent enough motor – a metallic beige Ford Galaxy; and he and his family went on a nice holiday once a year – cruising was the in-thing currently, and they’d so far done the Western Med, the Eastern Med, the Caribbean and next August they were looking forward to doing the Norwegian fjords. On the surface, everything was hunky-dory.

But in actual fact, this commonplaceness was the problem.