Lauren nodded and sniffled. ‘That was what Mum said. She was worried sick by it. I mean, there were wars kicking off everywhere. But Genene thought it was a good idea. She said it wasn’t as dangerous as the route I’d been following in Chapeltown. Anyway, me and Genene … we still didn’t see eye to eye on stuff. I almost rejected the idea because she supported it, but thankfully, in the end, I didn’t. The army was the first bunch I’d ever met who weren’t concerned that I didn’t have any grades. They said they’d train me, and not just to fight. They’d find out which disciplines I had an aptitude for, and educate me appropriately. They said I’d come out better equipped to make a go of it on civvy street than most university leavers did …’
‘Good bit of blarney, if nothing else.’
‘They needed bodies, didn’t they?’ she said. ‘They were off to war. Anyway … despite that, things went well. Suddenly I had a career, money, prospects.’ Fresh moisture glinted in her eyes. ‘And all because of Genene, who I never once thanked. Christ … Heck, I’d got into some bad habits during my dumb days. One of them was always assuming there’d be time to do things later. You know what I mean? Anything difficult or awkward; anything you don’t really want to face up to. You keep putting it off because there’ll be time for it later. Except … there might not be.’ Briefly she couldn’t speak. More hot tears dripped onto her breasts. ‘Isn’t there …’ She struggled to get the words out. ‘Isn’t there anything you can say … about Genene, I mean? About where she is, what might have happened to her? It was bad enough when I thought some pervert had grabbed her, but now … the idea that it’s more than one pervert, maybe a bunch of them, who specialise in grabbing women, for God knows what purpose! I mean … come on, Heck, tell me something … You’re a copper!’
Heck wanted to put his arm around her shoulders, but felt it would be inappropriate. What they’d just done together had been too quick and functional to entitle him to behave like a boyfriend. Besides, she was seeking comfort, and he had none to give. To most folk, Genene Wraxford was nothing more now than a tattered, peeling face clinging to a few rain-soaked lampposts, and most likely that was all she’d ever be.
‘Lauren … this is the reality of crime,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s not about Robin Hood, or rebels without a cause, or likeable rogues. It’s about evil actions destroying innocent lives. And all we can do as police officers is react to it. Clean up the mess any way we can, wishing as much as everyone else that we’d been there in time to prevent it. I don’t know where Genene is or what happened to her. But I’ve got to be honest with you, it’s not good. She’s been missing a long time, love.’
Again Lauren mopped her tears away, frowning, the young street-tough trying to reassert herself. ‘Why couldn’t it have happened to me, eh? I could have dealt with it. Poor Genene wouldn’t have had the first clue.’
Heck didn’t bother to mention that few, if any, dealt easily with the onslaught of typical urban predators.
She blew her nose, and then, unexpectedly, said: ‘You need to be a lot nicer to your sister, Heck. I don’t know what happened between you two in the past. But if you intend to make up with her – and I reckon you do, because you don’t strike me as the sort of bloke who carries a grudge forever – you’d better get a move on. One of these days, all of a sudden, she’s not going to be there anymore.’
She reclined onto the pillow and rolled over, turning her back to him. ‘For the record, I’m pissed off as hell that you’ve seen me in this state. Bet you were thinking: “She’s alright, this one. But no, hang on … she’s just a soppy girl after all.”’
‘You think I don’t cry?’ Heck replied.
‘Not in front of anyone else, I bet.’
‘Only because it’s a long time since there’s been anyone else.’
‘Well don’t break down on us yet.’ She sniffled again. ‘You’ve got some cases to solve.’
Heck sat up for several minutes after she’d gone back to sleep, pondering her final comments. In truth, he didn’t know which prospect he found more onerous – the increasingly dark road along which this investigation was taking him, or the road to reconciliation with his sister.
Frank Ogburn only opened his bruised, swollen eyes because someone dashed ice-cold water into them. Even then, the anaesthetic was wearing off at its own ponderous pace, so he remained muzzy and nauseous. He knew vaguely that he was supposed to be in hospital, but for some reason the comfortable bed they’d rolled him into several hours ago had been replaced by a crude, wooden frame, which enclosed him tightly from all sides. The warmth of the hospital had also gone; instead, the air was cold, damp and reeked of oil.
‘Francis James Ogburn,’ said a voice he didn’t recognise. ‘Landlord of the Dog & Butcher no less.’
‘What …?’ Ogburn felt incredibly weak; his lips dry and sticky. He gasped aloud as a slight adjustment of his posture sent a strap of intense, fiery pain across his middle. ‘Where … please, where am I?’
‘Also known as “Frankie”, “Franny”, “Oggy” and “Toady”,’ the voice said. ‘Toady? Can’t think why they call you that, a good-looking bonehead like you.’
Ogburn blinked hard. His eyes hurt and his vision was unfocused, but a clutch of dark figures seemed to be leaning over him; several standing, one kneeling. Bright lights shone down from high above. He had the impression of a skeletal framework, maybe scaffolding, towering behind them.
Again he tried to move; again the pain across his midriff transfixed him. ‘’Kin ’ell! … where … where the … the fuck am I?’
‘One thing at a time, Toady, one thing at a time.’
Ogburn had never heard that voice before. He’d never been likely to, spending most of his life in the rougher neighbourhoods of Salford. It was rich and resonant; sounded educated – like someone on television, which for some reason frightened him as well as baffled him. He tried his damnedest to visualise his captors. None of their features were remotely distinguishable … Good God, were they masked? He was so alarmed by this that he barely noticed when the one kneeling placed something heavy on his lower legs.
‘Looks like someone gave you a real kicking, Toady,’ the voice said. Ogburn fancied it belonged to the figure in the middle; whoever he was, he appeared to be leaning on a walking stick. The pain in Ogburn’s midriff was intensifying meanwhile, as was the pain in his lower legs – whatever weight had been placed there had sharp, angular edges.
‘Some … some bastards in the pub yesterday,’ he gasped. ‘Weird … one had a knife, but … I think the other might’ve been a copper …’
‘Coppers, eh?’ The man with the stick tut-tutted. ‘You just can’t trust them. There you are, an ordinary criminal going about your everyday unlawful business, and some bloody copper comes and …’
‘I’m not a criminal!’ Ogburn blurted, but the pain made him choke.
‘There you are,’ the walking stick man said, as if the interruption had never occurred, ‘going about your everyday unlawful business, pretending you run a pub but all the time fencing stolen goods …’
‘I’ve not been fencing for ages, I swear! Oh Christ, it hurts …’
‘Funny that. We heard you were Ron O’Hoorigan’s fence.’
‘Ron who?’
A second weight was placed on Ogburn’s legs, this time across his knees – though this one was dropped rather than placed. Again it was angled, sharp-edged, and terribly heavy. With a sobering shock, Ogburn realised that it was a breezeblock. It was even more of