hers. Not that she was renowned for playing a totally straight bat, herself, she had to admit.
It was also a growing concern that she thought Harry might secretly be carrying a candle for her. She knew he was lonely and frustrated, and he was well aware that she too was a singleton. Though they enjoyed a productive working relationship, she’d several times caught him eyeing her approvingly when he thought she wasn’t looking. Not that Lucy was in any way tempted. Harry wasn’t unfanciable – he had a certain roughneck charm. But she had strict rules about mixing work and pleasure, much to her mum’s helpless fury.
‘Brew,’ she said. It wasn’t a question; she handed him a mug of tea, while still stirring her own.
‘Ta,’ he replied, distracted and flustered as he went through the details of the original arrest, noted in his pocketbook.
Lucy was quietly amused by that. Out on the street, he was as cool as they came – casually and confidently dealing with even the worst of the town’s yobs and criminals; a good man to have in a tight corner. But confront him with a wall of bureaucracy, and he became childlike in his ineptitude; face him with officialdom, and he lost all sense of who he was – grew nervous and frazzled.
Giving evidence in Court was never less than an ordeal for him.
The defendant that morning was a certain Darren Pringle, a repeat violent offender whom they both knew of old. Lucy didn’t think that Pringle had much chance on this occasion – he’d been charged with wounding, yet again. A habitually aggressive drunk, the previous August he’d come stumbling out of a Crowley pub, taken offence that a young chap was sitting at a nearby traffic light in a sports car, and with no provocation whatsoever, had walked around the vehicle, punched out its driver-side window and then punched out the driver, blacking his eye and splitting his eyebrow in the process. He’d then run for it, but Lucy and Harry, having taken various statements from onlookers and following a ‘vapour-trail’ of CCTV, had arrested him at his council flat the following morning, where they’d also seized his clothing, which had later proved to be covered with glass fragments and spatters of blood – both his own and the aggrieved party’s. It didn’t look good for him, but strange things happened in courtrooms.
They discussed the detail while they had their tea, and then traipsed upstairs to the lobby, where they had a quick conflab with the civvy witnesses and the brief from the CPS.
After that, they sat down on a bench to wait.
‘By the way,’ Harry said. ‘You know there’ve been a number of breaks on the Hatchwood?’
Lucy nodded. Hatchwood Green was one of the most deprived housing estates in the whole of Crowley Borough. Crime there was nothing new. But the recent spate of house burglaries had occurred at a remarkable rate, and a quick analysis of the various crime reports would reveal many similar characteristics between them.
‘Well … from today onward,’ Harry added, ‘that’s me and you.’
She glanced round with interest.
‘Stan’s had enough and wants it clearing up,’ he said.
Stan Beardmore was the divisional detective inspector at Robber’s Row, and Lucy and Harry’s immediate senior manager.
Before she could question him further on this, the clerk appeared and called Harry into Court. He stood up, straightened his loosely knotted tie and brushed down the lapels of his crumpled jacket.
‘Once I’m done, if I’m discharged I’ll head back to the nick and gather the intel,’ he said. ‘So we can hit the ground running.’
Lucy nodded, and waited. As she did, her phone rang.
‘DC Clayburn,’ she answered.
‘Lucy …?’
‘Morning, sir.’ She immediately recognised the gruff but friendly tone of Geoff Slater.
‘How the hell are you doing?’
‘Bumbling along, as they say.’
‘Nah!’ he laughed. ‘“Lucy Clayburn” and “bumble” can’t fit in the same sentence together. Thought you’d have your stripes by now.’
Lucy fleetingly pondered that. The mere fact she’d made detective was miracle enough; the possibility of being promoted to sergeant, even though in her mind at least she’d earned it many times over, seemed light years away. Slater of course, had no such millstones round his neck. When they’d last worked together, he’d been a detective inspector on the Serious Crimes Division. Now he was a detective chief-inspector, though he’d needed to accept a transfer back to his original stamping-ground of the Drugs Squad before any such honour had finally been conferred.
‘No way, boss … don’t think my face fits as well as yours.’
‘Bloody hell … if it was down to who’s got the best face, you’d be the Chief Con and I’d be deputy bog-brush.’
‘Flattery will get your everywhere, sir,’ she said, ‘as always. Especially when I’m after a favour.’
‘Shoot. Anything.’
‘You’ve got a case pending next spring at Manchester Crown … Regina v Ian Dyke.’
‘Oh yeah … that little shit.’ Slater chuckled darkly. ‘Courier for the Low Riders. Well, he’s gonna get what’s coming to him, I’ll tell you.’
‘Facing hard time, is he?’
‘With any luck. We’ve been trying to get into that lot for a while. We dropped lucky with Dyke. On his own he isn’t worth too much … we offered him the usual deal, but he wouldn’t bite. You know what bikers are like … they’re a tight crew. Anyway, like I say, he wouldn’t play, so he’s copping for the lot.’
That explained everything, Lucy realised. She already suspected that what Kyle Armstrong was really concerned about was whether Ian Dyke would try to make a deal and drop the entire chapter in it. But a promise was a promise, especially if it might pay off at some point.
‘I was just wondering,’ she said, not entirely comfortable with this, but persevering. ‘Well … if there was any way you might … well, go easy on him?’
There was a short but profound silence at the other end of the line.
‘Lucy … the trial date’s been set,’ Slater said. ‘April 3. And that was no small amount of gear we found on him.’
‘It’s just that it may be useful to one of my own enquiries.’
‘I can’t get the charges reduced at this stage, even if I was inclined to.’
‘Sir … you remember that really crappy job you gave me during Operation Clearway? Going undercover in that brothel over in Cheetham Hill?’
‘The job you lobbied me for, you mean?’ he said sternly.
‘Yeah, that one. And then remember how one of those bastards even threatened to blowtorch my nose off?’
‘Don’t try this on, Lucy …’
‘I’m
