Lucy started forward across the road, praying that another car would come along, or some friendly neighbour step outside for a chat. Though what would they see if they did? A neighbour’s daughter whom they’d known all their lives? A potential house-buyer being shown around? Lucy could shout for help, of course, but her captor seemed to be reading her mind.

‘Quickly!’ she hissed as they walked up the drive. ‘And don’t open that pretty trap of yours, or it’ll be the last thing you ever do.’

This message was delivered with such harsh intensity, that Lucy had no doubt it was true.

‘I mean it, pig,’ the girl added, as they entered the garage alongside the Audi. ‘You’ve given us no choice. I’ll blow you the fuck away.’

If Lucy had harboured any doubt that she was onto the right team, it ended there.

You’ve given us no choice, the girl had said. Us. She and whoever else she was involved with really were playing for high stakes, and were so alert, so paranoid, that they’d immediately fingered a casual observer as law enforcement.

Lucy heard a click. With a slow, grating sound, the garage door levered downward behind them, closing off the daylight.

‘You know it was never part of our plan to kill a copper,’ the girl said. ‘And we could’ve killed one last night. We nearly did. We thought that might be the best way to cover our backs. But then we said, “Nah … they’re good lads. They work hard, they have families. We don’t want to hurt decent chaps like that.”’

With a resounding thud, the garage door closed.

The girl chuckled loudly. ‘Actually, no.’ Her voice became hard, scornful. ‘We didn’t even think anything like that. We just didn’t want you coming after us with everything you’ve got. But seeing as you’ve done that anyway, maybe we should’ve put a match to him, hey?’ She chuckled again. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, doll … we’ll certainly be putting a match to you.’

Chapter 37

Mick Shallicker found Frank McCracken on a bench on a lawn outside an open fire-exit at the rear of St Winifred’s. It wasn’t a particularly relaxing place; there were a few straggly flowerbeds, and then a car park, from which vehicles came and went constantly. And McCracken didn’t look particularly relaxed, perched stiffly with ruffled hair and a grizzled jaw, wearing only slippers, pyjama bottoms and an NHS-issue dressing gown draped over his bare shoulders to accommodate the sling and bandages.

‘I wondered when you were going to show up,’ he said sourly.

Shallicker stood there awkwardly. ‘Seems the Old Bill don’t consider you worth guarding any more.’

‘I suspect because I’m not actually giving them anything.’

‘You okay to be outside?’