Taking Liberties (Liberty Chapman) Page 12

  I sit with Crystal watching the hearse pull up outside. The coffin’s in the back, covered with white flowers. ‘Pretty,’ she whispers to me. I nod and put my arm around her tiny waist. She hardly eats, these days.

  I wonder what the funeral will be like. I’ve only ever been to one. There were prayers and singing and that. Afterwards we all went to the hall at the back of the church and had cups of tea and meat-paste sandwiches. I don’t really like meat paste as it goes.

  ‘What did she die of?’ Jay asks.

  ‘Spite,’ Dad replies, and flicks on the telly.

  I push Jay’s fringe out of his eyes. He needs a haircut. ‘Heart attack,’ I say. ‘She were very old.’ To be honest, I don’t know how old Mrs Cooper was. It’s like she’s been that age all my life. Grey hair, pinny, mouth permanently tucked around a cig.

  Dad turns up the sound. Mr Cooper will be able to hear every word through the wall. I wonder how he’ll get on now his wife’s gone. He’s a martyr to his knees and hardly leaves the flat. Maybe the council will put him in an old folks’ home.

  Mam comes into the room dressed head to toe in black. Black sequined top, tight black skirt and black fishnets.

  ‘Why the hell are you done up like that?’ Dad asks her.

  ‘I just thought . . .’

  ‘Well, think again,’ says Dad.

  A man gets out of the hearse. Like Mam, he’s dressed all in black, but unlike Mam, he doesn’t look like he’s out on the pull.

  ‘What’s that?’ asks Crystal, tapping her head.

  ‘A top hat,’ I say.

  ‘Come away from that window,’ Dad shouts.

  We do as we’re told and turn to the telly. The horse-racing’s on and Dad’s bobbing his head along as if he was riding one of them nags himself. When the winner goes past the post in a blur of green and yellow stripes, Dad snaps off the telly. ‘Back to school tomorrow, then?’ he asks.

  I’m shocked he’s remembered.

  ‘I bet you need new shoes,’ he says.

  I’m even more shocked by that so I just nod.

  Dad rubs his hands together. ‘Right, then, we’re off into town. New school shoes for the lot of you.’

  ‘Jim,’ says Mam. ‘We haven’t the money, love.’

  Dad shakes his head and points to the blank screen on the telly. ‘Arthur’s Boy, ten to bloody one.’ He laughs. ‘So new shoes all round.’ He turns to Mam. ‘But get changed first, for fuck’s sake, woman.’

  Liberty wiggled her toes under the table. The heat coupled with a hangover had made her head throb and her feet swell. She needed some breakfast.

  ‘Can I get you some tea or coffee?’ asked the waitress. She was young and fresh and pretty. Blonde hair impervious to the humidity that was building in the room.

  ‘Earl Grey,’ Liberty replied. ‘And iced water, please.’

  The girl scribbled on a pad with a red stump of pencil. ‘Glass of iced water.’

  ‘Not a glass,’ said Liberty. ‘A jug.’ She squeezed her shoes back on and headed to the buffet, lifting the lid of a hot tray. The fried eggs underneath looked like they had been parted from their pan some hours ago, yolks hard and orange. She replaced the lid and helped herself to a croissant and an individual box of Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes. When she turned to go back to her table, she saw a man sitting there. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I think you’ve made a mistake.’

  The man looked at her over his shoulder and scowled. ‘No mistake.’

  Liberty almost dropped her plate. It was Rance.

  ‘You don’t look pleased to see me,’ he said.

  Liberty pulled on her poker face and sat down. ‘Surprised, that’s all, Mr Rance.’

  ‘You knew I’d got out,’ he said.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And you knew I had to stay local.’

  ‘I did,’ she said again.

  ‘So where exactly did you think I’d go?’ He snapped a finger at the waitress, who came over. ‘Get me coffee and a full English.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a buffet, sir,’ said the waitress.

  Rance stared at her, letting his eyes move from her face, down her body to her feet, then back up again. ‘And I’m afraid I don’t do buffets.’

  ‘I’m sure I can sort something out,’ said Liberty, smiling apolo-getically. She went back to the buffet and loaded a plate with eggs, bacon, sausages and an unyielding slice of black pudding. Then she dumped a spoonful of beans on the side. ‘Here,’ she said, and slid the plate in front of Rance.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Is this what passes for food around here?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s better than you’ve had in the last few days,’ she replied.

  Rance didn’t answer but picked up one of the sausages, rolled it around between thumb and forefinger, then bit off the end. Liberty felt an acid lurch of nausea. ‘So how long have I got to stay here?’ he asked, pieces of pink meat caught in his teeth.

  ‘Just until Miss Clarke confirms her intention to drop the case.’

  Rance pushed the rest of the sausage into his mouth. ‘And how long will that take?’

  ‘I’m sure the police are chasing matters.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Rance sucked the grease from his fingers. ‘In the meantime we’re both stuck in this shithole.’

  In the hotel car park the pretty waitress was having a fag. Liberty pressed her car key and the Porsche beeped. ‘Nice motor,’ said the waitress.

  Liberty smiled. ‘Sorry about him in there. He’s a dick.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’ She took a last deep lungful and flicked the still-lit butt away. It landed on the tarmac in a spray of red sparks. ‘I’m only working here to save for an air ticket,’ she said. ‘That’s what I think about when I have to deal with wankers.’

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘Anywhere but here.’

  Liberty watched the girl go back inside and promised herself she’d leave a big tip tomorrow. In the meantime, she needed to find Daisy Clarke so she pulled out her mobile and sent a text to Jay, asking for her address. He pinged it straight back.

  * * *

  The Crosshills estate was even worse than Liberty remembered. When she’d lived there, more than thirty years ago, it had been a rough old place. Not that she’d thought too much about it. As a kid, she’d just accepted that lifts always smelt of piss and vomit, and gas sniffers sometimes collapsed in the walkways, their aerosols of choice peeping out of their dirty sleeves. Today it seemed like somewhere left to rot. Windows and doors kicked off, leaving gaps like missing teeth in a long-dead skull. She checked the address again and began to climb the stairs. By the third-floor landing, she was sweating.

  Briskly, she made her way along the walkway outside the flats, looking straight ahead. To her left was the barrier, and beyond that a long drop to the concrete below, but she didn’t let her eyes wander. Number 32A had a pale blue door, the lower half dented and scratched by what looked like shoes. Someone had kicked the door open and left it ajar. ‘Daisy,’ Liberty called, and pushed the door gently. ‘Daisy, are you in there?’

  No answer.

  She pushed the door fully open and peered inside. ‘It’s Liberty Chapman here. We met the other day at the Black Cherry.’

  The air inside was hot, still and silent. Dust motes danced in the columns of light. Liberty stepped inside. ‘I’m the solicitor, remember? I just want to ask you a couple more things.’ She padded quietly down the hallway and opened the door at the end. ‘I know you’re very keen to get this court case sorted.’

  It was a bedroom. Empty apart from a double bed and a pile of clothes on the floor. Liberty was now sweating so profusely she could smell herself.

  ‘Daisy?’ She left the bedroom and headed into what turned out to be a sitting room. ‘I’m just here to help make this whole thing go away.’

  ‘I bet you are.’

  Liberty’s heart leaped into her mouth and she spun round on her heels.

  Frankie never got up this
early. The light hurt his eyes even though he couldn’t open them properly and he was wearing shades. He had to stop caning it with Daisy. Last night, though, he’d needed to get out of it. Meeting Lib like that had been a complete headfuck. After all these years, there she was, standing in Jay’s kitchen, chatting with that boring wife of his like it was perfectly normal.

  ‘Is she staying around, then?’ Daisy had asked.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Do you want her to?’

  Frankie was too busy setting up another pipe to answer.

  That morning, he called a cab, got into the back and closed his eyes. A long time ago, he and Lib had been a ‘we’. Everything they did was based on it. It had seen them through. If Lib was back for good, could they be a ‘we’ again? Frankie lifted his sunglasses onto his forehead, thought better of it, put them back down. Jay had been happy to see Lib, cracking shit jokes, showing off. Crystal had said virtually fuck-all. But Crystal was sour and silent at the best of times. You couldn’t read anything into it.

  The cab pulled up beside a burned-out house, brickwork still blackened, metal plates affixed to the windows and doors. Why the fuck did people do business in places like this? What was the point? When this deal with Brixton Dave came off and people started coming to Frankie, he’d do the necessary out of one of the clubs. Beer and snatch on tap.

  The plan was simple. So simple that Frankie had to agree with Brixton Dave: absolute genius.

  Every Friday night, the Russians came to do the handover. Brixton Dave changed the location each time, texting them a couple of hours beforehand. ‘The Old Bill mostly leave us to it,’ he told Frankie. ‘But you never know when some new cunt’ll decide to make a name for himself by bringing down a player.’ He’d jerked a thumb at himself. ‘Well, not this one, son.’

  You had to hand it to him: he knew exactly what he was doing.

  ‘The Russians bring the gear and we bring the cash,’ said Dave. ‘Everyone goes on their way happy, or they did do until this crew started thinking they can call the shots. They know I ain’t none too pleased with what’s occurring so they’ll be watching us in case we make a move.’ He’d clapped Frankie on the back. ‘And while they’re watching us, they ain’t watching you.’

  Element of surprise was what was needed to get the job done. And those Russians were in for one massive surprise.

  Frankie got out of the cab and walked up the path to the house. The grass on either side was knee high, littered with dog shit and needles. As soon as he was at the door, a panel in the metal plate slid open. ‘What d’you want?’ asked a voice from inside.

  ‘I’m here to see Earl,’ Frankie replied. ‘He’s expecting me.’

  The metal panel swung shut with a clang, leaving Frankie standing out front in the heat. At last it opened again. ‘Come round the back,’ said the voice.

  Frankie walked around the side of the house, stepping over a used condom. When he was bang on it, he went to crack houses in worse states than this and literally gave no fucks. He had to stop doing that. First thing he needed to do was avoid Daisy the fucking Dog.

  The back door was also boarded up, but someone had swung it open and a boy of about fourteen stood in front of it, thinking he was the man in his box-fresh trainers. ‘Where’s Earl?’ Frankie asked.

  The lad looked at him like he was just another punter come to buy gear. Somebody needed to teach the kid a lesson or three, but before Frankie could get into it, Earl stuck his head out. ‘Frankie Greenwood,’ he said. ‘What brings you onto my patch?’

  ‘Business,’ Frankie replied.

  ‘Step into my office.’

  The inside of the house hadn’t been cleaned up much. The walls were still coated with soot, the acrid smell of burned plastic hanging over everything. Earl’s boys were in the old kitchen at the front, cooking up, serving up as and when, playing cards in between.

  Earl used the old lounge at the back. An armchair set up in the middle of the room, facing a flat screen and a stack of DVDs. A slasher movie was playing.

  ‘How’s it going, then, Frankie?’ Behind Earl on the telly, someone was peeling the skin off a skull, like it was a fucking banana. ‘I hear you’ve opened up a new club.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Frankie replied. ‘Can’t complain.’

  Earl went to the corner of the room and dragged a metal stool across the floor, placing it next to the armchair. Frankie sat on it, and Earl flopped into his armchair. They watched a doctor slice open someone’s stomach and put in both hands up to his wrists. ‘So, what do you want, Frankie?’ Earl asked. ‘I’m assuming you didn’t come up here for the shits and giggles.’

  ‘I need a couple of guns,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Why don’t you just ask Jay?’

  Frankie growled and Earl laughed. ‘Fine. When do you need them?

  ‘Later today.’

  ‘It’s gonna cost you.’

  ‘I know.’

  Liberty’s heart slowed a little when she saw it was Hassani who had followed her into Daisy Clarke’s house.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Hassani demanded.

  ‘I came to speak to Miss Clarke.’ Liberty opened her arms wide. ‘But evidently she’s not here.’

  ‘Why did you kick the door off?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Liberty replied. ‘That wasn’t me.’

  Hassani snorted, clearly not believing a word of it.

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Liberty lifted a foot and waggled the six-inch heel on her patent peep-toe shoe. ‘Do I look like I could have managed that?’

  Hassani stared hard. ‘Why are you so desperate for Daisy to drop this?’

  ‘I’m not desperate.’ Liberty swallowed. Every fibre of her being was desperate. Desperate to finish this job. Desperate to get Rance out of her hotel, out of her life. ‘I’m simply doing what’s right for my client.’

  Hassani shook her head. ‘And that includes coming to the victim’s home? Kicking her door down?’

  ‘That wasn’t me.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t.’ Hassani took a step towards Liberty. ‘I suggest you stop trying to track down this vulnerable young woman and go back to your swanky office in London where you belong.’

  A bubble of anger burst in Liberty’s chest. Who the hell did this copper think she was? ‘Are you threatening me?’ Liberty’s voice was cold.

  Hassani took another step. ‘Not a threat, a promise. If you don’t leave Daisy Clarke alone I will nick you.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous,’ Liberty said.

  Hassani moved so quickly, she was little more than a blur. Then each of Liberty’s arms were wrenched behind her, the pain in her shoulder-blades blinding. Hassani’s mouth was so close to Liberty’s ear, she could feel air and spit as she spoke. ‘Liberty Chapman, I am arresting you on suspicion of perverting the course of justice. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something you later wish to rely on in court.’ Hassani squeezed Liberty’s shoulder, sending a juddering pain through her body. ‘Do you understand?’

  Tears were streaming down Liberty’s face and her words came out through gritted teeth. ‘I want to call my lawyer.’

  ‘Does somebody want to tell me what the buggering hell’s going off here?’ asked Raj.

  Liberty had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  Raj entered the interview room where Liberty had been placed by the custody sergeant and grinned. ‘My new bezzie mate got herself nicked for perverting the course of justice. How could I resist?’ When he caught sight of the red welts circling Liberty’s wrists, his smile faded. ‘They never cuffed you?’

  Liberty rubbed the marks. The skin was sore, but nowhere near as painful as her shoulder-blades. ‘It was the policewoman from court,’ she said. ‘Hassani. She has seriously got it in for me.’

  Raj nodded. ‘That much is obvious, but I’ve got to ask what you were thinking of, going to Daisy Clarke’s house.’

/>   ‘I wanted to bring her to the station to make a statement,’ Liberty replied. ‘How is offering someone a lift perverting the course of justice?’

  Raj leaned back in his chair. His tie, an electric blue polyester monstrosity, fell to one side, following the curve of his ample belly. He fixed Liberty with rich brown eyes, but then the door opened and a young police officer came in. He was so young that the hair on his upper lip was still a fuzzy layer of down. ‘Custody sarge sent these,’ he said, putting two mugs of tea on the table.

  ‘Grand,’ Raj said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Liberty.

  The young man went pink, hovered for a second, then departed.

  Liberty picked up the mug and brought it to her lips. The tea was scalding, the steam rising to sting her face. She didn’t move it away.

  ‘Tea is a good sign,’ said Raj.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ Raj picked up his mug. ‘Most people get slung in a cell and left there until interview. This room, the tea, that’s special treatment right there.’

  Liberty took a sip of tea. It burned her tongue. She blew over the top of the mug and tried again. The tea was strong and milky and sugarless. Right now, this did not feel like special treatment. She put it down.

  ‘Of course, Hassani’s probably peed in it,’ said Raj.

  Liberty snorted a laugh and knocked her mug, spilling tea on the table. Raj laughed too, tea sloshing over the side of his. He rubbed ineffectually at the leg of his trousers, but a dark patch was already spreading.

  ‘I know I probably shouldn’t have gone to Daisy’s house,’ said Liberty. ‘But I’m used to getting things done, you know?’

  Raj laughed again. ‘No messing about with you, eh?’

  Liberty ran her finger through the splash of tea and wrote the letter L across the plastic. A long time ago she’d changed from being a person who had things done to her to a person who got things done. A line had been drawn, dividing her life into before and after.