Taking Liberties (Liberty Chapman) Page 3

  As they came alongside the table, the man jumped to his feet. He was a foot shorter than Liberty, but he stretched out his arms to block their way.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a second, Dave,’ said Raj, pushing past him, his voice absurdly calm.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’ the man asked.

  His voice was soft, with a feminine quality. Liberty remembered that the papers had called it ‘camp’, but that wasn’t quite right. They’d also reported that the victims had been dismembered, their legs found in a chest freezer alongside numerous bags of peas and sweetcorn, by a constable who had been in the job only a week. Sadly, the papers had got that bit right.

  ‘Where are your manners, Raj?’ Each word distinct, clear, like a staccato note from a flute. ‘This isn’t like you at all.’

  Raj steered Liberty to an empty table at the far side of the hall. ‘Don’t look back. Sit facing away from him.’ He pressed her into a chair. ‘You don’t want someone like that messing with your head. All right?’

  She smiled weakly and he winked at her.

  ‘Oh, Ra-aj,’ Dave’s voice sang out.

  ‘Another day in Paradise.’ Raj squeezed her shoulder and headed back to his client.

  Liberty concentrated on breathing and placed her paperwork in two piles on the table in front of her. She aligned them perfectly as she tried to steady the ragged edges of each lungful of air. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She laid her pen horizontally, two centimetres from the first pile, pen tip and top right-hand corner of the piece of paper in line. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

  ‘Liberty Chapman?’

  Liberty’s head snapped up involuntarily at the sound of her name. Standing at the table was a man in his early twenties, gymdefined, hair artfully highlighted, skin a Riviera-yacht golden tan.

  ‘Mr Rance?’ Liberty jumped to her feet and held out her hand. ‘How do you do?’

  Rance’s handshake was cold and limp. He sneered at her, exposing even teeth that clearly spent every night in a bleaching tray. She was about to suggest he take a seat, when Rance plonked himself down with a thud. He wiped his nose along the inside of his palm with long slow strokes from the base of his middle finger to his wrist.

  ‘As you know I’m from—’

  ‘I shouldn’t be here.’ Rance held up his palm to silence her. A thin slug trail of snot glistened at her. ‘You know that, right?’

  ‘I’m sure we can resolve this problem in a timely fashion,’ Liberty replied.

  ‘Do you know what sort of people are in here?’ Rance demanded.

  Liberty did know. She could hear them all around her. She could smell them. Hell, she could taste their livery sweetness at the back of her tongue.

  ‘You need to go and find the silly cow that stitched me up,’ said Rance. ‘Do whatever it takes.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Pay whatever needs to be paid. Just get her to admit that she’s lying.’

  ‘I don’t think it works—’

  Rance thumped the table, knocking Liberty’s pen out of place. ‘Everything works like that. You’re a lawyer – you charge enough to understand how things are. She’s lying and you need to prove it.’

  Liberty rearranged her pen at the head of her client’s charge sheet.

  Case Number : 1670A201

  Regina

  V

  Renton Rance

  On 22 July 2015 the above-named person, Renton Rance, was charged with:

  1. Indecent Assault contrary to s14(1) and s15(1) Sexual Offences Act 1956

  2. Assault occasioning actual bodily harm contrary to s47 Offences Against the Person Act 1861.

  A very rich boy had attacked a very poor girl and now he thought he could buy his way out of trouble.

  ‘You have to get me out of here,’ said Rance. ‘Find the girl.’

  As soon as Sol got out of the hospital, he pulled out his e-cig. The wife had bought him a load of flavoured cartridges for it and he was working his way through them. Today’s offering was Red Berries and it was rank.

  ‘Who pissed on your chips?’

  Sol looked up and smiled. Daisy Clarke was a lap-dancer and prostitute he’d come across during half a dozen raids. Lots of his colleagues in the Vice Squad didn’t have time for the girls, thought of them as little more than meat. But didn’t that make them as bad as the men they were trying to put away? ‘That’s a nice shiner, you’ve got yourself,’ Sol said.

  Daisy’s fingers gently tapped a black eye, the top lid twice its normal size, a purple and green bruise underneath. ‘And look at this.’ She pulled down the front of her top to reveal infected toothmarks. ‘Bastard.’

  ‘I hope you’ve made a statement,’ said Sol.

  ‘Yeah.’ Daisy pulled out a packet of Marlboro and lit up. ‘He’s banged up.’

  Sol watched her sucking at the fag, blowing grey smoke from the corner of her mouth. ‘Give us one of those, Daisy, love.’

  The girl cackled and handed him the packet. ‘I thought it was meant to be us lot that ponced ciggies off you lot.’

  ‘You probably earn more than I do,’ he said. ‘And I know I pay more tax.’

  Daisy smacked him playfully on the shoulder, watching him with a smile as he lit up. ‘Gotta go, Sol. I need some antibiotics or something for this.’ She waved vaguely at the bite mark. ‘It’s fucking minging.’

  He nodded at her and lifted his cigarette in thanks. A delicious cloud of heat and chemicals filled his lungs and, not for the first time, he thanked the god of nicotine. As he watched her go, he had a thought and called after her, ‘Hey, Daisy, you know Kyla Anderson?’

  ‘Course I do,’ she said.

  ‘Did you know she got clean?’

  Daisy’s one good eye opened wide. ‘Fuck me, wonders will never cease.’

  ‘She’s in here.’ Sol jerked his head back towards the hospital. ‘It’s pretty bad.’

  Daisy was a lot less shocked to hear this news. Girls like them got beaten up every day of the week. By punters. By pimps. Part and parcel of their job.

  ‘Do you know where she’d been working?’ Sol asked.

  Daisy sniffed. ‘Not recently. We were both up the Cherry but she left a couple of months ago. Shame, really. There’s hardly any English girls left there now.’

  ‘Didn’t she say where she was going?’ he asked.

  ‘Said she was packing it in full stop.’ Daisy laughed. ‘But we all say that, don’t we?’

  ‘There haven’t been any whispers about what happened to her?’

  Daisy shook her head.

  ‘If you do hear, you’ve got my number,’ Sol said.

  He watched Daisy totter inside, pulling the back of her mini skirt down over her mottled thighs, and finished his fag. Time to start asking a few awkward questions.

  Liberty let the satnav guide her to the address Rance had given and tried to swallow the nauseous feeling that was swelling in her stomach and rising through her chest. She hadn’t been down these roads in a long time. More than twenty years ago, she had caught the ten fifteen from Leeds to King’s Cross and never returned. Now here she was again. Everything looked different, yet every-thing looked the same.

  ‘Your destination is ahead,’ the satnav informed her as she drove past a Polish mini-market, a bookie’s and the Sun Studio – ‘Yorkshire’s Premier Tanning Salon’.

  ‘You have arrived,’ said the satnav and Liberty pulled over.

  The Black Cherry had been a pub back in the day. Her parents used to drink there, though Dad always moaned that the beer was watered down. Christ, Liberty couldn’t remember when she’d last given the place a glancing thought. She’d trained herself not to.

  What she wanted more than anything was to get back to her real life. A life she had built for herself on blood, sweat and tears. Coming back here, dredging up old memories, was not part of that life.

  She grabbed her mobile and called Ronald.

  ‘Darling. How are things oop north?’
Ronald put on a ridiculous Yorkshire accent.

  Liberty was in no mood to fanny about. ‘Pretty crap, actually. I’ve been to see Rance.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘In the right place as far as I can see.’

  ‘Innocent until proven guilty and all that jazz, darling,’ Ronald replied.

  A fly had made its way into the car. It dive-bombed Liberty, its drone close to her ear. She swatted at it in irritation. ‘He asked me to find the victim,’ she said. ‘Which, let me tell you, feels all kinds of wrong.’

  ‘There is no possession in a witness,’ Ronald replied. ‘Nothing to prevent the defence questioning the girl.’

  The fly had found the windscreen and buzzed angrily against the glass.

  ‘Even when she’s the sort of girl who works in a lap-dancing club?’ Liberty asked.

  ‘Especially when she’s the sort of girl who works in a lap-dancing club.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Ronald.’ Liberty opened her window and tried to shoo the fly outside. ‘This place isn’t Spearmint Rhino. The girls who end up here don’t have too many choices in life.’

  ‘Which is why they’re likely to be pretty poor witnesses.’

  Liberty sighed. Ronald was right. Chances were the victim would have a habit and a string of previous convictions as long as her arm.

  ‘Listen, darling, you’re not there to harass anyone,’ said Ronald. ‘Just to ask a few questions and assess the strength of the case against Rance.’

  ‘And if she’s not here or she won’t speak to me?’ Liberty asked.

  ‘Then you come home.’

  Liberty hung up, reached into her bag for the prosecution papers, rolled them into a cosh and smacked the fly.

  * * *

  The Black Cherry still had the same square red-brick façade but the windows were now blacked out, the tinted glass painted with the white silhouettes of nude women and pairs of cherries. The sign above the door read, ‘Live Dancing Seven Days A Week’. The poor women working there didn’t even get to keep their knickers on of a Sunday.

  Liberty locked the car and went inside.

  ‘Listen, Ted, you know the bloody rules, you come in here often enough.’

  A birdlike woman in her early sixties was shouting, legs akimbo, hands on her hips. The man she was yelling at was twice her size, head shaved, the tattoo of a claw-mark etched across his neck.

  ‘No. Free. Dances.’ The woman punctuated each word with an exaggerated nod. ‘Ever.’

  ‘You know I’m good for it.’ The man’s tone was surprisingly meek. ‘Just a bit short till payday, like.’

  ‘Then go home, Ted. Watch the telly, read the paper, remind your wife what you bloody look like.’ The woman flung open the door. ‘But don’t come back with an empty wallet.’ The man sighed and turned to Liberty. ‘I hope you’re not expecting a warm welcome here, love, cos you’ll not get it.’

  ‘Out,’ the woman bellowed.

  He shuffled away, and when the door had swung shut, the woman smoothed down her leopard-print blouse. The top three buttons were undone, revealing a tangle of gold chains and a wrinkled cleavage. She went to the black velvet drape that separated the reception area from the club and adjusted it. ‘I’m not made of stone, but this isn’t a charity, is it?’ she said to Liberty, who shook her head. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m looking for a girl.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ said the woman.

  ‘I think she might work here,’ said Liberty. ‘Her name’s Daisy Clarke.’

  The woman pursed her lips. Behind the drape, music began to play, the deep throb of bass seeping through.

  ‘Police?’ the woman asked.

  ‘No,’ Liberty answered.

  ‘Didn’t think so.’ The woman looked Liberty up and down. ‘That rigout’s too nice for the law.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Bet them shoes didn’t come off the market,’ the woman observed.

  Liberty looked down at her Louboutins. They’d cost almost five hundred quid, and that was in the sale.

  ‘So, what do you want?’ the woman asked.

  Liberty noted she had not denied that Daisy Clarke worked there. ‘I’m not here to cause any problems,’ she said. ‘I just need to see her. I’ll pay for her time.’

  The woman raised an eyebrow, so thin it was more pencil than hair. ‘And if she doesn’t want to talk to you?’

  ‘Then I’ll leave immediately.’

  The woman stared at her, absently fingering a sovereign attached to one of her chains, hot pink nail tracing the edge in an endless sweep. Then, as if she’d made up her mind, she tucked the coin back down her shirt. ‘She’s not in just yet.’

  ‘Can I wait?’

  ‘You’ll have to buy a drink,’ the woman said.

  ‘And one for you too,’ Liberty replied.

  The woman chuckled and held open the drape. ‘You’ll do for me, love, whoever you are.’

  Inside, the room was dominated by a stage that ran down the middle. A dancer was snaking around in a Day-Glo yellow bikini and white plastic high-heeled sandals. She looked as bored as the handful of men who sat alone at tables, nursing their pints.

  ‘Bit quiet in the day,’ the woman shouted over her shoulder, as she led Liberty to the bar. ‘Starts to fill up at rush-hour.’

  Liberty imagined men popping in on their way home from work, desperate for a cold beer and a glimpse of snatch. The mind could only boggle.

  The bar was deserted, and a draught blew in from a door at the back, which was open to a yard.

  ‘Len,’ the woman screeched. ‘Len, get in here.’

  A man in his fifties, with a pot belly and all four front teeth missing, sloped inside.

  ‘That door’s meant to be locked,’ the woman hissed.

  ‘Fucked if I know where the key is,’ said Len.

  The woman rolled her eyes. ‘Two gin and tonics.’

  Liberty was about to say that she’d rather a Diet Coke. She never drank in the day: it made her too tired. But, frankly, she didn’t know if she could stomach this place without it so she handed over a twenty-pound note and took the drink. The glass was warm and there was no ice or lemon. She sipped it regardless.

  The woman leaned in to speak, her hair, hard with half a can of hair spray, scratched Liberty’s cheek. The smell made her cough. ‘Lithuanian.’ She jerked her head towards the girl on the stage. ‘We’ve got a lot of ’em. Don’t smile much but they’re reliable.’

  The dancer continued to scowl as she undid her top with one hand and released a pair of breasts that defied gravity, nipples larger, harder and rounder than marbles.

  ‘The local girls get pissed off,’ the woman continued. ‘But it’s like the boss says, we can’t have an empty stage. The punters come for titties and they don’t much care where them titties come from.’

  Liberty wondered who owned the place. Running a pub was one thing, but a lap-dancing club involved another layer of aggro.

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ said the woman, and waved at a man poking his head around the drape. ‘People say he’s a bastard but I’ve worked for a hell of a lot worse in my time.’

  The man coming into the club wore a black shirt and sunglasses. His hair was pushed back from his face and he was sucking a lollipop. He made his way towards them with a relaxed swagger that made Liberty nervous. Something about him was wrong, all wrong. When he was ten feet from them, he stopped and took off his sunglasses. Liberty felt the air rush from her as if she’d been punched. She dropped her glass, which fell to the floor and smashed.

  The man let his gaze drop to the shards at her feet, then lifted it back to Liberty’s face. ‘Fuck me.’ He pulled the lolly from his mouth. ‘Is it you?’

  Liberty couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were on fire, full of razor blades, carving her from the inside. She scratched her throat and closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them, this would be a mistake – that she could walk out of there and drive straight home. But no. W
hen she looked again, he was still in front of her. It was Jay. It was her brother.

  Chapter 3

  June 1985

  It’s nearly eleven in the morning when Mam finally surfaces. She plonks herself onto the stool, elbows on the counter, head in her hands. She and Dad have been ‘celebrating’ since he got out of jail and every rum and Coke shows on her face. She’s still in her nightie, a big bruise coming out at the top of her arm. She catches my look. ‘I fell over.’

  I nod and put the kettle on. It’s perfectly possible that she did fall over, seeing as how she’s been pissed out of her head every night for weeks. I could understand it to begin with, but it’s getting annoying now. There’s a new James Bond film out and some of my mates are going to see it, but I expect I’ll be lumbered with the kids again.

  Mam reaches for her fags and lights up, but after the first drag she lets out a burp and stabs it out.

  ‘Feeling rough?’ I ask. ‘Maybe you should lay off the booze. Have a night in.’

  Mam pushes away the ashtray, spilling ash and dog ends everywhere. ‘I’m pregnant, Lib.’

  I go over to the sink, piled high with dishes. I’d do the washing-up but there’s no Fairy Liquid. I reach under a tower of cereal bowls for a cloth and start clearing up the mess on the counter.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Mam asks. ‘I said I’m pregnant.’

  I don’t look at her. ‘How far gone?’

  She rubs her hand across her forehead and groans. ‘I don’t know exactly. Three or four months.’

  I push the dog ends into the bin with all the other shit and make us both a cup of tea. The milk smells sour so we have to have it black. When Dad was away, money was tight. It’s not like we’re loaded when he’s here. He’s out of work more than he’s in it but he does a bit of cash-in-hand now and then. Without him, we were completely reliant on the social. So Mam did what she needed to do.

  ‘Uncle Alan?’ I ask.

  Mam nods. Under normal circumstances this might not be the end of the world. Babies come early all the time. Crystal was two months prem and she’s the only one of us with ginger hair. But there’s a big problem here: Uncle Alan was black.