Stolen. Paul FinchЧитать онлайн книгу.
right?’ Sister Cassie said, noting Lucy’s gradual change of expression.
Lucy stood up stiffly. ‘Sister … I have some rather pressing business, I’m afraid.’
The ex-nun nodded sagely, and she too made to stand. ‘Of course.’
She smiled as she pulled on her cloak and picked up her satchel. She wasn’t being sarcastic. This was one of the disarming things about her: despite everything, she still radiated charm and civility. Even with the occasional admonitions, her attitude throughout the short interview had mainly been one of gratitude that a police officer had found time for her.
Lucy showed her out into the front waiting room. ‘I’ll come and find you,’ she said. ‘It won’t be tomorrow – I’ve got too much on, and I’ve got Friday off. Over the weekend, maybe?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where will you be? St Clement’s Avenue, is it?’
‘That’s my usual haunt, child.’ The ex-nun opened the front doors to leave.
‘I’m serious, Sister,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ll come down there and look you up.’
But the ex-nun was already walking away along Tarwood Lane, her robes flapping behind her. She waved one-handed, without looking back.
Briefly, Lucy was discomforted by the thought of the woman travelling all the way back to St Clement’s Avenue alone and on foot. Even if she got there safely, St Clement’s was one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods in the borough. But that was Sister Cassie’s life all over: the streets, the darkness, the isolation – she was no stranger to any of it. Besides, Lucy had more important things to do at present than offer rides to hobos.
Such as once and for all squashing a very nasty, very self-confident little bug.
Lucy drove back to Wellspring Lane at speed. All the way, three sentences replayed themselves over and over through her head.
I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the thin end of the wedge.
If they’re prepared to do this, what else are they up to?
Those first two, courtesy of the laconic Joe Cullen.
Completely unconnected with the original complaint …
That latter the homespun street-wisdom of Sister Cassiopeia.
It was now very late, past midnight, so though Wellspring Lane was at the extreme southern end of the borough, away from most residential districts and edging onto the famous Chat Moss, there was almost no other traffic on the road. Lucy got her foot down nevertheless, concerned that the search of Mahoney’s premises might be approaching its end.
She was only just in time, bouncing her Suzuki Jimny down the rutted track to the farm cottage, swerving at speed around the abandoned vehicles there, and seeing Malcolm Peabody and three other constables outside the building, next to what looked as if it was the last divisional van on site. They were still in protective clothing, but even as Lucy arrived, gloves were coming off and the press-studs down the fronts of overalls being plucked open.
Peabody advanced, grinning, as she screeched to a halt in the farmyard.
‘We’ve bagged and boxed everything,’ he said. He tapped the side of the van. ‘We’ve got enough here to do such a number on this Mahoney wanker that he’ll never forget it.’
‘Did you find the jewelled collar?’ she asked, jumping out.
‘Erm, no.’ Peabody pondered. ‘But he’s banged to rights. Photographic have only just gone, and they’ve got loads of stuff too.’
‘Any other animals?’
‘Only the ones we found before.’
‘What about the black van?’
He shook his head, frowning as he sensed her displeasure. ‘No sign of any van on these premises. We’ve been through all the outbuildings. But Luce, we’ve got him – we caught him at it.’
‘We’ve got him for dog-fighting, Malcolm – not something that’s going to see him do serious time.’ She entered the cottage via its still open door. ‘Everyone, come in here, please.’
The other officers trooped inside, joining her in a small, cluttered kitchen.
All kinds of revolting mess filled its central table and surrounding worktops. The dull lighting and low, beamed ceiling only added to the gloom and the cramped atmosphere. The door had been open for hours now, but there was still a staleness in the air, a vague odour of spoiled food.
‘How thoroughly have you searched this house?’ she asked, her gaze roving from one blank, tired face to the next.
‘We’ve had a look around,’ Peabody answered, ‘but we gathered so much evidence from the barn and the outbuildings—’
‘So you’re saying you’ve not searched it at all?’ she interrupted, visibly vexed.
‘We’ve had a look around.’
‘What does that mean, Malcom? A cursory look? You’ve checked in a few drawers?’
No one spoke, but several shamefaced glances were exchanged.
‘Come on, Lucy,’ Peabody protested. ‘We’re looking for evidence of organised dog-fighting. And we’ve found it outside. Stacks of it. What exactly could he keep in here?’
‘I found some paperwork,’ a young policewoman called Laurie Darlington chipped in. ‘It was in a cupboard in the dining room. So I put it in the van.’
‘Show me,’ Lucy said.
They went back outside and opened the van. PC Darlington rummaged among the boxes and various plastic bags before lifting a clear plastic envelope tagged LD1, containing a bundle of dirty documents stapled together. Lucy didn’t unseal the paperwork but examined what she could of it through the plastic. Though the top sheet had been scribbled on almost unintelligibly, close analysis suggested that it was a customer log, detailing names and the services provided, plus payments and the like.
‘This is good,’ Lucy said. ‘In fact, this is excellent. But just at present it’s not what we’re looking for. Inside again, everyone, please.’
Lucy held the same rank as the search officers, but they deferred to her naturally, not just because of her length of service, twelve years, but because she’d been point-man on this operation from the start, and because, even though a lowly divisional detective, she already had a rep for breaking tough cases.
‘Here’s the deal,’ she said, when they were back in the kitchen. ‘We’re fully authorised to search this pad, so I want every inch of it going over, yeah? If necessary, it needs physically ripping apart.’
There were thinly veiled groans. Most of these officers, including Peabody, had been on duty for several hours after their normal shifts had supposedly finished. They were being paid for it, but inevitably fatigue was setting in.
‘Seriously, Lucy?’ Peabody groaned. ‘All this for a dog-collar?’
‘Anything we can hit this bastard with, we have to do it,’ she said.
‘Won’t he have sold it on by now?’ another copper asked. ‘I mean, if it’s worth that much … why would he hang onto it?’
‘We’re not walking away from here without having a good look around,’ she said simply. ‘That dog-collar’s too valuable.’
More irritated expressions; more shuffling feet.
‘At least,’ she said, ‘that’s going to be the official line.’
Immediately,