Nothing But Trouble, page 18
part #11 of Jessica Daniel Series
The woman looked up at Jessica, making squirrelly quick scrawls with her hand before thrusting the pad back to Bex and standing abruptly, knocking the counter and spilling the remains of her tea. ‘Sorry, sorry . . .’
Bex pressed past her, dabbing the area with a tea towel. ‘It’s fine. Are you sure you don’t want to stay for anything else?’
‘No, no, no,’ she glanced quickly at Jessica, ‘time to go.’ She touched Bex’s arm. ‘Will you . . . ?’
Bex shook her head, blinking rapidly, definitely upset. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Okay . . .’
Bex showed the woman to the front door and let her out, shutting it and then leaning against the inside, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. From nowhere, tears were pouring down her face and she was gasping for air. Jessica couldn’t do much other than hold her, rubbing the young woman’s back and stroking her hair. In the near nine months Bex had been living with her, Jessica had rarely seen her upset at all, let alone to the point of tears. At first, there’d been only the street-girl exterior, which had slowly given way to a calmer, truer personality. Being homeless and having to look after herself had left Bex toughened and world-weary beyond her age, emotion something that didn’t come easily. Now, she was crying so violently that her entire body was shaking as she tried to gasp sentences that were barely formed. At first, Jessica could make out only the word ‘sorry’ but then, slowly, as Bex managed to calm down and sat on the bottom step, hugging her knees into herself, there was one more, something that made even Jessica shiver.
‘Mum.’
Bex settled on the sofa, fingers linked around a mug of steaming hot chocolate, shortbread biscuits at the ready. It wasn’t quite time for ice cream but it wasn’t far off.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered.
‘You really don’t have to be. If I apologised every time I had a meltdown, I’d end up tattooing “sorry” on my forehead . . . not that I meant—’
Bex gasped a smile, the tears almost gone but not quite. ‘It’s okay, I know what you meant . . . at least we know who was watching the house.’
‘Is that who you saw?’
Bex shrugged. ‘I suppose. I forgot to ask. Anyway, she knocked on the door – I guess she was waiting for me to be alone.’
‘Why?’
‘She used to live next door when I was a kid – Mrs Bryant. I didn’t recognise her till she said the name, then it all came back. She had a son named Jamie, who I used to play with on the balcony outside our flat.’ She scratched her head. ‘It was so long ago.’
‘This woman – Mrs Bryant – she knew you, though?’
‘She’d been to the community centre to pick her mum up one time and, somehow, recognised me. She still knows my mum and said something like, “Oh, I saw your Rebecca the other day”, without realising we’re not in contact.’ Bex took a sip of her drink and bite of her biscuit. ‘She said my mum would like to see me if I’d like to see her . . .’
Bex had been just fourteen when she’d left home, preferring to sleep rough than deal with the string of men her mother was bringing into their lives. She’d spent more than two years on the street until picking Jessica’s pocket and, eventually, moving in.
Jessica had a hand on Bex’s knee. ‘What are you thinking?’
Bex shrugged. ‘Mrs Bryant says Mum’s clean. She’s living in sheltered housing where they have to take fortnightly drug tests. If they fail, they lose their flat. She’s been looking for me for a while.’
‘That sounds good.’
Another shrug. ‘When I was seven, I went to school and had to go home ill because she’d accidentally mixed a line of coke into the sandwiches she made. I was throwing up for two days and she’d yell upstairs, telling me to shut up because she was trying to watch the telly. When I was twelve, she was seeing this bloke, Colin – Uncle Col. She’d get me to dress up in short skirts, make-up, all that, then sit on his lap. He’d bounce me up and down and, well . . . he was excited by it. She’d laugh and then drag him upstairs, leaving me in front of the telly by myself. When I was fourteen, the night before I left, I woke up in the middle of the night to find her boyfriend, Stu, standing at the bottom of my bed with his pants round his ankles. When I screamed at him, Mum came in and told me off for waking her up.’
Bex gazed unflinchingly at the wall, almost reciting lines from a play, as if the incidents had happened to someone else. She was biting her tongue piercing, twiddling her eyebrow bar.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she whispered.
Jessica put an arm around her, cuddling the young woman onto her shoulder. ‘It’s only you who can decide.’
‘What would you do?’
Jessica took a moment to think. ‘It’d be really unfair for me to say. I’d love to tell you I know what you’re going through, but I don’t. Hardly anyone would.’
‘If I visit her, will you come with me?’
Jessica’s fingers tightened on Bex’s shoulder, sensing the sobs about to begin again. ‘Of course.’
27
Something that Izzy had said the previous week had been bugging Jessica ever since. If someone wanted Owen Priestley dead, why go to the trouble of breaking him out of prison? Jessica had answered that the killing was more public, but it was so risky, so reliant on Irfan and Eric not messing up, that it would have been significantly easier to have had him attacked in prison. As Izzy had pointed out, Priestley had slashed a fellow inmate with a knife, so weapons weren’t impossible to come by.
With Lisa Hyde’s funeral over and things seemingly back to a normal routine, Jessica had a word with DCI Topper and then drove to Liverpool Prison in the Walton area of the city. It was a little down the road from Aintree Racecourse, across the road from a cemetery and with a park on one side, a Catholic primary school on the other. A hospital was around the corner, making it feel strangely like part of the community.
Jessica had visited more prisons than she cared to remember, big and small, hosting all categories of prisoner. It was never a fulfilling experience, even at those with a greater focus on rehabilitation. Part of that was down to the onerous procedures to get inside. It was necessary, of course, but she had to sign in, was searched twice, had her phone confiscated, and was then marched by a pair of guards through a series of empty, ominously echoing hallways until they reached an interview room. Jessica wasn’t there for anything official, with no need to record or document the interview. She was there for a chat, though the prison authorities were taking no chances.
Dean Lypski was led into the room by a pair of guards, who handcuffed him to a thick metal bolt in the centre of a solid table that was welded to the floor. One of the guards asked Jessica if she was okay, and then told her they’d be outside if she needed anything, making a point of watching Lypski as he said it.
As the door clanged closed, Jessica shuddered with a needless sense of feeling trapped. Lypski saw it, smiling and licking his lips as he gazed at her like she was a delicious meal. Aside from one thing, he was remarkably unremarkable: five eight or nine, normal build, with a tight buzz cut. What set him apart was the diagonal scar running from his left ear to the right of his chin. It was where Owen Priestley had left a permanent mark.
Lypski spoke with a strong Eastern European accent, though his understanding of English seemed to be perfect. ‘You here for Priestley, no?’
‘Something like that.’
Lypski had two missing teeth on his top row and each time he breathed in, there was a low whistling. He’d been sent to prison after a vicious, unprovoked attack in the centre of Manchester in which he’d kicked a stranger in the head so hard that the victim had been left in a wheelchair, permanently brain-damaged.
‘You should bring champagne – we have party!’ Lypski said.
Jessica pointed a thumb towards the door, remaining deadpan, wanting him to talk, even though he repulsed her. ‘I had balloons, streamers, fizzy wine, pigs in blankets – the lot. They confiscated it at the gate.’
Lypski eyed her for a moment then roared with laughter, stretching back in the chair as far as he could manage with his hands manacled to the table. ‘You funny,’ he said.
She nodded at the scar on his face. ‘Want to tell me about it?’
He continued giggling for a few moments and then his features hardened. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’m asking.’
‘It no matter now.’
‘It might to me.’
The handcuffs clinked against the metal bolt as he tried to lift his hands. ‘It get me out early, no?’
Jessica shook her head. ‘Not a chance.’
He eyed her for a few moments, licking his lips. ‘You English? Scottish? Irish?’
‘Do I sound Scottish or Irish?’
He shrugged. ‘You all sound same . . . except Welsh. They gay.’ He sniggered at his own remark.
‘I’m English.’
‘You used to rule the world, now look at you.’
Jessica held her hands out. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘You smoke?’
‘No.’
‘Drink?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘You like Polish?’
‘I’ve never really thought about it. If people are nice to me, I’m nice to them.’
Lypski bobbed his head from side to side. ‘I like you.’
‘So you can tell me what happened to your face.’
He sucked in his cheeks, the peppering of stubble a dark black. ‘Priestley and me had, how you say, a swapping of opinions.’ Lypski threw his head back and roared once again, sending a trail of spit onto the table, landing narrowly in front of Jessica. He didn’t seem to notice, continuing to howl with amusement for at least a minute until he eventually calmed himself. ‘Priestley piss people off, want to take over prison, think he own everyone.’
‘You tried to show him he didn’t?’
His head bounced from side to side again, like a bobblehead toy. ‘Not just me. He all talk without knife.’
‘Where did he get the blade from?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I not know either. I have . . . suspicion.’
‘Want to tell me?’
He smiled, showing off his teeth again: ‘No.’
‘What can you tell me?’
Lypski’s lips pressed closed again, eyes darting across her. He wasn’t an intimidating presence as such but Jessica didn’t like the way he was looking at her, like a child with a present to unwrap on Christmas morning. If they were in a pub on the outside, she’d be trying to avoid him, putting other people between them.
‘Priestley say he set up.’
Jessica waited to see if Lypski would elaborate. He seemed happy to toy with her. ‘For the off-licence robbery?’ she asked.
‘He say he no do it. Say no even there.’
‘Doesn’t everyone in here say it wasn’t them?’
Lypski winked. ‘Yeah, but he mean it.’
‘The police found his blood at the scene. The shop owner testified against him.’
He shrugged. ‘You see on TV?’
She presumed he meant CCTV: ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Anyone else see?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Lypski laughed gently. ‘Me no think you real police lady.’ Jessica bristled as he threw his head back once again, braying with amusement.
She waited for him to settle, but the smile was now a permanent feature. ‘What else can you tell me?’ she asked.
‘What you want know?’
‘If Priestley wasn’t in the off-licence to commit that robbery, then why didn’t he tell the police what he was doing?’
Another shrug, though the smile was uninterrupted. ‘He say he with someone.’
‘Who?’
‘Dunno. Why you no ask him?’
Another burst of cackling laughter so intense that Lypski had tears streaming down his face. Jessica was glad she hadn’t been the arresting officer when he’d first been brought in – the interview would’ve gone on for hours if he found everything this funny. He’d probably spontaneously combust if he went to an actual comedy gig.
Jessica pointed to his face again. ‘There must be a reason why he chose to slash you with the knife. There are hundreds of people here, I’m thinking he pissed off more than a few inmates.’
Lypski thrust his crotch in the air – quite the achievement as he was bolted to the table. He licked his top lip slowly, making sure Jessica was watching. ‘Maybe he have thing for me? He fancy a bit of Pole, no?’
‘Is that the reason?’
‘You fancy a bit of Pole?’
Jessica stared at him, not amused. ‘You’re not my type.’
Lypski frowned, seemingly offended. ‘Who your type?’
‘Men who aren’t in prison and don’t kick other people in the head.’
He glared for a moment and then threw his head back in laughter again. Lypski wasn’t simply a vicious thug, he was charmless and annoying. More tears streamed from his eyes, the handcuffs clinking into the bolt, before he leant forward and dried them.
‘What wrong with head kicks? You kick in head, they no get up.’
Jessica felt a tingle along her arms, the hairs rising, goosebumps prickling. He was trying to wind her up. ‘Why did Priestley attack you?’
‘He no like my jokes. How ’bout you? Knock knock.’
‘I’m not playing.’
The smile started to spread again, his filthy teeth so disgusting that Jessica couldn’t stop looking at them. ‘No play, no answer. Knock knock.’
Jessica said nothing, breathing in and out, once, twice, wondering if it was worth it . . . ‘Who’s there?’
‘Polish burglar. Ha!’ Lypski sent another spray of spit across the table, the handcuffs rattling back and forth as he struggled to control himself amid the hilarity. Jessica was unmoved, staring across the table at him. He peered up at her. ‘You get, no? ’Cos Polish burglar so stupid. One more, no? Why no Polish woman use vibrator?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘’Cos keep breaking teeth! Hahahahahaha!’
Jessica didn’t laugh and was moments away from calling for the guards to return Lypski to his cell, or, hopefully, hole. It was only when she scraped her chair backwards that he lunged forward, not getting far, though the laughter ended immediately. ‘Hey, you go?’
‘I’m not in the mood for jokes.’
‘We have talk here. You talk, I talk.’
‘Why did Priestley slash you?’
Lypski retook his seat as Jessica slotted hers back into place. He glanced towards the doorway and back again, showing for the first time that he didn’t want to be returned to his cell. Jessica suspected she was the first woman he’d been alone with in a while. He wanted to draw it out, not have the encounter cut short.
‘Priestley no like my old boss,’ he said.
‘Who’s that?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Where you from?’
‘You wouldn’t know it.’
‘Round here?’
‘Nope.’
‘You, how my mum say . . .’ The handcuffs clinked again as he clicked his fingers. ‘You wedding woman.’
‘How do you mean?’
He was still clicking his fingers, searching for the words. ‘I have wedding woman to marry, then, how you say, women for sex. You no sex woman, you wedding.’
Jessica’s stony gaze didn’t slip.
‘You no like compliment?’ he said, head tilted playfully.
‘That was a compliment?’
‘Yeah, me say you no just for fuck, you good for baby, too.’
He didn’t know how close he was to pressing her buttons, how she longed to reach across the table, punch him in the face and keep punching until she was dragged off. He knew that she needed him, that she wouldn’t be back. All she had to do was remain calm for a while longer and he’d eventually give up the information. ‘Who’s your old boss?’ she said, sternly.
He nodded. ‘You take off jacket, no?’
‘No.’
‘Undo some button? Show some titty?’
‘Who’s your old boss?’
‘You no know him.’
‘Try me.’
‘You show titty, I give name.’
‘How about you tell me the name and I don’t break your nose?’
Lypski wailed with laughter again as Jessica cursed herself. This wasn’t her any longer. Adam had changed who she was: she was calmer, more considered. She didn’t have to prove herself, didn’t have to throw herself into everything. She could feel the fury boiling, her breathing becoming heavier. The old her returning.
‘Who’s your old boss?’ she repeated calmly, though Lypski was ignoring her, laughing so hard, he had almost fallen off his stool.
‘Sod this.’
Jessica slid her chair back with a resounding scrape and stepped towards the door. She was touching the handle when Lypski finally answered: ‘Hey, you want name, no?’
‘I’m not messing around any more. Tell me who your old boss is, or I’m off.’
There was a short pause as Lypski’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t laughing any longer. ‘He called Carter.’
Jessica stared at him, looking for a hint of a lie but Lypski’s face was as straight as it was ugly. ‘Carter?’ she said.
‘You know him?’
‘He runs Casino 101.’
Lypski nodded, twisting his hands to point at his face. ‘You do know. Priestley no like Carter, so he do this. Say he do to me ’cos he can’t do to Carter.’
Jessica remained standing, running through the scenario. Priestley worked for Hyde, who was a major rival to Carter and, formerly, Harry Irwell. He insisted he’d been set up for the robbery that had seen him sent to prison, and took it out on one of Carter’s employees. So was Carter the person who’d arranged the break-out in order to take revenge? Was he making a move on the Hydes? He was certainly on the Serious Crime Division’s list of suspects.
‘What else do you know about Carter?’ Jessica asked.
The smile slipped across Lypski’s face again. ‘You sit, no? We have, how you say, chit and chat?’
