The Cover Up Page 32
Sheila shuffled up the bed and smiled. Warmth flooding through her tired body at the thought that her child had finally rocked up in support of her. ‘Oh, you’re a sight for sore eyes, my love. Ooh, I’ve missed you. Give your mam another kiss.’ She tapped her cheek in invitation. Dismayed to see Dahlia take a seat, ignoring the plea. Her daughter’s body language was all business.
‘This isn’t a social call or a dutiful daughter thing. I’m here as your legal representative, Mum. I think you’ve got some explaining to do, haven’t you?’
With the policewoman gone to allow them privacy, Sheila studied her daughter’s earnest face. To be economical with the truth or to tell her the whole shebang? She knew what to do.
‘Your dad was a liar, Dahlia. All your life, you’ve been living a lie without realising it. Everything you had, every privilege you’ve enjoyed, has been ill-gotten gains. I’m sorry. But there you have it.’
‘Are you telling me—?’
Sheila held her hand up. ‘Let me speak. Before I tell you what I’m gonna tell you, you need to understand, I’m not your dad. I love you and I respect you and I’m not going to lie to you like he did. I’m the Queen of South Manchester, chuck. Your mother’s an organised crime boss. I rule the roost. And yes, I’m pregnant. And yes, they’ve caught me teaching a rival a hard lesson. And no, I’m not going to apologise for it. This is who I am and no matter how screwed up things get, I intend to win this game. And now, you’re in it with me.’
Dahlia closed her eyes. Her lips were a grim, downturned line. Would she simply get up and walk away? Tell the police everything Sheila had just confessed to? She held her breath, waiting to hear if her firstborn would set aside her solicitor’s moral code and her distant demeanour to don the mantel of a loyal O’Brien. What stuff was Dahlia really made of?
Dahlia opened her eyes. Sniffed and pulled her skirt down towards her knees. She took a sheaf of notes out from her boxy lawyer’s briefcase.
‘So, the good news is, the case is weak. You were wearing gloves and you discarded your weapons, so there’s no forensic link to either you or Gloria. The CCTV footage from the street apparently just shows two middle-aged women going into a corporate building, one wheeling a shopping wagon. No harm in that. Bancroft’s security say they’ve got zip. This Nigel Bancroft is clearly a big fan of the no-grassing rule,’ Dahlia said, as if Sheila hadn’t just revealed that her daughter’s life had been nothing more than a stage set of a semi-rural idyll, concealing the street-robber’s paradise of a grimy parking lot behind. ‘I’ll bet he’s also paid his staff to keep quiet too, so the old adage of “honour amongst thieves” has some substance. You seem to have won a turf war, which is no mean feat. Well done.’ She reached out to touch the part of the honeycomb blanket that covered Sheila’s belly. Withdrew her hand. ‘A new baby in the family. Good. Saves me a job. If we’re going to be frank, you may as well know I personally have absolutely zero interest in motherhood.’ She locked eyes with Sheila, clearly challenging her. No hint of sentimentality in her voice.
Sheila nodded, fighting off tears of relief that she might wake from this nightmare; tears of bitter disappointment that the brisk efficiency of her daughter didn’t guarantee that the girl loved her. Was she so very different from Gloria Bell, after all? ‘Does this mean you’re on my side?’
Hooking her hair behind her ear, Dahlia raised an eyebrow. She spoke quietly. ‘Mum, I’m not going to engage in a debate about how comprehensively you’ve just ruined my life and my legitimate career. Right now, if you weren’t pregnant, I’d walk out of here and never come back. There’s no point explaining how what you do – what dad did – goes against every fibre of my being and every value I’ve ever held dear. I’m a fucking solicitor.’ She enunciated carefully. The resentment was audible in every clipped consonant. Then, she sighed. ‘But you’re family, and I love you.’
Sheila smiled broadly, holding her hand out to her daughter, which Dahlia took, tutting.
‘You can’t put a good woman down, eh?’
Dahlia smiled, finally. ‘You can’t put an O’Brien woman down.’
Chapter 47
Paddy, then Kyle
‘You all right, Ken, love?’ Brenda shouted from the lounge.
Paddy could hear applause and laughter coming from the TV. Some shiny bloody nightly chat show she loved to watch, hosted by two birds and some smug London ponce he’d never even heard of. If he didn’t feel so gruesome already, watching that crap would definitely be enough to send him over the edge. He rubbed at his stomach, wondering at the diarrhoea he’d been stricken by over the last few days. Had it been something he’d eaten in the pub? Brenda and that little sneaky shit Kyle seemed right as rain. Was he about to have another explosive episode? He grimaced at the wind that tore through his gut.
‘Are you coming in, love? The next guest is coming on.’ Her high-pitched voice had grown even more irritating of late. Especially since he had given her that black eye. Now, he could hear the nagging need for approval in every word she uttered. Do you love me, Kenneth? How can I be better, Kenneth? The harder he hit her, the more she demeaned herself. Women like Brenda couldn’t live without a man. Pathetic.
‘I’ll be in in a minute, I said,’ he shouted, satisfied that there had been sufficient irritation in his voice. He belched painfully. Felt like he had been thumped in the chest. ‘Jesus Christ, Brenda. You’re on my case all the frigging time. It’s like I’m being policed. Let me breathe, woman.’
He knew she would be quaking on the sofa, worried and wondering exactly what she may feasibly have done to piss him off yet again. Sap.
Bloody hell. This wind was bad. He was nearly crippled with pain. And sweating. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead and neck.
Looking at the screen and the flickering cursor at the end of the damning statement he had just typed to Ellis James under the guise of Shadow Hunter, he grimaced with satisfaction. Rubbed his hands together. Turns out, Sheila had landed herself at the bottom of a shitty, six-feet-deep hole, all of her own accord. He was merely going to knock the nails into her coffin with a little more information that would bring the whole O’Brien protection racket down and her with it. When he eventually cast his and Katrina’s cover-up aside to reclaim his throne, he would be able to rebuild all that side of the business. Intimidating people to cough up cash had never been a problem for Paddy O’Brien. Better he should punish his inconstant widow and punish her right for what the scheming, lying bitch had done. Paddy O’Brien had only to clamber over one last layer of his enemies’ bones to claim his position at the top of the heap once more. That was something to celebrate.
Flump, flump, flump. He could hear Brenda’s slippers dragging against the floor. She was coming in. He switched screens abruptly to bring up an article about heart disease.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, Ken, love?’ she said. She was carrying the evening newspaper, which she dropped onto the table beside him. Enfolded her arms around him from behind. He could feel her pillowy breasts against his back; could see, reflected in the laptop’s shining screen, the rainbow of purple-green bruising all down the left side of her face where he had hit her. It was still swollen and red on her brow bone where the skin had broken beneath his knuckle.
‘I was just reading up on my ticker,’ he said, batting her arms away. ‘All the shits might be to do with that. I’m not a well man, am I?’ He silently congratulated himself on having endured most of this stomach upset in her house. Better she should clean up after him than he should have to wipe the carsey down after himself. That kind of skivvying was unbecoming for a man. Especially a man like him. ‘Do us a favour, will you? Pour us a whisky. I’m parched. Anyone would think you’re leaving me gasping on purpose. You trying to dry me out?’ He looked round at her, engaging her in direct eye contact that she simply couldn’t hold.
Obviously, she started mumbling something or other about how she only wanted to keep him happy and look after him and how she wa
s so sorry her Kyle had said those nasty things. The kid didn’t know what he was on about. It was his age. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
‘And he swore blind he wouldn’t touch your betting slips or your cigs again,’ she said, setting the tumbler of Famous Grouse onto the kitchen table and kissing the top of his head. ‘He’s a good lad, really, you know.’
‘Leave us the bottle.’
‘’Course, Ken.’ She set the half-empty bottle on the table beside the laptop. ‘That’s your special tipple anyway. Nobody touches it but my Kenneth. Don’t you worry. I’ve warned our Kyle. He knows.’
‘He wouldn’t dare.’
Once she was back in the living room, watching her precious, crappy TV programme, Paddy flicked through the newspaper, trying to ignore the crippling spasm in his stomach. He wondered if there would be anything in there about Sheila or the Boddlingtons. Sometimes the press uncovered nuggets of gossip that otherwise failed to reach him through Hank.
‘Load of cobblers,’ he said, pausing briefly to read a story about a swearing parrot in Blackley that had earned its elderly owner an ASBO.
A headline pulled his attention to the opposite page.
HEYWOOD BUILDER DIES IN BLACKPOOL THRILL-RIDE SHOCKER.
Holding his breath, Paddy read on with a sense of dread, somehow knowing this tale of misadventure was connected to him.
‘Hank McMahon, a fifty-nine-year-old Heywood builder, originally from Parsons Croft, was thrown from the roller-coaster’s carriage …’
Hank. Hank the Wank. His oldest school friend and paid ally was dead. Paddy was surprised by the sudden lump in his throat. Embarrassed and irritated by his own weakness, he swallowed it down with a sip of whisky.
‘Police are asking for witnesses to come forward who might know the identity of a black woman who had been with Mr McMahon shortly before his death.’
Gloria. That Bible-bashing hypocrite. Who else could it feasibly be? How could Hank have put himself in that position? Selfish, stupid, trusting dickhead had left Paddy to rot in exile.
‘Shit!’ Paddy rubbed his eyes and grimaced. Shook his head. ‘I’ve had it with the Bells. Gloria’s gonna pay for this.’
Wondering how he might best avenge his friend’s death, with a shaking hand, Paddy downed the tumbler of whisky. It burned as it hit the back of his throat. He gasped, hoping that the alcohol would both settle his nerves and also go some way to killing off whatever germs were making a mockery of his digestive system. An ominous gurgling sound came from his stomach. He arched his back as an agonising spasm shot through his lower intestine.
‘Fucking hell. I feel like I’m dying. Again.’ Stroking the scar tissue on his torso, he wondered if he’d have time to make it to the bathroom. Launched himself off the greasy pine kitchen chair.
As he lumbered upstairs, he passed Kyle. Hanging around like a bad smell in the hall, all arms and legs and shit hair. Had the snidey little twat been watching Paddy?
‘What you looking at?’ Paddy said.
‘I don’t know,’ Kyle responded. Not quite loud enough for the old bastard to hear. ‘They don’t label shit.’
With his mam’s bastard of a feller out of sight, Kyle slid into the kitchen. The TV was still going. Good. His mam was too wrapped up in The One Show to pay any attention to his movements. He navigated that house like a wraith. Always below the radar. Well, almost always.
‘Right, you old bastard,’ he muttered, withdrawing the small bottle from his trouser pocket. No label on the glass, though Kyle knew exactly what was inside because he had personally produced the perfect antidote to the poisonous Kenneth Wainwright. Who knew arsenic could be concocted so easily in a school chemistry lab, during lunch break? Had that wanker ever bothered to ask him what his best subject was? Had he actually checked the browser history on those occasions when he had borrowed Kyle’s laptop without so much as a please or thank you? No! Course not. Amazing what deadly secrets the internet laid bare to a promising young chemist. And now, the evil bully would be sludge at the bottom of a barrel before he even realised why he felt like he was dying.
In the bathroom above, Kyle could hear this cuckoo in his mother’s nest groaning. Flushing the toilet. Groaning again. Thumping the wall. He was in agony, Kyle knew. Good.
Squeezing the pipette in the small, unassuming-looking bottle, he withdrew the tiniest amount and administered it carefully into the neck of the Famous Grouse. A bully like that didn’t deserve to die quickly, and Kyle knew just how to make his end as drawn out and dreadful as possible.
Most important of all, as any aspiring young killer worth his salt knew, Kyle had already worked out precisely how he was going to cover his tracks. A cunning cover up was always the key to murder. Nobody had come close to solving the circumstances surrounding his abusive father’s disappearance. And soon, Kenneth Wainwright – or Paddy O’Brien as Kyle had recently learned was this wanker’s real name – would disappear without a trace.
THE END
Acknowledgements
None of my writing would see the light of day without help, expertise and emotional sustenance from the following people:
Natalie and Adam for making me want to be a better woman and to demonstrate that a big dream, a large helping of optimism and a whole heap of graft can move mountains.
Christian for his child-wrangling when a deadline looms and for his continuing friendship and support.
Special Agent Caspian Dennis for executing his role in the drama of my life with great wit, poise and panache, offering friendship, wisdom and cast-iron loyalty without question.
The team at Abner Stein – especially Sandy Violette, Laura Baxendale and Felicity Amor. Never was there a shit-hotter literary agency.
My editor, Phoebe Morgan, who is always a pleasure to deal with, and the team at Avon – Helen H, Oli, Rachel, Victoria, Molly, Rosie, Hannah, Sabah and Elon. The energy of those guys could power the national grid!
Nigel Adams, who gave me great advice about fire investigation.
All the many bloggers who have given me their ongoing support, both for the George McKenzie series and for this Manchester series, and the members of various book clubs, who are incredibly engaged readers. Those guys are always a pleasure to interact with.
Barry Forshaw and Jake Kerridge, who saw fit to really enjoy Born Bad and then write about it in the national press! Becky Want, for having me on her splendid BBC Radio Manchester show.
Angela, for helping me to find my voice.
Tammy Cohen, for sage-like advice (which I often ignore because I’m pig-headed), connoisseur-level gin preparation and a half-cow, half-dog called Doris.
The cockblankets, for the finest friendship and heartiest laughs a gal could have, and my other writing and non-writing pals, who listen to me drone on incessantly about my private life and my professional conundra. I won’t name you all. I’ll just dedicate a book to you at some point in the future!
The wonderful people of Manchester, for providing endless inspiration for a series that is so close to my heart.
Finally, thanks to my readers, for being the best readers in the whole wide world.
Find out how it all began in Born Bad, the first in the gritty Manchester crime series
‘A leading light in Mancunian noir’ Guardian
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Meet Georgina McKenzie…the gripping series from Marnie Riches
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The second book in the bestselling Georgina McKenzie series
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Can George outrun death to shed light on two terrible mysteries? Or has she met her match…?
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Four dead bodies have been pulled from the canals – and that number’s rising fast. Is there a serial killer on the loose?
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About the Author
Marnie Riches grew up on a rough estate in Manchester, aptly within sight of the drea
ming spires of Strangeways prison. Able to speak five different languages, she gained a Masters degree in Modern & Medieval Dutch and German from Cambridge University. She has been a punk, a trainee rock star, a pretend artist, a property developer and professional fundraiser. In her spare time, she likes to run, mainly to offset the wine and fine food she consumes with great enthusiasm.
Having authored the first six books of HarperCollins Children’s Time-Hunters series, she now writes crime thrillers for adults. She is the author of the bestselling George McKenzie series, and her first novel in the Manchester series, Born Bad, was published in 2017.
By the same author:
George McKenzie eBook series
The Girl Who Wouldn’t Die
The Girl Who Broke the Rules
The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows
The Girl Who Had No Fear
Manchester series
Born Bad
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