Strangers by Paul Finch

mill district close to the border with Bolton.
    She yawned as she wheeled her Ducati through the back gate, and opened what had once been the coal bunker but now had been adapted into a shed with a felt and plastic-lined waterproof roof. She pushed the vehicle into the interior, which, though unlit and stinking of oil, was all very orderly. The tools with which she maintained the majestic beast were arrayed neatly on the walls. There were cleaning materials on the shelves, and several spare canisters of Ultimate Unleaded stored in a locker in the corner.

    As Lucy closed and padlocked the shed door behind her, her mother stepped out from the kitchen. Whereas Lucy was dark-haired and coltish in build, Cora Clayburn was fair haired and buxom. She’d been quite a beauty in her day, or so Lucy would imagine – she had to imagine, because they had no other living relatives and she knew no friends from her mother’s early life who could confirm this. Though age was catching up a little – Cora was now fifty-three and a lot of that lovely fair hair was running to silver – she was still trim and shapely, an appearance she preserved through careful eating and regular exercise. Lucy had always thought that her mum looked amazing in the pink Lycra top and tight, black tracksuit bottoms she wore each day for her five-mile evening constitutional. Less attractive, though, was the shapeless blue smock with the plastic name tag she was currently clad in for her role as assistant manager at the Saltbridge MiniMart.
    ‘Now?’ Cora said, looking relieved. Shortly after midnight, Lucy had left her a message that she’d be late, but it wouldn’t have stopped her worrying. ‘Long shift, that?’
    ‘Yeah, but a good one.’ Lucy pulled her gauntlets off and tucked them into her helmet. ‘Bloody maniac grabbed this eighteen-year-old lass on her way home from babysitting.’
    ‘My God … where?’
    ‘Top of Darthill Road.’
    Cora didn’t look surprised. ‘The Aggies?’
    ‘The edge of it.’
    ‘I wish they’d take action about that place. Build on it, or something.’
    ‘No chance, Mum … they’ll want to find a nice green space for that.’ Cora sidled past her and went indoors, where the mingled aromas of cooked bacon and fresh coffee set her empty stomach rumbling. ‘Anyway, the bastard – pardon my French – gave her a real smacking. Smashed her teeth, broke her nose and cheekbone.’ She unzipped her leather jacket and peeled it off the thin, sweat-damp T-shirt underneath. ‘I got him over in Bullwood. He still had her phone and purse in his pockets. Talk about banged to rights.’

    ‘Thank God for that,’ Cora said. ‘Who is he?’
    ‘A total lowlife called Wayne Crompton.’ Lucy folded her leather over the back of a kitchen chair, and stretched. ‘He’s got form as long as your arm, but this time he’ll be off the streets for a while. Charged him a couple of hours ago … robbery, GBH and attempted kidnapping.’
    ‘Like you said, a good night’s work.’ But Cora’s tone remained neutral, as it always did when Lucy got enthusiastic about cop stuff. ‘But I thought you were back on duty this afternoon?’
    ‘ Was ,’ Lucy confirmed. ‘Not any more. They offered me the money or the time in lieu, dropping extra-strong hints that they wanted me to take the time. So I’m going to – today.’
    Cora nodded approvingly as she shrugged her mac on.
    ‘Mum, there’s something else I need to talk to you about,’ Lucy said.
    ‘Tell me quick, because I’m running a bit late.’
    ‘It’s okay … it’s not important.’
    Cora stopped by the door. ‘Go on … I can tell you want to.’
    So Lucy did, all about Operation Clearway, not specifying the exact role she’d be playing of course, but outlining the basics of the case and the new lines of enquiry the taskforce would shortly be embarking on.
    Cora frowned. ‘So what are you saying … you’re a detective again?’
    ‘Not quite. It may be a way