“What would you like to drink, sir?”
“A double scotch. Better make it a treble . . .”
“We don’t serve more than double measures here.”
“Oh; well, a double, then. I can always have another,” he said conspiratorially. The barman didn’t share the joke. Turning his back, he seized a shots glass from the rack above his head and carefully pressed it against the optic of the giant bottle of Johnnie Walker suspended in front of him. He repeated the action and pushed the glass smoothly across the counter.
“Seven pounds, if you please, sir.”
Although he was still recovering his breath, the small man blenched.
“But that’s a preposterous price! I . . .”
“Seven pounds or I take it back,” said the barman, enclosing the glass with a beefy fist.
The small man spluttered and searched his pockets. After some awkward fumbling, he managed to produce one two pound coin, three one pound coins, two fifty pence pieces and a handful of change. He spread it out on the counter. The barman scooped up the coins with practised deftness.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, a tinge of irony spiking the politeness now.
The small man shot him a defiant look before re-focusing his darting brown eyes on the entrance. Picking up the drink, he swept the room with his anxious gaze before he selected a seat behind a one-person table adjacent to where he had been standing, but on the other side of the service door. From this vantage point he could sit with his back to the wall and observe the entrance. The barman resumed his activity of polishing glasses, but he, too, was now keeping an eye on the door to the street. He’d seen trouble too many times not to realise he was staring it in the face now. There had been other hunted men who’d sat at that table. Not all of them had vacated it of their own volition.
The small man nursed his drink as best he could, obviously making an effort not to gulp it down. The barman saw him search through his pockets forlornly, perhaps hoping for the miraculous discovery of a ten pound note. His eyes flicked across to a jovial group of tubby men drinking beer and watching the snooker on the giant television screen. The barman guessed he wouldn’t be above scrounging a drink from them under normal circumstances, but on this occasion he evidently had more pressing concerns to worry about. The small man continued to sip his drink, hunching himself down in his chair so that he looked even smaller.
A series of deafening staccato cracks rent the air. Instinctively the barman ducked down. The men who had been watching the snooker match also dived for the floor like burly rugby players for the line. The small man remained where he was, his brown eyes blinking, petrified by fear.
The service door swung open so violently that one of its hinges was ripped from the flimsy hardboard. Three men sprang through it, agile as big cats stalking their prey. The first of them was waving a gun.
“No-one’s going to get hurt,” he shouted. “Just make sure you keep down.”
The other two had seized the small man and roughly hauled him to his feet. His eyes were wild now, searching hopelessly for an ally.
“No!” He screamed. “No! Help me, somebody, please help me.”
“Shut it,” said the man with the gun. “You ain’t got no friends here.”
They dragged him through the service door and out to the alley beyond the kitchen. The barman and his customers listened to a succession of harrowing screams, followed, after about five minutes, by a jolting silence.
One of the snooker watchers was the first to get to his feet. He walked shakily across to the bar and peered over it, meeting the eye of the barman as he crouched there. Unwilling to compromise his dignity, he, too, stood up.
“You going to call the police, old cock?”
“In a bit,” he said. “No hurry. I knew that bloke was trouble as soon as I clapped eyes on him.”
Chapter 20
Derry Hacker asked for another round of gin and tonics. Tim tried to refuse, but Derry just eyed him with amusement and went ahead anyway. They’d ordered dinner some time before, but the restaurant had swiftly become crowded after they’d greeted Patti and, as Derry said, none of the food would be arriving via the microwave or freezer: the wait would be worth it.
Patti seemed unperturbed by the prospect of another drink, surprising Tim, who remembered her as a very moderate drinker. Tim himself was feeling queasier by the minute. He resolved to try to dispose of his next drink, perhaps by simply leaving it until the waiter brought the food. He poured himself a glass of water.
The conversation had been a little stilted, but friendly enough. They’d kept to neutral topics. Tim wondered what Patti had been doing in London that day, wearing that dress, if she really hadn’t been back to her hotel to change. She certainly wasn’t dressed for her grisly trade, or for the conference that Derry had mentioned earlier and then seemed to forget about. He didn’t ask her because he was afraid of overstepping the boundaries of professionalism. He’d resolved to show a polite interest in Patti’s work while at the same time conveying that he knew that her personal life was off limits for him. She seemed to have adopted the same strategy, asking briefly after Katrin and Sophia but listening to his reply without showing too much interest.
The second round of gin and tonics arrived: evidently the bar staff could move a lot more swiftly than their colleagues in the kitchen. Derry scooped one of the glasses from the tray before the waiter could even set it down and took a large swig before hoisting it in the air.
“Cheers!” he said. “Here’s to old times!”
He was always ebullient, but Tim noticed that his mood was becoming ever more boisterous. He’d drunk more than either of his companions, too. He was giving a good impression of a man with a drink problem, but perhaps he was just nervous, if what he’d said about wanting to get closer to Patti was true.
Patti herself was beginning to look uncomfortable. Derry’s raised voice had attracted stares from people sitting at the adjacent tables: Tim knew that she hated drawing attention to herself in public. Derry took another gulp from his glass before setting it down noisily.
“Well, excuse me,” he said. “I’m ready for a fag break, I think. I’m going to need one before the starter comes.”
He stood up and brushed noisily past Tim’s chair, patting his jacket pocket as he headed for the street.
“Same old Derry,” Patti smiled, though Tim could see she felt awkward.
“Yes, I’d forgotten that he’s best enjoyed in small doses.”
She laughed.
“How are you, Tim? I don’t think I’ve seen you since you called me out to look at the remains of the baby at Sutterton Dowdyke. Weird case that one, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Tim. “One of the weirdest. I don’t think we ever got to the bottom of all that was going on there. And talking of getting to the bottom of things, do you remember a crook called Peter Prance?”
“The name vaguely rings a bell, but I’m not sure I ever met him. Remind me of why I should know him.”
“It was the Kathryn Sheppard case, so quite a while ago now. He was the boyfriend of Hedley Atkins, who was eventually found guilty of the murder of his sister decades before. Unjustly, in my view.”
“Do you think this Peter Prance was the murderer?”
“No. He’s a confidence trickster. A plausible if unpleasant character, but without enough guts to kill. I mentioned him because I thought I saw him yesterday.”
“Is he on the run?”
“He’s still wanted for questioning about the Atkins case. He was blackmailing Atkins, and, from memory, I think he’d also broken the terms of his probation. He conveniently disappeared before we could nail him.”
“Is it likely that he’s in London? If he’s used to operating in a place like Spalding, you’d think he’d be out of his depth here.”
“He doesn’t come from Spald
ing. He turned up there because he was lying low. He’d upset some thugs and was keeping out of their way. He’s used to cities. He was born in Liverpool and has ‘worked’ in London. I think the thugs were based here, actually.”
“He obviously made a big impression on you.”
“He both annoyed me and fascinated me at the time. He’s an unusual crook, but like most crooks in one respect: wherever he is, you can bet he’s breaking the law in some way.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but from what I hear you’ve got your work cut out dealing with something rather more serious at the moment. Derry’s on his way back,” Patti added, as if in warning.
Tim quickly switched his untouched gin and tonic with Derry’s half-finished one. Patti watched but said nothing. Her own drink was also untouched.
“Right, ready for anything now,” Derry announced, squeezing past Tim a little more nimbly than when he’d made his exit. He looked around him. “Where is the bloody food? I know I said we should be patient, but this is getting ridiculous.”
As if on cue, the waiter arrived with their starters. Tim hoped that his choice of melon would help to settle his stomach. Patti had also opted for melon. Derry was presented with a sizeable slab of chicken liver pate. Tim caught a whiff of it and almost gagged.
The wine waiter was also hovering.
“A nice Shiraz with this, I think,” Derry boomed. “Or would you prefer white?” He looked at Patti. “If so, I’ll get a bottle of white as well.”
“Red’s fine,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll need more than one bottle.”
“Let’s wait and see, shall we? Tuck in, everyone. I’m starving.”
Tim ate the melon slowly and carefully. He thought it was indeed helping to allay the nausea. He looked across at Patti and saw that she was merely toying with her food. He wondered why she’d agreed to come. The prospect of an evening with a man whom she’d rejected could hardly have been enticing, even with a third person present.
Derry had downed Tim’s gin and tonic and was making inroads on his first glass of red wine when his mobile rang.
“Shit!” he said, inadvertently spitting pate and toast crumbs at Tim.
“Don’t answer it.”
“Got to, I’m afraid. Technically, I’m on call. And this may be a breakthrough in a case I’m working on.”
Derry pulled the phone from his inside pocket and had already picked up the call as he was weaving his way back through the tables to the door. There was another awkward silence between Tim and Patti.
“We should start playing a game,” Tim said. “Something along the lines of ‘how many words of serious conversation can you get in during Hacker’s absences’?” He grinned. It wasn’t very funny, but Patti was grateful and smiled back at him.
“You were telling me about your ex-con,” she said. “If he’s in London he’s no longer your responsibility, is he? More likely to be Derry’s!”
“Depends what he’s doing. My unfinished case is still on our books. He may very well have fitted in a few crimes on Derry’s patch since then. I don’t feel competitive about it. If Derry can nail him, that’s fine by me.”
Derry reappeared at that moment, once again jogging the adjacent table. The four diners glared at him in unison, but he appeared not to notice.
“Who do you want me to nail? I’ll do my best but I’m afraid it won’t be tonight. Sorry, but I’ve got to go. As I said, a breakthrough. A bunch of toughs I’ve been after for ages. It looks as if they’ve done something stupid.”
“What kind of something stupid?”
“No time to tell you in detail, but they’ve pulled a gun on someone and then beaten him up, or worse. Petty criminal, probably, just some old bloke who’s annoyed them. But now we know roughly where they are. With a bit of luck we might catch them tonight.”
“Is the old bloke going to grass on them?”
“He can’t, yet. They’ve taken him with them. Stupid move in some ways, as he’ll be a liability, especially if he’s hurt. Unless they choose the obvious solution, but as far as I know it would be their first murder.”
“Do you want me to come and help?”
“Nah. You stay and look after Patti. We can’t both walk out on her. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He turned to Patti.
“I’m really sorry about all this. Will I see you tomorrow, as well?”
“I’m going home tomorrow, but I’ll drop in briefly to say goodbye if I have time.”
“Well, thanks for coming.” A momentary look of sadness crossed Derry’s face. He leaned across the table to kiss Patti on the cheek and gave Tim a clap on the back.
“Got to go! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” he said, smirking and walking backwards into one of the diners at the next table as he did so. A portly man with a walrus moustache, rather incongruously dressed in a very short leather bomber jacket, rose to his feet.
“Excuse me,” he said, “If you do that again I‘m going to . . .” but Derry had already sailed past him. Tim met the man’s eye and shrugged.
“I must apologise for the disruption,” he said. “My friend’s a police officer. He’s on an important case.”
The portly man sat down heavily.
“Let’s hope it keeps him busy for the rest of the evening,” he said. Tim looked at Patti. She was nodding in agreement, but whether this was because she was trying to mollify the man or really meant it was impossible to tell. Tim realised that, despite his original misgivings about dining with Patti, the evening was likely to be a great deal pleasanter now they were on their own. His stomach gave an unpredictable lurch. If only he could get rid of this bloody nausea.
Chapter 21
The small man’s mouth was bleeding. He licked his lips gingerly, felt for his teeth with his tongue. He didn’t think any were broken, but the front ones felt loose and they were aching like hell. His ribcage had taken a pounding and it hurt when he breathed out. The skin had been scraped from his hand and shin as he’d been dragged along the pavement. The back of his hand was raw and embedded with an ugly swathe of grey grit particles which he knew from experience would have to be individually and excruciatingly removed with tweezers. His only pair of good grey flannels was ripped across the knee and his navy blue blazer dusty and spattered with something that looked like rotten banana. He wasn’t a brave man. He perched apprehensively on the delicate pink and gold chair where they’d shoved him and tried not to cry.
Someone thumped him hard between the shoulder blades.
“Drink some water!” the voice behind him shouted.
Obediently he lifted the glass from the bijou table beside him and took a few sips. The water took on a pinkish hue.
“Keep drinking!”
He lifted the glass to his lips again, trying not to gag. The bloody water disgusted him.
“That’ll do. Now answer the questions.”
“Of course I will try . . .” he began, feebly attempting a stab at urbanity.
“Shut up until you’re told to speak. You’ll do more than fucking try. Got it?”
He nodded, triggering a burst of pain in his head. He clutched it with his uninjured hand.
“Put your hand down and listen. Put it down, I said!” The man behind him grabbed his hand and flung it roughly to his side.
“Now,” said another voice. “Stay there like that. Don’t look round. Just listen, and speak when you’re spoken to. First of all, we want to know what you’ve been up to. Exactly what you’ve been up to. Then we’re going to tell you what you’re going to do next. And you’d better do it, if you know what’s good for you. Understand?”
The man behind him poked him viciously in the back.
Chapter 22
Derry Hacker had been feeling dejected during his short taxi ride to the bar. Uncharacteristically, he’d been mentally railing
against fate, but by the time he’d paid the driver he’d shrugged off the blues and made himself focus entirely on the job at hand. Having to give up on the evening was a setback, not a disaster. Tim would still be around tomorrow and he might even see Patti again then. If not, he had other strings to his bow.
Two police cars were parked in the street outside the bar. The driver of one of them had remained in his vehicle. He’d noticed Derry’s arrival and was watching him carefully. Derry thought about speaking to him first and decided not to bother. It wasn’t someone he knew and he guessed the copper couldn’t tell him much more than he knew already. Another was stationed by the door, but Derry didn’t speak to him, either, beyond giving him a nod and a short “Evening!” by way of greeting. He squared his shoulders and strode into the bar in his usual rapid, decisive way, sucking on a mint.
Inside, the barman was standing stolidly behind his counter, answering as laconically as possible the questions being put to him by a uniformed policeman. Another policeman was questioning a burly man seated at a table opposite the television screen. The bar was otherwise deserted.
Derry moved closer to the policeman questioning the barman and listened for a while.
“So you didn’t know the man who was dragged out of his seat?”
“Never seen him before.”
“Could you describe him?”
“I didn’t take much notice. He was a little guy.”
“What did he have to drink?”
“A Scotch. A double.”
“Did you notice anything particular about him? The way he was behaving, for example.”
“Can’t say I did. He seemed a bit hard up.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Had to root around for the cash.”
“Never mind all that,” Derry butted in impatiently. “Who were the men who took him? Who fired the shots? Detective Inspector Hacker, in case you’ve forgotten, Siddy,” he added.
“I’ve already said . . .” the barman began in an aggrieved tone.
Rooted in Dishonour Page 9