It wasn't that someone getting himself into this situation was all that uncommon. As Big Barry had pointed out earlier that morning, people got themselves into serious debt the whole time. What was interesting about Pat Phelan's finances from a SOCA point of view was that his spending had tailed off dramatically in the last two months, by more than 90 per cent, and in the same period there'd been no deposits of winnings in his bank account. Either he'd turned over a new leaf or, in Tina's opinion far more likely, he was funding his habit from a different source. Since the financial statements all pointed to the Lively Lounge as the venue of choice for his gambling, Tina had decided that it was as good a place as any to start digging into Phelan's background. She could have left it to one of the more junior members of the team but, like a lot of detectives, she liked to get out and about; and if she was entirely honest with herself, she wasn't much of a delegator, preferring to rely on her own ability to get things done.
The needs of the compulsive gambler tend to be of the twenty-four-hour variety, and the club was open. Tina went through the tinted double doors and into the darkened lobby. A blonde girl was at the reception desk talking to an older woman with hair extensions and far too much make-up. The girl smiled politely as Tina approached, wishing her a good afternoon in a Polish accent. Her colleague, meanwhile, said nothing but gave her a more suspicious look, clocking immediately that she was police, even though Tina wasn't wearing a uniform and always made a conscious effort never to give off that aura. Some people simply have a nose for spotting coppers, and they're usually the ones who have the most to fear from them.
Tina smiled at the girl. 'Good afternoon, my name's Tina Boyd from the Serious and Organized Crime Agency.' She held up her warrant card. 'I'd like to speak to the owner, please.'
'I'll deal with this, Barbara,' said the older woman in a deep voice that was midway between a bear and Demi Moore. 'The owners aren't here.
They're not based in this country.' Her expression seemed to add, so what the hell are you going to do about that? 'Is there anything I can help with?'
'That depends. Are you the most senior person in the building at the moment?'
There was a moment's hesitation that told Tina the answer was no.
'Well, Mr McMahon's here, but—'
'And what's his position?'
'He's the manager, but I think he's—'
'Well, I'll see him then, thank you.'
'He's busy, Miss whatever-your-name-was,' the woman growled.
Tina wasn't deterred. 'That makes two of us. Can you take me to him, please?'
'I'll call up and see if he's available.'
She picked up a phone behind the desk, scowling at Tina, who stared back at her impassively, amazed why some people always had to put up a token resistance to the police before they acquiesced, even though the end result was inevitable.
The woman hung up. 'OK, he can see you now.'
Tina followed her through the main gambling area, a big, windowless place with all the charm of an aircraft hangar. Only a handful of the gaming tables were in use, the clientele mainly quiet Chinese men wearing inscrutable expressions as they placed their bets. None of them looked up as Tina and her guide passed by in silence.
Mr McMahon's office was at the far end of the building, up a flight of stairs and along a short corridor. The woman knocked on his door and moved out of the way for Tina to go in, giving her a last glare of defiance as she did so.
'The Serious and Organized Crime Agency,' said the man standing behind the desk as Tina shut the door behind her. 'I've not had any dealings with them. Malcolm McMahon,' he said, putting out a hand. 'Pleased to meet you, Miss . . .'
'Boyd. Tina Boyd.'
They shook hands, and Tina took the seat on her side of the desk.
Malcolm McMahon was a big man who looked like he enjoyed a drink. He was good-looking in a brutish sort of way, with slicked-back grey hair fashioned into a widow's peak as sharp as an arrowhead, and a straight one-inch scar edging away from his top lip. He was dressed in a badly ironed shirt and unfashionable striped tie, while his casino clothes – black suit and dress shirt – were hanging up on one wall, next to a bank of eight small screens that showed the gaming area from various angles.
'I hear you SOCA people aren't even police any more,' he said with a smile. 'You're special agents or something. So, what do I call you?'
'Miss Boyd'll do fine.'
He nodded slowly, accepting this. 'Well, Miss Boyd, we run a tight ship here, and we don't tolerate anything illegal, so I don't know how we came to the attention of SOCA. Do you mind if I check your ID again? Just to make sure you are who you say you are. It's amazing how many charlatans there are these days.'
'Sure.'
Tina produced the warrant card from the back pocket of her jeans and handed it to him, noticing the nicotine stains on his thick, stubby fingers as he took it. He examined it carefully before thanking her and handing it back.
'It's about one of your customers.'
'I don't like talking about our customers, Miss Boyd. They value their privacy, and so do we.'
'This is a very serious case, Mr McMahon. If you want me to get official and bring officers down here to interview all your staff, I can. But I'm also prepared to talk off the record, and I can guarantee that anything you tell me will be treated in the strictest confidence.'
'So, you want me to grass up one of my paying punters?' he asked evenly.
Now it was her turn to smile. 'No, I want you to help him. His name's Patrick Phelan, and I know he spends a lot of money in your establishment, and has done so for a long time.' McMahon didn't say anything, so she continued. 'Mr Phelan's gone missing, and we're extremely concerned about his welfare.'
'I don't see how I can help.'
'But you know him?'
McMahon sighed and sat back in his seat. 'Yeah, I know him. He's been coming here for a while. Nice bloke, friendly enough. Not the sort to piss people off.'
'When was the last time you saw him?'
He drummed his fingers on the desk. 'Last week some time. I can't remember for sure, but I definitely haven't seen him this week, and I don't think he's been in. I could check for you.'
'No, it's fine. Who does he usually come in with?'
'Various people. The occasional girl, sometimes with a couple of mates. Sometimes alone.' He shrugged. 'I didn't really know any of them.'
Tina reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a pack of Silk Cut. 'Do you mind if I smoke?' She knew from the way McMahon wasn't settling that he was itching for a cigarette, and from the stale smell in the room it was obvious he usually puffed away in here.
He grinned, and leaned down behind the desk. When his hand re-emerged, it was holding a huge half-full ashtray.
'Didn't realize you were a smoker,' he said. 'Now that it's against the law to have a fag in your own office, I thought I'd best be careful when you came in.'
'That's one law I'm happy to break,' she said, offering him a cigarette.
He took it, and she lit for both of them. A rapport had been struck based on their shared identity as social outcasts, just as Tina had hoped. It was amazing what you could do with a rapport.
'According to his bank statements, Mr Phelan was a big spender, and it didn't look like he was very successful.'
'He wasn't. He'd have a few drinks and he'd start getting reckless. Sometimes it worked – you know, who dares wins and all that – but most of the time it didn't.'
Tina took a drag on her cigarette. 'The thing is, the statements also show that his spending plummeted in the last couple of months, but it sounds like he was still coming here.' She paused. 'Any idea where he might have been getting his money from?'
'We've got credit lines we can extend to valued customers. Pat's a valued customer.'
'But you weren't extending credit to him for two months solid, were you?'
He shook his head. 'No, we weren't. We stopped a few weeks back. He still owes us more
than three grand. He asked the other week for more time to pay. He told me he had what he called an alternative means of income. I wasn't happy. I like Pat, but this is business.'
Tina kept her interest in check. 'Did he give you any idea what this alternative means of income was?'
'Nah. He just promised me it was kosher.'
'Was he borrowing money from any other sources, as far as you know?'
This time, McMahon's silence didn't sit naturally. He looked evasive.
'Remember, Mr McMahon, this talk's purely off the record. If you know anything, I can guarantee it won't get back to you.'
McMahon continued to sit there smoking. Tina didn't push things. She waited.
'Look,' he said at last, 'I like Pat. He's a nice bloke. I wouldn't want to think anything bad's happened to him. But if it has, I'd want whoever's involved to suffer. You know what I mean?'
'Sure.'
'This is definitely, definitely off the record, right?'
Tina nodded, realizing something significant was coming.
'Pat doesn't just owe us. He also owes someone you really don't want to be in hock to. Man by the name of Leon Daroyce.'
'I don't know him,' she said, making no attempt to write the name down. Producing a notebook might give this talk an official air and spook him, and she didn't want that. She'd remember the name easy enough.
'He's a loan shark, and a big player round these parts,' McMahon continued. 'I think a few of our punters have used his services, but you've got to be pretty desperate. The rates he charges are high and, like I said, he really ain't a nice bloke.'
'Have you got any idea how much Phelan owes him?'
He shook his head. 'Pat never told me about Daroyce. I just heard rumours. It was one of the reasons I cut the credit lines to him. I was worried we wouldn't get paid.'
Tina was going to have to find out as much as she could about Leon Daroyce and how much Phelan was in the can to him. If Daroyce was such a brutal operator – and with a man like McMahon, clearly no stranger to violence himself, saying it then she was inclined to believe he must be – it was also possible that Pat Phelan had gone to extraordinary lengths to get the money to pay him. Maybe even resorting to the kidnap of his stepdaughter.
'I think that's everything, Mr McMahon,' she said, standing up. 'Thanks for your time, and for being so candid with me.'
He stubbed out his cigarette. 'I'm trusting you, Miss Boyd. If word gets out that I pointed you in Leon Daroyce's direction, things ain't going to look good for me.'
'I keep my word.'
'Yeah,' he said, watching her carefully. 'You look like you do.' He lit another cigarette, blew out some smoke. 'A word of advice. Be careful. Leon Daroyce tends to take things personal.'
Tina opened the door, gave him a cool smile. 'Don't worry about me, Mr McMahon, I'm always careful.'
Nineteen
There was one reason above any other why Tina Boyd was always careful. She attracted trouble. It hadn't always been like that. She'd had a happy middle-class upbringing in the country, the product of two parents who appeared to love each other, and certainly loved her. She'd gone to private school, then to university, studied English and Psychology, did her time on the well-worn backpacking trail. And then, while all her friends took up their office jobs, she'd joined the police. It hadn't been on a whim – well, not entirely anyway. She'd never fancied office work, and she'd always had an inquisitive mind. She was interested in what made people tick. Maybe she should have been a psychiatrist, but somehow she thought she'd learn more about the human condition as a cop. And she had, too, although she wasn't at all sure that it had been a positive development.
For the first few years of her police career things had been remarkably trouble-free. She'd spent two years in uniform – and was one of the few officers in her station who was never assaulted once – before joining Islington CID as a detective constable. As a graduate, she was on the fast track. A senior position looked inevitable, and sooner rather than later.
But then things had started to go wrong. First, she was taken hostage by a suspect she'd been investigating and was hit in the crossfire when he was shot dead by armed CO19 officers. The wound she suffered was comparatively light, and she was back at work within six weeks, to much fanfare and an immediate promotion to detective sergeant. They'd even put her on the cover of one of the issues of Police Review shortly afterwards. It should have made her happy, but she knew she didn't deserve the praise. She'd made a mistake which had got her into the position of being shot in the first place, and it looked like she was being rewarded for that. If she was honest with herself – something that she was constantly – then this was the part of the whole incident that had scarred her the most. Tina was a perfectionist, and when it came down to it she'd been found wanting.
Barely six months later, trouble came calling again, except this time it was with a vengeance. A detective she'd been working with closely was murdered while on a case they were both involved in, followed only weeks later by the apparent suicide of her long-term lover, also a police officer, which turned out to be a murder indirectly related to the same case. Suddenly, from being the next big thing, she'd become tainted by association, the kind of cop everyone wants to avoid in case something should happen to them. Someone had even nicknamed her the Black Widow, and the name had stuck.
She never saw the people who'd killed the two men so close to her brought to justice. It was possible that not all of them had been. This knowledge had scarred her too, and she'd resigned from the force, hit the rails, and become very depressed. She might never have recovered – at one point, things had genuinely felt that bad – but then she'd met Mike Bolt, who was then working for the National Crime Squad, and he must have seen something in her because he persuaded her to join his team, and to move across with them when the NCS became SOCA.
She appreciated what he'd done for her, and she worked hard at her job to demonstrate this. Sometimes she thought Bolt was attracted to her, occasionally even that this was the reason he'd hired her in the first place, and consequently she tended to keep her distance from him in the workplace. He was a good-looking guy, there was no question about that. Tall, broad-shouldered, with blond hair only just beginning to fleck with grey, and piercing blue eyes that were so striking she'd thought at first (wrongly) that he wore contact lenses. She almost certainly would have gone for him at one time, but things were different for her now. She'd had her fingers burned far too badly, and the experience had made her more cautious. She'd become a loner, someone who kept herself to herself both inside and outside a work environment, and she knew that some of the team resented her for it, putting her manner down to a brusqueness that wasn't there.
She'd been a fun girl once. Had got drunk, got laid, travelled the world. Smoked dope so strong in northern Thailand she'd hallucinated. Swum, awestruck, with dolphins on the Great Barrier Reef. Had a real life. She didn't really have one any more, and there were times – more often than she'd like – when she was filled with an angry regret over the path she'd chosen, and its bitter consequences, wondering how things might have turned out if she'd taken the office job.
But today wasn't one of those times. She was actually feeling good as she walked along Colindale Avenue in the direction of the Underground, the autumn sun warming the back of her neck. She was on her way back to the Glasshouse and had already called ahead and told Bolt about Pat Phelan's alleged debt problems, as well as asking him to check out anything they had on Leon Daroyce.
Bolt had seemed pleased with the lead – which he should have been, because it provided them with a motive for the kidnap – but he'd also sounded under strain, which wasn't like him. Mike Bolt was generally calm and level-headed, the type of guy who was able to withstand pressure. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed working with him. She felt she could trust his leadership.
'Hey lady, how you doin'?'
The words, delivered in a deep baritone with a faux American twang, snappe
d her straight out of her thoughts. She turned to see a silver Merc pull up beside her. The man addressing her through the open window was a well-built, smooth headed black man in his thirties, wearing shades and an expensive-looking suit.
'I'm not buying, I'm not available, and I'm not interested. So piss off.' She looked away and kept walking, but the car kept pace with her.
Tina didn't take kindly to being accosted in the street by strangers. It happened now and again. This was London, after all. She tended to ignore them, and usually they went away, but it didn't look like this guy was going to. She was a hundred metres from the Tube station now, the irony of the fact that she was only spitting distance from Hendon Police College not lost on her. God knows why this guy was picking on her, but if he decided to jump out of the car and cut up rough, then he'd get a lot more than he bargained for.
She heard the guy chuckle. 'You got some spirit, lady. I like that. A friend of mine would like to speak to you. I hear you might want to speak to him too.'
She stopped, turned his way, saw a white guy with a tight T-shirt and big biceps beyond him in the driver's seat.
'Is that right?' she said. 'And who's your friend?'
'His name's Leon, but to you he's Mr Daroyce.'
Tina cursed to herself. How the hell had he found out about her this fast? Then she thought of that brassy bitch who'd taken her up to McMahon's office, and it came to her. She must have been listening at the door. And there she'd been, saying how careful she always was. Not careful enough, darling.
'Thanks for the offer, but I have a rule never to get into cars with strangers.'
'Does it still count if we know you, Tina Boyd?' The man gave her a predatory smile as he made a great show of emphasizing the pronunciation of those last two words.
The use of her name made Tina feel naked and exposed. 'No, it doesn't,' she answered, beginning to turn away.
'If you don't come now, we might have to come and find you, Tina Boyd.' His voice had hardened now, laced with threat.
Deadline Page 12