by Paul Finch
He thus headed back into the town centre, parked in a side-street and literally window-shopped for twenty minutes, before returning to his Megane, and just to ensure that he wasn’t completely wasting his morning, drew a clipboard from under his seat and dealt with a couple of bits of pending paperwork. It was just before eleven when he set off back to the Lawkholme. This time, he was pleased to see that other vehicles had assembled on the pub car park, including a dingy green-and-white van and, yes, that familiar white Mazda.
It was now ten past eleven, still too early for Heck’s purposes. So again, he parked up on a side-street, this time on the estate itself, and scribbled his way through what more paperwork he could. At twenty to twelve, he shoved everything back under his seat, drove back to the Empress Britannia, and slid to a halt among the other vehicles on its car park.
Checking his watch again, he saw that it was now ten to twelve.
Perfect timing. He hoped.
He climbed out, locked his car and strolled to the pub’s main door.
Inside, there was a cement-floored corridor with a single fruit machine in it and at the far end two toilet doors covered in peeling paint and chunks of dry chewing gum. A couple of disreputable-looking characters were hanging around in here. They were about twenty years old and wearing tracksuits, anoraks zipped to the throat, and baseball caps pulled down over spotty weasel faces. They leaned against the wall smoking joints, watching Heck curiously as he sauntered past into the main taproom. This was another drab affair: bare walls save for strings of glittery stuff dangling down at the back of a low stage in one corner, a linoleum floor, and strip-lighting overhead. Heck hadn’t expected many customers, but various figures were dotted among the tables and chairs. They were exclusively male, most of indeterminate age and yet all with the disconsolate look of the long-term unemployed. Some read newspapers and sipped from pints; two faced each other in silence as they focused on a game of dominoes.
However, in the farthest corner, beyond the pool tables, there was a noisier crowd.
Eight or nine figures clustered, laughing and swearing amid a sea of empty bottles. There were no financial constraints on view here. They were playing cards, slapping down wads of serious cash: tenners, twenties, fifties. Heck even saw jewellery on offer: rings, necklaces, watches.
The heroin trade clearly paid.
Lee Shaughnessy held court in the middle. The guy with the tattooed star and trickling stardust on his cheek was seated left of him. A rather slatternly-looking girl with a fake tan, brassy bottle-blonde hair and big earrings sat on his right, looking bored as she leaned on her fist. Shaughnessy had dressed down a little: his blond hair was brushed crisply back, but now he wore a red short-sleeved shirt hanging open on a string-vest. He glanced up as Heck wove through the tables. They made eye contact, but Shaughnessy merely smiled to himself and went back to his game.
The barman was an obese slob, flabby and lantern-jawed, with long, ratty hair, his sagging, porcine shape stuffed messily into scruffy jeans and a beer-stained shirt. His podgy hands, the fingers crammed with cheap rings and bearing the tattooed lettering ‘Love’ and ‘Hate’, clutched a well-thumbed copy of the Daily Star, though his attention was divided between this and the occasional lumps of grot that he dug from his nostril as he slumped on a stool. He remained preoccupied with this even when Heck arrived at the bar. One other customer was waiting there, though he already had a bottle of lager in his hand. He wore trainers, tracksuit bottoms and nothing else but neck-chains. His bare torso was blotted with homemade tats. He had a short thatch of spiky hair, odd, simian-like features, bulging brows and a sloped forehead. He turned and peered unblinkingly at Heck with lustreless, mud-brown eyes.
Though that was more interest than the barman showed; he remained seated, reading his paper and picking his nose.
‘Hey,’ Heck said. ‘You working today, or what?’
The barman gave him an indifferent look. ‘Are you?’
‘That obvious, is it?’
‘Always.’
‘Pint of Best’ll do it.’
Grudgingly, as if he really had lots of better things to do, the barman slid from his stool, fished around under the counter for an empty pint glass and began to draw the beer.
‘The word is there’re lots of drugs being sold in here,’ Heck said.
The barman’s gaze flitted up to him. ‘That’s a fucking lie. Anyone I catch dealing in here, they’re out on their arses.’
Heck indicated the crowd gathered around Shaughnessy. ‘How about these fellas? They wouldn’t be the ones responsible, would they?’
The barman’s expression changed. He looked at Heck askance. ‘You really shouldn’t do this.’
‘Shouldn’t I?’ Heck considered that. ‘So if I was to shake all these lads down, I wouldn’t find anything naughty?’
‘Seriously, if you want your palm greasing, this is not the way to go about it.’
‘If I wanted that, I’d pat you on the head.’
The barman stopped drawing the beer. ‘Best if you leave, I reckon … officer.’
‘Yeah?’ Heck said. ‘You think you’re chucking me out?’
‘I don’t want any trouble in here.’
‘Christ’s sake, Lennie, give him his drink!’ Shaughnessy called from the corner. ‘He may be stupid as fuck but at least he’s got balls.’
Heck glanced at Shaughnessy, who was still laying down money. He turned back to the barman, who sullenly pulled the rest of the pint and slid it over. Heck paid and received his change, a transaction completed in absolute silence, the only sound coming from the television on the high shelf, on which a morning talk show was just finishing.
Heck noticed that the ape-faced guy with the bare top was still watching him.
Heck winked at him before heading to the corner, sidling past the first of the pool tables and standing alongside the card game. Most of the participants, Shaughnessy included, ignored him, though the guy with the star and stardust on his face was visibly agitated.
‘You gonna go all Steven Seagal on us now?’ Shaughnessy wondered. ‘Kick the shit out of us in our own place?’
‘I’d like to see him fucking try,’ Stardust muttered.
‘Just want to talk,’ Heck said.
Shaughnessy raised his foot and shoved a spare chair part-way from under the table. Heck sat down. With the exception of Stardust, the rest of the card-players continued to ignore him. The ape-faced guy slumped into another empty seat opposite, from where he continued to watch Heck with unflinching intensity.
‘This is Eyeball,’ Shaughnessy said conversationally. ‘We call him that because his hobby used to be going into pubs around town and staring people out he didn’t like. Had more scraps than Floyd fucking Mayweather, usually without a single fucking insult exchanged.’
‘One way to get on in life,’ Heck commented.
‘Trouble is – think he wants a piece of you.’
‘In which case,’ Heck said, ‘it’s probably better if he isn’t party to this conversation.’
‘I see.’ Shaughnessy laid down a card. ‘These are the ground rules, are they?’
‘This is super-important stuff, Lee, and as before, it’s likely to be beneficial to you and your crew. But I’m not wasting my time if some back-of-the-class loser who’d rather get a slap from the teacher than be ignored keeps trying to distract us.’
‘That’s tough talk when the exit’s on the other side of the room.’ The message was clear, but Shaughnessy spoke in an idle, unconcerned tone, his attention focused on his cards.
Heck turned to Eyeball. ‘Hey, pal – take a fucking hike. Before your boss ends up knowing less by the end of today than he did when he got up.’
Eyeball bored into Heck with his weird, mud-coloured peepers.
‘Play some pool,’ Shaughnessy said quietly.
Still staring, Eyeball pushed his chair back, stood up and retreated three steps, before abruptly turning away to the pool tables.
One by one, they glanced round at him, brows furrowed, mouths twitching.
Shaughnessy gave a distinctive rasping titter, almost a cackle. ‘OK … suppose I should say it. This had better be good!’
Heck checked the TV screen over the bar. Adverts were playing. It was a little before noon, and the commencement of the lunchtime news bulletin. The main thing now was to keep them talking.
‘The Incinerator struck again last night, Lee,’ he said.
‘You don’t fucking say.’ Shaughnessy sounded bored.
‘Killed a girl in a house on Blaymire Close.’
‘That’s just nasty.’
‘The wrong girl,’ Heck said.
He watched them carefully, but detected neither a flinch nor a twitch from any one of them as they continued to play. Only after several seconds did Shaughnessy’s eyes swivel up.
‘You’re waiting for some kind of response to that, I take it?’
‘You’re not interested to know more?’ Heck asked.
‘I’m sure if I was, I wouldn’t have to play cryptic games with you, detective. Her name will be released to the public in due course. Then we’ll all know more, won’t we?’
Cool bastards, these men, Heck told himself. They’ve either carried out this hit themselves and have already realised it was the wrong girl, in which case they’ve had enough time to relax about it. Or they haven’t done this hit at all.
He glanced at the TV. The news was now starting.
‘In actual fact, two people died last night,’ he said. ‘Both were what we’d call collateral damage. Bystanders – completely innocent.’
‘Certainly a bad lad, this fella,’ Shaughnessy replied.
‘Yeah. Not much of a night’s work, though. Two people dead, and the main target scarpered.’
Shaughnessy smiled again. ‘You must admonish him when you catch him. Assuming you ever do.’ He grinned at his crew, who snickered. ‘Good word, eh … “admonish”.’ He glanced at Heck. ‘I read Wikipedia.’
‘Have you looked up the meaning of “smartarse”?’ Heck wondered.
Shaughnessy mock-frowned. ‘That’s not very polite.’
‘Because in trying to maintain your street-cool at all costs, Lee, I think you’re missing something crucial. As long as innocent people are dying, it’s going to make my colleagues more and more determined to nail the bastard responsible to the nearest barn door by his gonads.’
Shaughnessy played more cards. ‘That’d be called insensitive policing.’
‘You don’t know the meaning of insensitive policing, son. But you will.’
Stardust finally jumped to his feet. He glared at Heck with livid hatred, saliva clumped in his mouth.
But Shaughnessy remained calm. ‘And there’s me thinking you didn’t fancy us for this one.’
‘It doesn’t matter what I say,’ Heck said. ‘I’m a voice in the wilderness.’
Shaughnessy thought about that. ‘Well, your support’s appreciated. Even if your colleagues think you’re basically showing your arse at the top of Bradburn Market Street –’
Another voice now intruded. It was the newscaster on the TV.
‘Greater Manchester Police today confirmed that the house-fire at Blaymire Close in Bradburn last night, which claimed two lives, is believed to be connected to the underworld feud currently raging in the town.’
Heck looked up. Gemma appeared on screen. She was standing outside Bradburn Central with her usual air, whenever being interviewed, of glamorous efficiency.
‘We can’t say it for certain yet,’ she admitted, ‘but all the evidence we’ve managed to gather suggests suspicious activity.’
‘So the fire was started deliberately?’ a reporter asked.
‘We believe so, yes.’
‘And was a flamethrower used?’
‘We think it probably was.’
The newscaster’s voice intruded again. ‘In a further development, Operation Wandering Wolf, which is the special taskforce set up to investigate the underworld violence in Bradburn, have released this e-fit of a man they’d like to speak to in connection with the crimes.’
Now Shaughnessy looked up at the screen – just as the e-fit appeared there.
As Heck had expected, it depicted a none too distinguishable face, clearly white Caucasian and yet smudged all over with soot. The jawline, the nose, the eyes, the brows were all strong and well-defined, but so standard in terms of shape and size that they could have belonged to anyone.
‘The suspect is somewhere in his mid to late thirties,’ the newscaster added, ‘of medium build and approximately five foot eight inches tall –’
‘Fucking joking!’ came an angry howl.
Heck spun in his chair.
But the shout had come from Eyeball, and it related to an altercation he was having with a couple of the guys he was playing pool with. They weren’t even looking at the TV, though others in the room were. Heck glanced at Shaughnessy, whose attention had reverted to the cards. He glanced at Stardust, who still watched him with undisguised malice, though even he seemed to have cooled a little. In fact, all across the taproom, the gang members were indulging in whatever it was they’d been doing previously.
None who’d seen the news bulletin had responded in any obvious way.
They couldn’t care less, Heck realised. They’d surely have reacted in some shape or form to the sight of that face, because, nondescript though it was, if they knew the perp personally, they’d fear that it might be enough to render him recognisable to police informants.
He turned back to Shaughnessy. ‘Did you tip me off about Blaymire Close, Lee?’
‘You still here?’ Shaughnessy asked. ‘Thought now you’d delivered your good news, you’d have fluttered off.’
‘I asked for some help the other day, and I got it,’ Heck said. ‘Presumably from you?’
‘I’d be glad to help if I knew anything. Can’t have bad men like that running around.’
‘Course, if you were to confirm my suspicion that it was you or someone on your team who tipped me off, that would really put you in the clear. I mean, there’d be no sense you marking my cards about a possible Incinerator target up on Blaymire Close, and then going and whacking her yourself, would there?’
‘Put some pasties on, Len,’ Shaughnessy called to the barman. ‘We’re starving over here.’
The barman slid from his stool and disappeared into a back room. Shaughnessy returned to his game. Even Stardust was now ignoring Heck.
‘Last chance, Lee,’ Heck said. ‘I’d like to dismiss you from this enquiry. You know why? Not, it may surprise you, because I think you’re the sort of upstanding guy who should be next in line for a knighthood, but because you’re the kind of vermin that makes a good suspect in any case … and in that regard you’re complicating things for us. You know … getting in the way. But if you don’t mind that, if you’d prefer GMP on top of you as well as Vic Ship, that’s fine … we’ll do it your way.’
‘Yeah, no worries,’ Shaughnessy said, distracted. ‘See you.’
Heck pushed his chair back, stood and strolled away across the taproom with muted comments and snide chuckles ringing in his ears. Outside, he trekked across the car park to his Megane and climbed in. With a crunch of gears he drove to the exit, where he pulled out onto the main drag and hit the gas. In appearance, he was a beaten man; red-faced, helpless in his frustration, now heading out of Lee Shaughnessy’s heartland at high speed.
But that was all for show. Because in reality he didn’t go very far at all.
Chapter 34
Lee Shaughnessy and Benny Robson (he with the star and stardust tats on his cheek) left the Empress Britannia at just after four that afternoon. They’d both been drinking and had done a few lines of coke, but this was their usual status, so they didn’t consider that it would affect their performance. They had meetings to att
end, deals to make, wheels to turn. Like so many of his breed, Shaughnessy had several levels of soldiers around his inner sanctum of trusted loyalists. But he was a hands-on bloke too. His name carried weight in this town; his actual presence could change situations. Of course, this didn’t mean there weren’t problems at present. Things were more than a little tense than they had been for quite some time, and that was never good for business.
They sauntered across the car park and round to the front of the Mazda – at which point Shaughnessy stopped in his tracks. A pistol, a nine-millimetre semi-automatic, was sitting on the roof of his car just above the driver’s door.
Shaughnessy rarely lost his cool. It didn’t happen because he saw no value in it. The bull’s innate weakness was the red rag. But the bull, like most of human society, was dumb. Shaughnessy wasn’t. Until now … until, in the midst of a crisis he was putting a brave face on, he was presented with something else he’d never anticipated.
‘What the fuck!’ He snatched the gun down and hefted it in his right hand, firstly to see if it was loaded, which it wasn’t, and then to see if he could identify whether it was one of their own.
Neither he nor Robson spotted the silent form come swiftly up behind. The first they knew was a brutal smack of fist on jawbone. Robson’s knees buckled, the black flash of a second blow clubbing him in the nape of the neck, ensuring that when his face hit the ground, he was already unconscious. It happened so quickly that Shaughnessy didn’t have time to react before his arm was grabbed and twisted behind his back, the gun wrestled from his grasp as he was slammed face-first against the Mazda.
‘You’re under arrest for possession of a prohibited firearm, you pimply-faced wanker!’ Heck clamped handcuffs on his wrists, and raised the Makarov into view, looped by its trigger guard over his gloved finger. ‘Dearie me, look at that. How fortunate I came along when I did and saw you. And how unfortunate for Stardust here that he tried to impede me in the execution of my duty.’
Shaughnessy was choked with rage. ‘You won’t get away with this … you fucking …’
‘Get away with what?’ Heck frisked him to ensure he wasn’t carrying for real. ‘Making a legal arrest? I’m only sorry there are no cameras outside this shithole you call a pub, so the world could see a very bad man get banged to rights completely fucking lawfully. In fact, it might be better even than that. Who knows how many murders this gun’s been used in? This isn’t just a very good day for law and order, Lee, it’s a very, very bad day for you.’