by Lee Stevens
The four lads didn’t move aside for Riley to walk past. Instead they continued on side by side, like they were off to see the fucking Wizard of Oz, and it was the smallest of them – Dorothy - who actually barged into Riley, pushing him with his shoulder, obviously thinking he was securely backed up by the others and assuming he was safe to start some trouble.
Riley stopped and stared at him. The adrenalin flooded into his fists.
The lad stuck his face close to Riley’s.
“Watch where you’re going you fucking di-”
The only reason Dorothy’s cap hit the floor before he did was that Riley’s flurry of punches kept the little bastard up for another couple of seconds after his legs gave way. When he did hit the deck, the tallest of the lads threw himself at Riley and tried to put him in a headlock. He was obviously the scarecrow because he didn’t have a brain.
You don’t win a street-fight by wrestling! People had teeth. Putting someone in a headlock was a sure fire way to lose a nipple.
But Riley never had to use his teeth.
As the lad’s arms went around his neck, Riley smashed his head up into the lad’s chin, chattering his teeth together loudly. Then he pushed him away by shoving his thumbs into his eyes and then, when there was enough space between them, finished things with a couple of well placed punches before turning on the other two.
Because the scarecrow was on the floor, his hands up to his face as he whimpered like a girl, the cowardly lion took one look at Riley before suddenly sprinting off along the street without looking back.
Just the Tin Man left now, and Riley went for him.
“Whoa,” the lad said, holding up his hands to show he didn’t want to fight. “Nothing to do with me, mate. I don’t want any trouble.”
“You’re friends did,” Riley said.
“They’re not really my friends. I don’t really know them. Seriously, I had nothing to do with this.”
Fucking heartless prick, Riley thought as he walked off, leaving the lad untouched. You should always back your friends up – even if they are aresholes. You should always be there for them. Sometimes they were all you had.
And they couldn’t dump you as easily as a girlfriend could.
Riley didn’t feel any better or any worse after the brief one-sided battle. He just wanted to get home and forget about tonight. So much for a nice meal and a fiancé! Now he was single and soon to be wanted by the police for GBH.
Within fifteen minutes he arrived home and saw that the light was still on downstairs. His grandmother must be waiting up for him – that’s if she hadn’t fallen asleep in front of the television again.
What do I tell her? he wondered as he went inside and kicked off his shoes. He’d told her about his plan to propose tonight. Now he’d have to tell her that he and Maria had split up. He didn’t care about himself, about the embarrassment of being rejected by the woman he loved. If anything, he was dreading seeing his grandmother upset. She’d been so happy for him earlier. Bless her.
“Hi, grandma,” he called from the hallway. “Only me!”
No answer.
He strode into the living room knowing what he’d see. Yes, there she was, sound asleep in her armchair, a slight smile on her face as she dreamed nice dreams about whatever it was sweet old ladies dreamed of. She probably hadn’t seen any of the sit-com that was on. Probably fell asleep a few minutes after he’d left. She’d been tired a lot recently. Well, she was almost eighty...
“Grandma?” Riley walked closer. He decided to wake her and get this over with. “Wake up, grandma.”
As he tapped her cold hand, canned laughter erupted from the television.
His grandmother never moved.
“Grandma?” Riley sank to his knees beside her. This wasn’t right. “Wake up, grandma. Grandma, wake up!”
He nudged her arm gently.
His dear grandmother’s held lolled to one side.
The smile stayed in place.
“Grandma?” Riley said, but the tears had already started. He knew she couldn’t hear him. “Grandma, it’s me, Riley. Please wake up. Please... grandma...”
He took hold of one of her hands. It felt like marble.
He kissed it as sobs began to wrack his body.
“Please wake up... please...”
Suddenly, losing Maria didn’t seem so bad.
20
Saturday mornings were the same as every other morning for Riley.
Up by eight (no matter how late the previous night was), followed by a quick change into his track suit and then out for his three mile jog along the river. It was a good way to start the day, and he enjoyed pushing his body to stay in shape. Plus exercise was also the closest thing to physically pain he could experience. He’d given up weight training several years ago as he wasn’t bothered about adding more mass to his physique and now just wanted to keep trim and remain fit. Plus, big muscles meant nothing. A lot of people think that if they hit the gym or inject steroids and become freakishly huge then they’ll suddenly become tough guys and great fighters. But it doesn’t happen that way. Just because you can bench press three-fifty doesn’t mean you can’t get knocked out by a bloke weighing ten-stone soaking wet. Just ask Howden. He was one of the biggest bastards you could meet and looked meaner than a Rottweiler with toothache, but he had a notoriously soft jaw. One punch in the right place and he would go to sleep sounder than a baby after a couple of doses of Calpol. Riley, on the other hand, didn’t look like the majority of other bouncers. He wasn’t as intimidating, and that often gave the troublemakers a false sense of security – and usually a trip to the hospital or dentist the next day and renewed respect for any man smaller than themselves.
After his jog he would head back home to shower and change and eat a healthy breakfast of toast, cereal and fruit juice. After that, if there were no immediate problems for him to deal with, he had the day to himself before work that evening.
But this morning wasn’t a normal morning.
As Riley lay somewhere slightly north of sleep and contemplated throwing the covers off him, there was a knock at the front door.
He opened one eye and glanced at the alarm clock on the chest of drawers.
07:48a.m.
Before he could even wonder who was disturbing him this early, there were three more raps on the front door.
He quickly pulled on his tracksuit (careful not to disturb the dressing on his lower stomach) and headed out to the hall. The knock on the door was a dead give away; firm and formal - a policeman’s knock.
Through the frosted glass, he could make out two figures standing in the lobby. A man and a woman, by the looks of it.
Riley rubbed his eyes to clean them of sleep and opened the front door.
“Riley Day?” the woman enquired. She looked in her mid-thirties, was small and slim and was wearing a grey suit. Her hair was dark brown – almost black - and worn at shoulder length. As police officers went, she was quite attractive. Actually, she was very attractive.
“That’s me,” Riley said. He looked at the man standing next to her. He was dressed in a suit also and looked a couple of years younger than the woman. He was tall and thin with short ginger hair and a pale complexion. Riley turned back to the woman.
She’s the boss. Watch her!
“I’m detective sergeant Davison.” She held up her ID before turning to the man next to her, who also held up his badge. “This is detective constable Burns.”
“Morning, sir,” Burns said, politely. “I hope we didn’t wake you.”
You fuckers know you did! Riley thought, but said, “I take it you’re here about last night?”
“May we come in, sir?” DS Davison asked and Riley had no option but to invite both officers inside and point the way to the living room.
He was used to dealing with the Old Bill and knew not to give much away. In his world, you took care of problems yourself and kept the police out of it. Still, he had to entertain them.
“Can I get either of you a drink?”
“We’re fine, thank you,” Davison said, answering for Burns as well.
Definitely the boss. Pushy too. Focussed. No bullshit.
“Then you’ll not mind if I make myself one,” Riley said. “You have just woken me, after all.”
He headed into the kitchen, poured himself a large fresh orange juice and added a few ice cubes. Then, enjoying making the two officers wait a little, he drank half of it slowly before heading back into the living room. He didn’t hate the police as much as most of the people he knew, but he certainly didn’t trust them. He knew that even though they were here to interview him as a witness they’d somehow make it seem as though he was guilty of something himself. He saw it at work most nights whenever they arrived after some trouble. Most police officers saw doormen as nothing more than thugs who liked to give people a hiding and caused more trouble than they prevented. No doubt Davison and Burns would know Riley’s occupation and who he worked for and would assume he couldn’t be trusted.
“So, what can I do for you?” Riley asked as he sat down opposite the detectives. They had both taken a seat without being offered and were looking around the smartly furnished living room, taking in the wide screen HD television, the plush leather sofa and expensive hardwood floor under their feet, and he knew they were both thinking, How can a doorman afford a place like this?
DS Davison pulled out a notepad and flicked to a certain page.
“I believe you were a witness to the shootings at Twilight Nightclub last night but you left the scene before the police arrived,” she said.
Riley nodded as he sipped his drink.
“According to other witnesses – A Mr Dylan Purvis in particular - you actually chased the suspects in...” Davison looked up and smiled,”...an Aston Martin DB 9. Is that correct?”
“Yes, I didn’t have time to get to my Lamborghini,” Riley joked.
Davison’s smile never faltered. “We retrieved the Aston Martin early this morning. It was found by the river in a bit of a mess. I take it you had a little accident.”
Riley knew that during police interviews it was best to let them tell you what they knew before you opened your mouth and so he remained evasive.
“I think the car was close to a write-off before I got behind the wheel,” he said. “What with the bullet holes and everything.”
“Forensics matched black paint found on the Aston’s bonnet to the paintwork of a Peugeot found abandoned near the ferry landing,” Burns said. “So we can assume that you came quite close to apprehending the culprits.”
“Not close enough.”
“Did you manage to get the registration?” Davison asked. “Just so we can confirm that the vehicle we found was the one driven by the shooters?”
KY08 PDY, Riley thought, but said, “No, sorry.” They knew they’d found the right car. They were just playing silly buggers.
“How many men were in the car?” Burn’s asked.
“Who said they were men?”
Davison smiled again. Damn, she was good looking.
“How many people were in the car, Mr Day?” she asked.
“Two – that’s all I can tell you. I didn’t see their faces or anything. It was dark.”
“Did you notice anything about them – skin colour, hair colour?”
“No, I barely saw anything of their faces. Both of them had gloves as well, so I can’t be sure about skin tone. They both had black coats on... and jeans - I think.”
His description was vague but at least it looked like he was co-operating.
Burns jotted everything down as Davison went on with the questions.
“The Peugeot we found was bought three days ago,” she said. “A private sale to a Mr Mark Waters. The DVLA received the paperwork yesterday from the previous owner and can’t find any record of a Mr Waters or his address or the licence number supplied. Obviously the car was bought for the sole purpose of the shooting.”
That made sense to Riley. If you were going to use a car for something illegal the best way was to purchase the vehicle shortly before the job for a small sum, use a fake name on the documents and before they could be checked over you do the job, ditch the car and leave no paper trail.
“Could you tell us what happened by the river, Mr Day,” asked Burns.
“I rammed them with the Aston Martin but it hurt itself more than the Peugeot and they got away. That’s it.”
“And then what did you do?” Davison looked at her notes. “Mr Purvis told us that he collected you and that you went to hospital because you had injured yourself. But all local hospitals don’t have any details to say that you attended last night.”
So now I’m guilty of something, am I?
“Mr Purvis dropped me back at the club,” Riley said. “On the ride back there I thought I might’ve got whiplash or something. My neck and shoulders were hurting. So I got in my car intending to go to hospital but-”
“Why didn’t you let the paramedics treat you?” Burns interrupted.
“I thought they had their hands full with four people getting shot,” Riley said, shooting Burns down himself. “Anyway, like I was saying, I intended to go to hospital but I guess I knew there was no serious damage and so I headed back here.” Riley rotated his neck and winced dramatically. “It’s still a little stiff, though.”
The two detectives looked at each other. Riley knew they were planning their next move. So he casually sipped his drink and prepared more excuses for their questions.
“Do you know of anyone who may have a grudge against Mr Nash?” Davison asked.
“Have you got a couple of hours?” Riley said and chuckled.
“If that’s how long you need to tell us,” replied Davison, smiling.
“Look, you two both know who my boss is and the reputation that he has. He’s been investigated by the police on numerous occasions in the past and is a local celebrity because of his reputed role as Thirnbridge’s head gangster. If you, the police don’t know anyone who might want him dead, I’ll be surprised.”
“What I meant, Mr Day,” Davison said, “is are you aware of any recent threats or any recent... business deals that might have caused someone to exact revenge?”
“No,” Riley said. That was the truth. Now time for the lie. “My best guess is that it was just a couple of young punks trying to make a name for themselves. Nash probably had them barred from one of his places or had his doorman throw them out for dealing in the toilets or something and they came back for revenge. Simple as that.”
“What makes you so sure?”
Riley smiled and sat forward in his seat, leaning towards detective Davison. He caught her perfume. It was sweet, but not too sweet.
“Because, if someone big enough wanted to take out Nash, then things would’ve happened differently,” he said. “For one thing, the shooters would’ve acted in a more professional way than a clumsy drive-by. And two, if someone important was behind this, then Nash would’ve found out about it long before that Peugeot came around that corner and someone killed his son.”
Riley finished his drink and waited as Burns and Davison scribbled notes. Then, obviously sensing that this interview was going nowhere, the DS stood up and said, “Thank you, Mr Day. If you think of anything else then you call me. Here’s my card.”
Riley took it and followed them to the door. He’d file it in the bin when they left.
When Davison stepped out into the lobby, she politely asked Riley, “Day off today?”
“Until tonight,” he said.
“Oh, yes. You provide security for Nash’s premises. Night time work.” Davison pulled a face. “Don’t think I’d like that. Waiting around all day, starting your shift when others are out having fun. It can’t be nice.”
“You get used to it,” he said.
“Well, at least you can rest until then.” She turned to walk away. Then, as Riley half closed the door, she stopped and looked back. A classic Colu
mbo moment. “Oh, saying that, I forgot to tell you something. Nash discharged himself from hospital at seven this morning, so maybe he’ll have some overtime for you - if you get what I mean. Goodbye Mr Day.”
Riley remained at the door as both officers walked along the lobby towards the lift. When they were out of sight he hurried back into his bedroom and grabbed his mobile from the cabinet.
There was one new message. It had come through ten minutes earlier, around the time he was pouring himself an orange juice and making the detectives wait. It was from Purvis.
NASH HOME
MEETING AT 12
Riley texted back OK and then threw the phone on the bed.
Detective sergeant Davison had been right. Overtime was certainly on the cards.
21
The usual meeting place to discuss private matters was a converted flat above a vacant butcher’s shop just off the main high street. Nash owned the flat and the butcher’s shop, plus each building either side which were also vacant. This way meetings were more personal and having the police eavesdrop on any conversation were minimal as the chances of planting a bug was close to zero. Listening in on the conversations of a suspected gang boss wasn’t reserved for the FBI, and although any overheard information could be disregarded in a court of law, the authorities could still use the tapes to plan raids and spoil potential business deals, and even though Nash was almost untouchable thanks to a mixture of bribery and threats, he obviously didn’t want to take any chances, not with DI Thornton being dead and not being able to warn him anymore.
As Riley pulled up he saw Purvis waiting outside, and although his friend had changed his clothes, his heavy eyes and unshaven appearance gave the impression he’d been up all night. The other lads must be inside already. Riley could see McCabe’s Toyota and Howden’s Honda parked up along the road but couldn’t see any of Nash’s cars. He obviously wasn’t here yet. When Nash arrived, things started. Late-comers weren’t waited on.