by Frank Lean
Clint works on a farm. The constant hard labour, involving lifting awkward animals, bales of hay, and even pulling tractors out of ditches has developed his physique to frightening proportions. He has to have most of his clothes specially made.
The local thug community are in terror of him. Unfortunately those two fire bombers weren’t locals. They definitely weren’t local knuckle-draggers, not the steroid-crazed types you’d expect at a firebombing party at all. I replayed the attack over and over in my mind.
We’d been very, very lucky.
If things had gone as they’d planned we’d have had no chance. I shivered and not from the night air. Paranoid I may be after being unjustly locked up and finding every man’s hand against me but sometimes a touch of it pays off. But for the clattering cans rousing me and the creaking gate alerting Jan we’d be incinerated corpses now and our children with us.
Yes, the killings would be headline news for a day. Some people would be shocked but incendiary attacks are everyday occurrences. I could easily imagine the snide briefings some coppers would give the press … ‘bears all the hallmarks of a gangland killing’. That’s what they’d say before making backhanded references to my many alleged scrapes with the law.
Gangland was just what it wasn’t. The way the tall guy had rescued the shorter one at risk of his own neck was completely untypical. A local villain would have saved himself first. Hell, a local villain would have been out of there the instant he spotted me poking the shotgun towards him. Those two were ex-military or ex-police: trained men who knew exactly what they were going to do and came with back-up in the shape of extra fire bombs in case their first try failed.
Clint could supply muscle but was that going to be any use against professional killers?
Accepting Clint’s services and taking care of him while he provided them was the normal price of asking Bob Lane for a favour and I was about to ask him for a biggie. I wanted the use of his current safe house.
The bond between Bob, Clint and me goes back a long way. Bob saved my neck when I was starting out as a PI. He had no particular need to help me then but he did. Why I don’t know. Maybe he figured he might need a friend one day or just liked the colour of my bonny blue eyes but help me he did and since then we’ve exchanged favours more times than I can count.
If Clint has a menacing appearance so does Bob. The man’s almost as wide as he’s tall and there’s very little fat on his solid frame. If his brother’s built like the fabled brick shit-house Bob gives the impression that he could walk through the wall of one. He used to be called ‘Popeye’ by people stupid or brave enough to risk a broken limb. That was back when he ran one of the hardest crews in Manchester. His crew was never openly criminal. Bob made his money fending off the real criminals who were battening on the city’s flourishing club scene with little opposition from the police. He was always willing to trade blow for blow with the lowlifes in ways which the likes of Uncle Lew and the top coppers looked down their noses at.
Though he worked on the borderline of legality and may have strayed across it (and who was I to judge him), there’s one reason which has kept Bob Lane on the side of the angels.
That reason is the memory of his mother, a tiny little woman, the complete old fashioned ‘mum’ with her grey hair in a granny bun and a pinafore over her dress. If Clint and Bob could terrify any number of local nuisances and would-be ‘hard men’ the pair of them lived in equal fear of Mrs Lane. To this day a reminder that his sainted and long dead mother wouldn’t approve is enough to quell Clint when he gets above himself and it keeps Bob on the straight and narrow too.
Yeah, I know … get the violin section out. It’s corny but true. But for his mother and her memory, Bob and Clint Lane could have been the worst criminals to hit Britain since the Krays.
Bob owns several clubs and is always awake in the wee small hours. It’s hard to keep up with what his clubs are called at any particular time but the changes in the drinking regulations have been a godsend to Bob. He’s coining it. He’s also gone into student haunts in a big way; fancy places with loads of plate glass, abstract art and ‘all the lager you can drink for ten quid’ nights.
‘Mr Lane’s executive assistant,’ the female voice answered.
‘Tammy it’s Dave, put Bob on will you?’
Tammy Marsden is Bob’s squeeze. She’s been with him for some time. A luxuriantly upholstered former lap‑dancer, Tammy has expectations and sees Clint as an obstacle in her path to matrimony. However, I sense her intended has doubts. Bob wonders if he’d pass on Clint’s handicap to children of his own. I’ve begun to think that he uses Clint as an excuse for delay. He’s heard the relevant medical advice often enough.
I overheard a whispered consultation and then he came on.
‘Dave, me old fruit and nut cake, what’s troubling you at this hour when an honest businessman such as yourself ought to be clocking up the zeds?’
‘So you’re admitting that you’re a dishonest businessman are you?’ I asked.
‘What do you mean, dishonest? These are my office hours, besides I’m paying so much tax these days I sometimes think I’m keeping the Royal Navy afloat on my own.’
‘Yeah, you are since HMRC caught up with you and what’s the Navy these days. Down to their last few cockle boats, aren’t they?’
‘OK, OK, Sarcasm Boy, what’s the prob?’
‘The prob, Bob, is that I’m stuck on my tod without wheels. I’m in a call box at the end of Deansgate and I’ve just had a home visit from some rather nasty gentlemen who wanted to incinerate me.’
There was no sharp intake of breath. That’s one of the things I like about Bob.
‘Anybody dead?’
‘One hurt, one of the opposition that is.’
‘And the family?’
‘They’re all well and now heading for the hills at high speed in my only vehicle. The other’s damaged. That’s why I need transport that can’t be traced to me.’
‘You know I only asked if there were any dead first because I trust you to protect your family. I’m looking forward to being Baby Cunane’s godfather.’
‘Yes.’
‘Christ, Dave, I don’t know what to say. Do I know any of your playmates?’
‘They’re definitely not our local scallywags. I’ve never seen them before. One was burned with his own firebomb.’
‘Badly burned?’
‘Yes.’
‘How sad, I’ll put the word out round the local hospitals. They do burns at Wythenshawe don’t they?’
‘They do but he could be anywhere.’
‘So Janine, has she done a moody? I know she doesn’t go for the rough stuff.’
‘Our separation’s only temporary while I get this bother sorted.’
‘Bother he says. I like it. Someone firebombs your house and its bother. Wheels aren’t much of a problem, Dave, but there must be something more I can do.’
‘Actually Bob …’
‘Spit it out!’
‘I don’t know who these people are at all. I have nothing on them, zilch.’
A vision of Lew’s notebook sitting in my safe not half a mile away flashed before my eyes. Could I use it to bargain with them?
‘So, what’s the plan?’
‘Find out who they are, I suppose. Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that because if I do identify these bastards they’ll have no option but to slot me. Janine has this idea that if I convince them that I know nothing and have no hostile intentions they’ll lay off.’
‘Hmmm, that doesn’t sound too likely if they’re already trying to wipe your clock. Dave, with you things are always too far gone to be settled with a friendly chat over a cup of tea.’
‘Yeah, lovely isn’t it? There’s more and it gets worse. I believe they’ve killed a relative of mine and when the police find out they’ll be all over the landscape in their size eleven boots.’
‘Will they find out?’
‘I’ve alr
eady tipped them off.’
‘So you’d like somewhere to hide your weary head while you work out if the firebombing was just a friendly warning, like?’
He sounded perplexed.
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘I can do that for you Dave but make damn sure the house I send you to doesn’t get burned down. I’ve spent a fortune on it and Tammy loves the place.’
‘I don’t get into these things by choice.’
‘This relative, it isn’t old Paddy?’
‘No.’
I could have said more but there was no point in passing on information which could be fatal.
‘Thank God for that. Listen Dave, I’m beginning to wonder if knowing you might be bad for my health. I’ve got spare wheels here that you can have but the difficulty is getting them to you. I can’t leave and I don’t trust you with Tammy … ’
‘Oh come on, Bob!’
‘No, stranger things have happened. Knowing your reputation as a lady’s man I wouldn’t care to put temptation your way. Back in the day you used to like your women hot and your curries mild.’
‘Bob, I’m happily married now.’
‘And wasn’t Tammy’s previous boyfriend the same, until his wife found out, that is.’
I could hear Tammy’s protests in the background.
‘Right, Dave, I’ll get a car to you. The keys of the house will have to wait for a while. I don’t have them here.’
I told him where I was.
‘There’s just one little problem. The only spare hands I’ve got here belong to your old prison buddy No-Nose Nolan and his oppo, what’s his name, the Scouser with the red hair?’
‘He’s called Lee and he wouldn’t thank you for calling him a Scouser. He’s just as much a Mank as you are.’
‘Nobody’s as Mank as me. Anyway, I use them as a pair of bookends on club security. It’s charity really because they’re both useless for anything apart from picking up litter. Sorry, rewind that. No-Nose has improved a lot since his illness which is why I give him house room. In fact he’s becoming boring, giving me advice on my accounting system the other day he was but I’ll let you discover the new No-Nose for yourself. All I’ll say is brains can ruin a perfectly good gofer, which is what he was. He’s lumbered himself with that Lee, carts him around as if he’s his nurse. Lee is bad news and if I let him go, No-Nose will have to go too. Anyway, I’ll send them to meet you in Whitworth Street in two cars and they’ll leave you one.’
‘Thanks a bunch Bob,’ I said drawing in my breath. Was I going to get away without Bob’s ‘big ask’ which is what he usually calls taking responsibility for Clint?
I wasn’t.
‘Dave,’ he asked cautiously, ‘you don’t by any chance need Clint do you? No-Nose can pick him up on the way to you.’
‘Bob, I’m not in any danger. Let Clint get his sleep. Just the car, that’s all I need. I’m an innocent bystander in all this.’
‘I can go with bystander but innocent doesn’t sound like you, Dave, or maybe it’s the other way round, but if you say so I’ll take your word for it. It might be nice if you live to see that baby you’re expecting so how about Clint? He can watch your back.’
‘I’ll be fine, Bob.’
‘Go on, man, you need Clint and your Baby does too. I’ll tell No-Nose to pick him up. OK?’
He put the phone down before I could reply.
I stepped out of the call box.
There was still plenty of activity along Whitworth Street. Taxis were on the go the whole time, picking people up from the clubs that line the bank of the Rochdale canal. With its footbridges across the canal this small part of Manchester has an exotic feel. It’s definitely not Amsterdam or Venice but there’s something that draws the crowds. Maybe it’s the atmosphere of a big city where drinks and entertainment are on tap 24/7.
The people, drunk and sober, were predominantly young, students blowing their loans.
I looked at my watch. It was well after three.
I briefly considered my options and decided that I didn’t have any. Convincing them I didn’t know a thing about them was a chance in a million. OK, make that ten million but I had to try.
9
Tuesday: 3.50 a.m.
It began raining heavily while I waited for Bob’s soon-to-be redundant bookends.
The streets cleared.
Lights gleamed on the dark waters of the canal. The clubs began shutting their doors.
I shivered in my dark water-proof. It kept the rain off but provided little warmth.
Finally there were two cars, both large and dark, one a BMW estate, the other a Volvo. They entered the street from the Deansgate end and drove slowly.
The drivers were hard to make out but they could only be Bob’s gofers.
When I waved him down, Lee stopped and jumped out of the BMW. It was the early hours of the morning but his movements told me he was hyper. I’d never learned his surname. Lee hadn’t been a great success at crime. Walking round in scally costume of bright red Lacoste jumpers all the time hadn’t helped. He was still in scally gear but he’d apparently learned the value of camouflage. The Rockport boots were still there and the bling: heavy gold chain necklace, sovereign rings on three fingers, and bracelets, but he’d toned down the colour scheme. He was wearing black Reebok full-length trackie bottoms and a black Reebok top with grey inset down the sleeves. A black peaked cap with blue side panels concealed his carroty hair, just a few ginger strands poked out in front of his ears.
Lee stood about five feet two in his boots but that didn’t stop him being aggressive to the point of insanity. He always came onto people like a human pit-bull and liked to greet strangers with ‘Who’re you looking at then?’
Big men crossed the road to get out of his way.
Even in the unnatural glow of the sodium street lights the expression on his face signalled that his combat level was high. His ugly mug wasn’t something you wanted to look at even in twilight. Livid spots jostled for lebensraum on his pitted skin.
‘How’s it hanging, Lee?’ I asked just to pull his chain. ‘You’re looking well. I could take you for a Swiss banker in those dark clothes.’
‘Who are you calling a wanker!’ he snarled.
There was a twang in his accent that could be taken as Scouse by the uninitiated. I knew he came from Benchhill, Wythenshawe, in Manchester’s Deep South.
‘Well, it’s nice to see you too, Lee,’ I said with a smile. ‘I’m just being friendly. Would you like a smack on the gob instead?’
‘Coming on hard again, are you?’
Last time we’d met he’d been paid to assault me.
‘No, just talking to you in a friendly way.’
‘I can do without running f**king errands for you, Cunane. You might have got off all them sex murders but in my book you’re still a nonce.’
‘Hey, you should try for a job with the police Lee. You’re wasting your time as Bob Lane’s gofer. Yeah, the local Filth want men like you who don’t bother their heads about little things like proof and evidence.’
‘Are you saying I’m a copper’s nark,’ he yelped.
He started forward angrily.
‘Hang about, Lee!’ No-Nose said, emerging from the Volvo and wrapping his arms round his partner in crime. Oddly enough, No-Nose had a book in his hand. I wondered where he’d nicked it. The book shops weren’t open yet.
‘Mr Cunane’s a friend of Bob’s. You don’t want to mess with him.’
‘Get your f**king hands off me,’ Lee grunted. ‘He said I’m a grass.’
‘Sorry about this, Mr C,’ No-Nose apologised, tightening his grip. ‘What you said is a very sore point with Lee.’
‘It’s all right, Tony,’ I said. ‘Let him go and I’ll punch his lights out for him.’
His mother and I are the only ones who ever use No‑Nose’s given name, Tony. I’ve known him for a long while. He worked as an undercover messenger for Bob when Bob at one time.
‘Lee, will you stop pissing about?’ No-Nose pleaded.
‘Yeah, no hard feelings, Lee,’ I said, ‘I was only messing with you.’
I held out my hand.
Lee’s struggles subsided and No-Nose let him go. He shook my hand and looked away.
‘Which car do you want?’ he asked.
I walked round both cars, taking my time.
‘It’s not as if you’re buying, Mr C,’ No-Nose whispered.
‘I fancy the Beamer,’ I said to Lee.
‘It’s too good for the likes of you.’
‘Lee!’ warned No-Nose ‘the big guy’s listening to you. This’ll all go straight back to Bob.’
The big guy was indeed listening.
Clint was struggling to get out of the back of the BMW. He couldn’t work the door handle but he had the window open.
In appearance, apart from his abnormal size, Clint might have been a prosperous farmer from the nineteen thirties, as restored by the National Trust for a Beatrix Potter exhibition. If you ignored the taut skin and bony cheekbones you could say his rosy red and weather beaten complexion was bucolic. His clothes also belonged in an exhibition. A vintage green tweed jacket with massive brown leather buttons covered his upper body. His ensemble was completed by green cord trousers. The corduroy was so thick that it was almost bullet proof, certainly arrow proof.
Clint’s dark brown hair is another unusual feature. Like him, it follows an unusual pattern. Thick and wiry, it swirls round his head like an angry sea round a reef, sticking out at odd angles.
‘It’s all right, Clint. Stay in there,’ I said. ‘I’m taking this car.’
Clint grinned sheepishly.
‘It’s nice to see you, Dave; to see you nice.’
‘Yeah, it’s nice to see you too, Clint,’ I said.
Despite earlier misgivings, I meant what I said. I was fond of the big guy. It was just being responsible for him that could get heavy.
He immediately began another struggle against German technology. This time he was trying to get his seat belt back on. It wasn’t exactly rocket science but Clint was finding it impossible to secure the belt round his outsized frame.