Henry’s eyes narrowed. An over-the-top reaction for no reason at all, he thought. They were certainly a nervous crew behind that wrought-iron fence. But what worried him most was the glimpse of a firearm when the jacket of one of the bodyguards inadvertently swung open. A bulge under the jacket of the other told Henry he was similarly tooled up.
The detective’s attention moved to the man in the middle. He was obviously the boss.
Henry didn’t know him, his face rang no bells, but suddenly he found himself very interested.
He was quite a young man, in his early thirties, fit-looking with jet-black hair, a neatly trimmed moustache, a swarthy complexion and the dark, all-seeing eyes of a predator. His clothing was casual but expensive; Ralph Lauren polo shirt, beautifully cut chinos and loafers. No socks. A slim, understated watch was attached to his wrist and a chunky gold chain encircled his tanned neck. He was good looking, exuding an air of confidence, wealth and violence. It seemed to Henry that he would have looked more at home on the Costa del Crime, rather than here in Blackpool, the Costa del Shite… because there was one thing Henry Christie did know about this man, simply by looking at him: he was a top flight criminal, a major player. Henry would happily have bet his next month’s expenses cheque on the fact.
Yet, despite the outward appearance of calm, something in his manner, a fraction below the surface, told Henry he was unsettled. His non-verbal signals betrayed him.
The girl who sat next to him was positively gorgeous — a black chick who looked young enough to be jailbait. One of her hands rested provocatively at the top of the man’s thigh and she stuck close to him as though superglued, laughing in all the right places. Her short, low-cut dress left little to Henry’s imagination and he soon found himself unconsciously trying to peer up her legs.
But this was no girlfriend. Everything about her screamed hooker; expensive hooker. And she looked uneasy, too. Her brown eyes never stayed still for an instant. Her shoulders were taut. She was very, very nervous.
Henry finished off his Bud and returned to the bar. This time he had a less fashionable bottle of non-alcoholic lager which tasted bitter after the slightly sweet American brew.
As he glanced casually around the room, Henry spotted another man watching the trio. He was mid-height, with blond hair and a moustache. Pretty nondescript, though he looked vaguely familiar. A moment later the man had gone. Henry thought nothing of it, resumed his position by the bandit and took a long drink from his bottle. Ugh. All the flavour brewed out with the alcohol.
He was about to make a phone call into the Blackpool Communications Room for them to pass on his present position by radio to his team when the three got slowly to their feet.
They were on the move.
Henry swore.
The boss man nodded to his gorillas. One of them took the lead, forging a way through the throng. The three slotted in behind with the other gorilla taking up a position at the rear, his right hand hidden underneath his jacket. They went out of a door at the rear of the pub. Henry gave them a few moments, then followed.
Karen answered the door in her bath-robe.
She’d had a long hot soak and a shower. Nothing could shake the sense of disaster in her mind, but at least she was now clean and ready for bed. She’d just rolled the quilt back on her double bed when the doorbell rang.
She was tempted to ignore it, but found she couldn’t.
Dave August stood there, swaying slightly. His official car, the Jaguar, was parked with one wheel on the kerb, unattended. Obviously he’d driven there by himself. Yet he smelled of alcohol. His eyes were watery and bloodshot.
‘ What the hell do you want?’ Karen asked.
‘ To explain?’ he said meekly. Then: ‘Oh, come on, Karen. You owe me that at the very least.’
‘ Do I?’ she asked resolutely.
‘ Look, can I come in, or shall we continue to conduct our business in public?’ He was having a little difficulty stringing the words together.
She considered slamming the door in his face then relented, allowed him to enter.
She followed him into the lounge. He knew the way. It was a beautifully furnished room, much money having been spent on the tasteful decor.
August turned to her as she came in behind him. ‘Karen,’ he began, his arms outstretched.
‘ Not so fast, David,’ she told him coolly. ‘You said you wanted to explain something. If you think you’re going to get a fuck after the way I’ve been treated, you’re well off the mark.’
August backed off. ‘Very well,’ he conceded, tight-lipped.
He plonked himself loosely down on the plush sofa and crossed his legs. She perched on a chair-arm. Her robe fell open, revealing her thighs. She quickly pulled it back and covered up, though not before August had seen.
‘ Well, I’m waiting,’ she said at length.
‘ I… I don’t really know where to begin,’ he stuttered. ‘Look, could I have a drink?’
‘ I think you’ve already had enough.’
‘ Please. ‘
Karen sighed impatiently. She fixed him a large whisky, dropped an ice cube into it and handed it to him. ‘Thanks,’ he said. Most of it then hit the back of his throat. ‘That’s better.’
Karen’s mouth twisted into a line of disapproval.
‘ You know I’m suspended, don’t you? Barred from entering any police station in the county. Even had to hand my warrant card in. I feel so humiliated!’
August nodded. ‘Yes, I know. I sanctioned it.’
‘ You sanctioned it? I don’t believe this.’ She stood up and paced the room. ‘I should’ve realised.’
‘ I was under pressure to do something. Can’t you see, after all that’s happened?’ he pleaded.
‘ From Fanshaw-Bayley, no doubt.’
August dropped his gaze and stared at the gas fire, confirming Karen’s words. ‘I’d been backed into a corner. I had to do it. I didn’t want to… I just had to.’
‘ You’re the fuckin’ Chief Constable, for God’s sake. No one can make you do anything you don’t want to. You’ve simply kow-towed to FB and the CID again, haven’t you? You weak-kneed bastard.’
‘ It was nothing personal, honestly Karen. Purely professional.’ He pronounced it ‘perfeshinall’. ‘I have to distance myself from you.’
Karen had had enough. ‘Get out, Dave. Now. I don’t want you or any other copper in my house.’ She began to sob. ‘Just get out and stay out!’
He stood up, exhibiting all the classic signs of a drunk: unsteady on his feet, eyes glazed, speech slurred. And like a drunk, reasoning wasn’t part of his make-up.
‘ This doesn’t change anything between us, does it?’ he leered.
Karen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Get out — now!’ She screamed.
‘ But I want you.’ He moved towards her and grabbed her arm. She caught the look in his eyes — wild, unpredictable — and started to struggle.
‘ No, Dave,’ she begged, trying to free herself from his grip. ‘Just leave. Don’t make things any worse.’
‘ You bitch. You use sex as a weapon over men and you don’t like it when it’s used against you!’ He slapped her hard, open-handed, across the face.
She reeled back, stunned by the ferocity of the blow and its unexpectedness.
He lurched forward and took hold of one end of the belt around her robe. He wrenched. It unfastened. Her robe fell open.
‘ You’ve always thought you had power over me, but you were wrong,’ he said. ‘I’m the one in charge. I’m the boss. I decide what happens to you.’
He slapped her again. She lost her balance and fell back across the sofa. Her head swam in a sea of unreality. This could not be happening.
‘ You owe me… for what I’ve done for you, you owe me,’ he grunted. He threw himself at her, straddling her, pinning her arms down, his whole weight on her. She struggled uselessly, pointlessly.
He forced his mouth down onto hers.
