perfectly large enough for him and his occasional guests. He had never put roots down anywhere before and he was loath to upstakes just for the hell of it. There was no need to.
He thought bleakly about his criminal past.
Back then his life had been a continual series of moves from one house to the next; to some dive of an hotel room to some flea-pit flat, then maybe a night in the back room of a pub. All in the mean streets of Manchester or some depressing East-Lancashire mill town.
Even when he’d started making real money from drugs, guns and lending money, the lifestyle didn’t change, just the quality of places he could afford. One thing he vividly remembered about it all was the constant indigestion, probably brought about by stress, though he didn’t realise it at the time.
He could never recall spending a full year in anyone place because the whole nature of the existence made continuous movement a necessity.
Standing still in those days meant you became an easy target, maybe of the law, or some toe-rag with a score to settle — and there was always plenty of them about.
He sipped his tea. Christ, he thought with disgust, twenty years of living like that.
In the end it got to him. Never knowing where he would be sleeping, or with whom; but always sure that once he was settled in and feeling comfortable, he’d have to get up and leave.
It was no good.
As a young man, fresh out of borstal it had been exciting. A life of hands-on crime, living solely off wits, strength, intimidation and violence. Building up a criminal empire which stretched throughout the whole of East Lancashire and parts of Manchester, based on gambling, prostitution, loan sharking, gun dealing and the biggie — drugs.
In the end it wore him down, and his outlook on life slowly changed. Gradually he found he wanted ‘normal’ things, such as somewhere static to live, a woman, kids maybe. Time to sit and read a book once in a while.
It hit him one day as he was edging his car through a McDonald’s Drive-Thru after a morning collecting debts during which he’d smashed the kneecap of one guy who’d missed a couple of repayments. He found himself staring at a family of four and he discovered he was jealous.
That was one of the reasons for pulling out.
There were plenty of others.
He’d become an alcoholic and such a big drug-abuser that he made some of his clients look clean. The habits were costing him a grand a week — big money — and whittling away mercilessly at his profits.
He also found that he came to hate people being afraid of him all the time. Always, at the back of their eyes, he could see uncertainty and fear. He had traded on the ability to instil terror when he was younger, but he found his reputation to be an impediment as he got older and his values changed. Most people he came into contact with were shit-scared of him and he didn’t like having that effect.
The formation of the NWOCS also played a part in his departure. The fact that the cops had set up such a squad sent out its own message: Gangsters were not going to be tolerated. Rider knew of Conroy’s cop connections, but was not naive enough to think the protection Conroy enjoyed extended to him and Munrow. He knew Conroy wanted things his own way, to be in control, but by that time, with a drug and booze-sodden brain, Rider was past caring. As far as he was concerned, Conroy could have it all.
The final and biggest reason was that he, Conroy and Munrow were not operating as a team any more.
Conroy had big, strategic ideas.
Munrow was a thug with little or no finesse.
And he was a complete shambles who could only see as far as the next fix.
They were in constant conflict with each other and Rider knew that if he didn’t get out, sooner rather than later, he would have killed both the bastards.
So he made the decision, pooled all his cash and left.
Somewhat smugly, and from a safe distance, he found himself proved right on one thing. Soon after he quit, the cops arrested Munrow and several other bit players following an armed robbery. Conroy remained free as a bird (and Rider had his own ideas as to why) and flourished. Munrow, meanwhile, didn’t manage to wriggle at all.
It could so easily have been Rider. He had been expected to take part in the robbery.
Now he was as happy as he’d ever been. He enjoyed Blackpool, running legitimate businesses, employing a few people and keeping his nose clean. He hadn’t found a woman — not a regular one — but he was prepared to tread water.
Fuck, he thought bitterly. I hope to hell-shit Munrow doesn’t rope me into this nonsense.
Conroy had not been very precise when he’d talked about the ‘war’, but it sounded bad. Munrow was out of prison, wanted what he believed to be rightfully his and Conroy was reluctant to give it to him. Naturally. So things had started bubbling… and Conroy was worried.
‘ I’ve moved on in a lot of ways,’ he’d said to Rider. ‘Like you,’ he added, making Rider wince. ‘I’m a corporate player now. I run a tight business — none of that hands-on shite like we used to. Too fucking dangerous by half. Keep everything at arms’ length now, just rake in the profits. Not like Munrow. He’s still in a time warp. I’ve expanded into new fields, built up new contacts and I’m on a very big deal. Munrow’s on the verge of ruining it.’
He refused to divulge anything more to Rider, including the reason for his interest in the club.
He’d left shortly afterwards, leaving Rider brooding over breakfast.
A thought struck him. ‘The bastard,’ he said out loud. ‘He didn’t even thank me for saving his life!’
Smeared blood covered the inside of the strengthened glass, making it difficult for Henry to see through to the sole occupant of the enclosure.
‘ I couldn’t believe what I was seeing,’ a zoo official called Draycott was telling him. ‘There were only four customers in the zoo at the time… it’s very quiet just now, and all they wanted to do was shoot each other. A bloody shoot-out, right here, in Blackpool Zoo. It was like a scene from a film or something.’
He had already described what he’d witnessed to Henry and now he was in the process of coming to terms with it. Henry let him speak, asking occasional questions to clarify things.
‘ So one knocked the gun away from the other’s head and it went off?’
‘ Yeah, that’s right. Moved really quick. Really impressive. Next thing it was in his hand and he was in charge.’
‘ And what happened at the point when the gun first went off’?’
‘ Boris here,’ he thumbed at the gorilla, ‘was sitting in his tree watching these guys, and when the gun went off he just tumbled out of the branches, right spectacular-like, and thudded to the ground. Shot by mistake, obviously. I thought he was dead at first.’
‘ And the-men?’
‘ Bit confused there.’ Draycott screwed up his nose. ‘The one who originally had the gun jumped to one side and shouted something, don’t know what, and the one who grabbed the gun — if you see what I mean — shot his mate in the leg.’
‘ Very confusing,’ Henry agreed.
‘ Oh yeah, very. Anyway, I shouted to them and they scarpered, basically, flashing guns at us.’
‘ All together?’
‘ Separate. First two legged it pretty quick; second two were a bit slower because one’d been shot. The girl in the entrance booth saw their cars and wrote the numbers down.’
‘ That should be helpful,’ Henry said. He knew the girl was presently giving a statement. ‘And the poor gorilla?’
‘ Yeah,’ said Draycott. ‘He’s my main concern now. He dragged himself in here, sat down in one corner and bled like a stuck pig. His keeper went in but got attacked. Then he did this with the blood, wiping it all over the glass as you can see.’
‘ So it looks like he got shot in the shoulder?’
‘ Definitely. Looks a bad wound.’
Henry bent low to where there was an area of glass free from blood. He peered through.
The gorilla was sitting in one corner of the enclosure, nursing his left shoulder with his right hand, rocking backwards and forwards, chuntering to himself He was a magnificent animal. Heavy and thickset with a short, broad
