They were ready for the piece de resistance.
Possibly the biggest club operating in Lancashire, that midweek night was the Salsa, near Fulwood, just off the M55. Out of town, plush, up-to-date with state-of-the-art sound and lighting, it was frequented by footballers, Manchester pop stars and other minor celebs. The Salsa was a good, well-managed, profitable club with a capacity of almost fifteen hundred with it usually reached on Friday and Saturday nights.
The Salsa was the jewel in Conroy’s crown. He owned one hundred per cent of it. A poor week netted him five grand in drug money alone. In entrance fees, which went through the books and were properly audited, the club grossed over?50,000 each week. Easily.
Conroy strove hard to keep it one of the best clubs in the north. It was the only one he ever visited. He often paid celebs to frequent it and give it the necessary credibility. You could almost guarantee to see somebody well- known, whatever night of the week. The off-chance of dancing on the same floor as a pop star or a five-million- pound footballer probably drew in an extra two hundred bodies a week.
It was a perfect target for Munrow to make his point.
From the car park they made their way in a businesslike manner to the front of the club. Staves and bats were secreted up sleeves or down trouser legs. Shotguns were held firmly under jackets.
The balaclavas went on at the last moment. Within seconds they had pole-axed the doormen and entered the club.
They rampaged through the place like a pack of wild dogs. Indiscriminately hitting innocent people, smashing tables and destroying the disco console.
Munrow made his final point by having two of the bouncers dragged onto the dance floor and laid face down.
In full view of all the customers, many of whom were drugged up to the eyeballs, he placed his shotgun in the soft flesh at the back of the left knee of one of the bouncers and pulled the trigger. He did the same to the other.
Munrow and his business associates then fled.
And not one witness, out of a total of four hundred and ten people, saw a thing.
Funny, that.
Chapter Fourteen
The avenue was wide, tree-lined and very pleasant. Extremely middle-class. On either side of the road was a grass verge which was covered with a coating of pure white fluffy snow. Behind the grass verges ran wide footpaths, behind which were the garden walls which fronted the houses. They were all detached, five- or six- bedroomed affairs with driveways which had an entrance and an exit. Set back at the rear of the houses were double garages the size of small bungalows. The gardens were all lawns and landscaping. Stockbrokers and solicitors abounded here, a good place for them to live, not far from Manchester and the towns of central Lancashire. They had their own little railway station nearby that made commuting a doddle.
Rider looked at his watch. 7 a.m. A couple of minutes before, a milkman had trundled down the avenue in one of those electrified carts, in and out of the driveways, and now the place was quiet again.
It was very dark. A real winter’s morning. It would probably be ten before the night was completely shrugged off.
The dull ache in Rider’s body became more than uncomfortable. He changed his position slightly for the hundredth time, yawned again, long and weary. It had been a long night.
He shivered and hoped it wasn’t to be an unproductive one. Otherwise he’d have to revisit a certain transvestite and drown him/her in a toilet.
Rider was sitting in the front passenger seat of a tatty Ford Transit van parked up on the avenue, underneath the overhang of some roadside trees. The van was totally out of place, exposed. Rider knew it would only take one phone call from an early-rising public-spirited resident to bring the cops sniffing around. He was living on borrowed time and the later it got, the less he had.
With increasing restlessness he was observing the front of one of the houses about a hundred metres away.
It was fucking freezing and though the engine was ticking over like there were lumps of lead in the petrol, the pathetic heater was only gasping out lukewarm air. He wasn’t dressed for the cold, only wearing his nightclub gear of thin suit and tie.
Efficient as ever, Jacko, sitting in the driver’s seat, was appropriately dressed for the winter weather in a duffel coat, thick socks, boots and cord pants. His gloved hands were resting on the steering wheel. He constantly had to wipe the screen with the back of his hand to see through the thin veil of frost which was forming relentlessly on the inside of the glass as their breath froze.
Jacko looked glum and unhappy. He did not want to be here. He desperately hoped nothing would happen.
‘ You should get a decent van,’ Rider complained. ‘I’m freezing my balls off sat here.’
‘ It is a decent van,’ Jacko replied stonily. ‘Is he gonna come or what?’
‘ Yes.’ There was more certainty in Rider’s voice than he felt.
‘ Then what?’
‘ Leave it to me. My problem.’
‘ I don’t like this one little bit, John,’ the other said nervously. ‘Why get involved? I know you got battered, but this is a dangerous world — and I really don’t want anything to do with it.’
‘ I know. You won’t be involved. Trust me.’
Jacko gave him a contemptuous glare from the corner of his eyes.
Rider was experiencing some guilt in roping the barman in, but he had no one else to turn to other than Isa, and she wouldn’t be much use in a situation like this. ‘I appreciate what you’re doing.’
The barman merely snorted, giving the impression he wasn’t remotely taken in by Rider’s words. He wiped the window again.
A vehicle turned into the other end of the avenue, lights blazing. It came towards the Transit. Rider got ready. But it was only the gritting lorry thundering past, showering the Transit with road salt.
‘ At least there’s nothing left to rot,’ Rider said dryly.
‘ One more remark about this van and we’re going,’ Jacko snapped. He meant it. ‘You could’ve used your Jag.’
‘ And he might’ve recognised it… Hang on.’
Another vehicle turned into the avenue from the same direction, travelling slowly. A car. Instinctively Rider touched Jacko’s arm. They both sank down.
This car turned into the driveway of the house they were watching and pulled up outside the front door. The security lights clicked on and bathed the whole front garden with white light. The car lights were switched off. A man got out, went up the steps to the door and pressed the bell.
Rider’s throat constricted.
‘ Is it him?’ Jacko hissed.
Rider couldn’t say for sure. He was three hundred feet away and he could hardly see sod-all through the iced-up screen.
The upstairs house lights came on. Seconds later the front door opened.
The man stepped inside, the door closed.
‘ Well?’ Jacko demanded.
Rider shook his head. ‘I’ll take a chance.’ He reached under the front seat and pulled out the revolver he had confiscated at the zoo. He held it up ominously, feeling a charge of adrenalin zip through him. His hand shook ever so slightly. Fear? Excitement? ‘Give me fifteen minutes and if I haven’t reappeared, call the cops, emergency or something. Use your imagination, ‘cos it’s likely one or both of us’ll be dead.’
He jumped out of the van without looking at Jacko and trotted towards the house, making the first footprints
