“What other little enterprises does Vernon operate?”
“There’s the betting shops.”
“I’m looking for something rather more illegal.”
“That’s easy. He runs a cut liquor still up the York Road. Gibson’s Furniture Factory it says outside, but it’s a front. Supplies clubs all over the north.”
“Where does the liquor come from in the first place?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Some from long distance lorries that took the wrong turning. Some they make on the premises. He’s got money tied up in that place.”
“But more still in the Flamingo?”
She fastened the lid on one suitcase and took down another. “Better than a hundred thousand. Without the Flamingo he’s nothing. He had to take what he could get when he sold up in London. They say he dropped a bundle.”
“And what about the betting shops?”
“He operates them on a day-to-day basis using the cash from the previous night’s take at the Flamingo. He still hasn’t got on his feet up here yet.”
“So everything revolves around the Flamingo.”
“I suppose you could say that.” She frowned suddenly. “What are you getting at?”
“Never you mind, you’ve got other things to think about now.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll have to get moving. We’ve got exactly half an hour to get you to the airport.”
The Bull & Bell Yard was not far from the market, a dirty and sunless cobbled alley named after the public house which had stood there for more than two hundred years. Beside the entrance to the snug stood several overflowing dustbins and cardboard boxes and packing cases were thrown together in an untidy heap.
It was raining slightly and an old man squatted against the wall, a bottle of beer in one hand, a sandwich in the other. He wore an ancient army greatcoat and his hair and beard were long and matted.
The door opened and a barman appeared in the entrance, a bucket in one hand. He was a large, hefty young man in a white apron with long dark sideburns and a cold, rather dangerous face. He emptied the bucket of slops across the cobbles and looked down at the old man in disgust.
“You still here, Sailor? Christ Jesus, I don’t know how you can stand it.”
“Go on, Harry,” the old man said hoarsely. “Ain’t doing any ’arm, am I?”
The barman went back inside and Sailor raised the bottle of beer to his lips. He lowered it slowly, his mouth gaping in amazement. The man who stood facing him had the most extraordinary eyes the Sailor had ever seen, quite dark and completely expressionless. He wore a three-quarter length British warm, a bowler hat and carried a tightly rolled umbrella.
His hand disappeared into a pocket and came out holding a pound note. “Do you know Mr. Vernon?” he said. “Mr. Max Vernon?” Sailor nodded. “Is he inside?”
“In the snug, governor.”
The man in the bowler hat dropped the pound note into his lap. “I’m very much obliged to you,” he said and went inside.
Sailor waited for no more than a moment and then he scrambled to his feet, pushed open the door an inch or two and peered in.
The Bull & Bell did ninety-five per cent of its trade in the evenings, which was why Max Vernon preferred to patronise it in the afternoon. For one thing it meant that he could have the snug to himself, which was handy for business of a certain kind.
He sat on a stool at the bar finishing a roast beef sandwich, a pint of bitter at his elbow, and Carver and Stratton lounged on the window seat chatting idly.
It was Carver who first noticed Craig standing in the doorway. “Christ Almighty,” he said and then there was a long silence.
Craig moved into the snug and paused against the bar three or four feet away from Vernon. “There you are, Vernon. You know you’re a damned difficult fellow to run down. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“I’m in the telephone book, colonel,” Vernon said calmly.
“Ah, but that wouldn’t have suited my purpose at all, I’m afraid,” Craig said. “What I was hoping for was a private chat — just the two of us.”
He glanced at Carver and Stratton and Vernon shrugged. “There’s nothing you can say to me that these two can’t hear.”
“Suit yourself.” Craig took a cigarette from a pigskin case and lit it carefully. “I expect you’ll be wondering why Monica Grey didn’t turn up for work last night. She gave me a message for you.”
“Did she now?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to manage without her in future.” Craig blew smoke up towards the ceiling in a long streamer. “Actually I had a very informative chat with her after which I put her on a plane with a first-class ticket to somewhere so far away that she can forget she ever knew a man called Max Vernon.”
“What is this?” Vernon said. “A declaration of war?”
“To the knife,” Craig said pleasantly. “First of all I’m going to destroy the things that are important to you, Vernon. After that, and only when I’m ready, I’m going to destroy you.”
Stratton took a sudden step forward and Vernon raised his hand quickly. “Stay where you are!” He looked Craig up and down and shook his head slowly. “It’s been tried, colonel. It’s been tried by the best in the business and they all ended up flat on their faces.”
“But you did have to get out of London in rather a hurry.”
“So what — I’ll be up there on top again. I’m on my way now. I’ll run this town before I’m finished.”
“The great Max Vernon,” Craig said. “He always gets what he wants.”
“That’s it.”
“Including my daughter.”
“Including your daughter. She saw things my way by the time I was through with her.”
For the first time, Craig’s iron composure cracked and his hand tightened around the handle of his umbrella. He half raised it as if to strike, but quickly regained control.
“Thank you for saying that, Vernon. You’ve made it a lot easier for me.”
Vernon’s easy smile vanished in an instant. “You know something, you remind me of my old colonel. I couldn’t stand him either. Harry!” he called. “Get in here!”
Harry came in from the other bar drying a pewter tankard. “Yes, Mr. Vernon?”
Vernon nodded towards Craig and picked up his newspaper. “Get rid of him.”
“Certainly, Mr. Vernon.” Harry lifted the bar flap and moved out. “Right, on your way, mate.”
“I’ll go when I’m ready,” Craig said pleasantly.
Harry’s right hand fastened on Craig’s collar and they went through the door with a rush to a chorus of laughter from Stratton and Carver. As the door to the alley burst open, Sailor ducked behind a packing case and waited.
Harry was grinning widely, an arm around Craig’s throat. “We don’t like fancy sods like you coming around here annoying the customers.” He didn’t get the chance to say anything else. Craig’s right elbow swung back sharply connecting just beneath the ribs and, as Harry swung back gasping, he pivoted on one foot.
“You should never let anyone get that close. They haven’t been teaching you properly.”
Harry gave a cry of rage and sprang forward, his right fist swinging in a tremendous punch. Craig grabbed for the wrist with both hands and twisted it round and up so that he held him in a Japanese shoulder lock. Harry cried out in agony and still keeping that terrible hold in position, Craig ran him head-first into the stack of packing cases. As he bent down to retrieve his umbrella, Vernon appeared in the doorway, Carver and Stratton crowding behind him. Craig nodded briefly. “I’ll be in touch, Vernon,” he said and walked briskly away.
