Rudkin and me say nothing.
Ellis keeps talking to himself: ‘Maybe they’ll send us down Mecca. That’d be all right, have a drink and chat up some birds…’
The door opens and in comes Noble with a file.
He sits down behind his desk and opens the file: ‘Right. Donny Fairclough, white, thirty-six, lives in Pudsey with his old mum. Taxi driver. Drives a white Ford Cortina with a black roof.’
‘Fuck,’ says Ellis.
Noble’s nodding, ‘Exactly. His name came up last year with Joan Richards.’
‘He likes to bite,’ I add, thinking,
‘Yeah, good,’ says Noble, looking pleased. ‘We’ve had him in a couple of times…’
Rudkin looks up. ‘Blood group?’
‘B.’
We pull up on Montreal Avenue, a hundred yards down from the rank.
There’s a tap on the glass.
Rudkin winds down the window.
One of Vice leans in, big fat grin.
‘He’s just come on.’
‘Owt else?’ asks Rudkin.
‘Fuck all.’
Ellis is saying, ‘We should just nick the cunt. Kick it out of him.’
‘You with us?’ says Rudkin, turning round to me.
The bloke from Vice glances at me and then tosses the keys on to the back seat. ‘It’s the brown Datsun round on Calgary.’
‘Least he’ll never make us,’ laughs Ellis.
‘Off you go then,’ grins Rudkin.
‘Me?’ says Ellis.
‘Give him the keys,’ Rudkin tells me.
I pass them forward, the Vice guy still staring in at me.
‘You fucking fancy me or something?’
He smiles, ‘You’re Bob Fraser aren’t you?’
I’ve got my hand on the handle, ‘Yeah, why?’
Rudkin is saying, ‘Leave it, Bob.’
The prick from Vice is backing away from the car, doing the usual, ‘What’s his problem?’ speech.
Rudkin is out talking to him, glancing back.
Ellis turns round, sighs, ‘Fuck,’ and gets out.
I sit there in the back of the Rover, watching them.
The Vice copper walks off with Ellis.
Rudkin gets back in.
‘What’s his name?’ I ask.
Rudkin’s looking at me in the rearview mirror.
‘Just tell me his name?’
‘Ask Craven,’ he says. Then, ‘Fuck, get in the front. He’s off.’
And I’m into the front, the car starting, and we’re off.
I pick up the radio, calling Ellis.
Nothing.
‘The cunt’s still yapping,’ spits Rudkin.
‘Should’ve let me go solo,’ I say.
‘Bollocks,’ he says, glancing at me. ‘You’ve done enough bloody solo.’
We’re at the junction with Harehills.
Fairclough’s white Cortina with its black roof is turning left into Leeds.
I try Ellis again.
He picks up.
‘Get your fucking finger out,’ I’m shouting. ‘He’s heading into Leeds.’
I cut him off before he can piss off Rudkin any further.
Fairclough turns right on to Roundhay Road.
I’m writing:
Foot down, writing:
Then he’s right on to Barrack Road and we keep straight on.
‘Right on to Barrack Road,’ Rudkin’s shouting at me, me into the radio at Ellis.
I’ve got Ellis in the rearview, indicating right.
‘He’s on him,’ I say.
Ellis’s voice booms through the car: ‘He’s pulling up outside the clinic’
We go right and pull up past the junction on Chapeltown Road.
‘Just some fat Paki bitch with a ton of shopping,’ says Ellis. ‘Coming your way.’
We watch the Cortina pass us and turn back up the Roundhay Road.
‘Proceeding,’ I say into the radio and Rudkin pulls out.
‘Tell Ellis to pick him up again at the next lights,’ says Rudkin.
I do it.
And Rudkin pulls in.
We’re at the entrance to Spencer Place, to Janice.
I look at him.
‘You got some sorting out to do,’ he says and leans across me, opening my door.
‘What you going to say?’
‘Nowt. Be here at seven.’
‘What about Fairclough?’
‘We’ll manage.’
‘Thanks, Skip,’ I say and get out.
He pulls the door to and I watch him drive off up the Roundhay Road, radio in hand.
I check my watch.
Four-thirty.
Two and a half hours.
I knock on the door and wait.
Nothing.
I turn the handle.
