up operations on a weekend, banging heads together, proving she was a tougher uniformed officer than her male colleagues. Or then with CID, chasing after one of the failures who believed – wrongly, of course – he was ready to move up a league.
She knew this place.
As she walked in, she felt the adrenalin rise within her. An old response kicking in, her hands automatically clenching into fists, body going into fight-or-flight.
Fight, definitely.
She had also attracted attention. Made immediately as filth. May as well have a big neon sign round her neck. The solitary drinkers dotted round the place had either looked up at her as she entered or put their heads down, eyes averted. On tables of two or more, hands had swept the surface, gone underneath, where they would stay until she had left. A gang of lads clustered round the pool table stopped playing, stared. Gripped their pool cues like tribal warriors holding spears.
She moved further into the pub. The air was rank. Cigarette smoke no longer disguising wood ingrained and rotted by stale beer, or a toilet that hadn’t been recently cleaned, or a deep-fat fryer that hadn’t changed its oil since Tony Blair was prime minister.
The walls were drab, bare. Chairs that had survived being used as Saturday-night brawling weapons clustered round old, scarred tables. Vinyl banquettes lined the walls, a patchwork of gaffer-covered slashes.
Rose walked up to the bar. The barman was large and neckless. His stubble-shaved head went straight into his faded Hawaiian shirt. His face was as open and welcoming as an evangelical church to a married gay couple.
She showed him her warrant card. She needn’t have done. ‘I’m looking for Daryl Kent. He in? I was told he’d be here.’
The barman appeared to be thinking. Weighing up being a grass against not co-operating with someone who could get his pub investigated. He settled for nodding in the direction of the youths playing pool.
‘Which one?’ she said.
‘Dark lad. White hoodie.’ His lips didn’t move as he spoke.
She nodded by way of thanks and crossed the floor to the pool table. Spotted Daryl Kent straight away. He was mixed race and angry about it. Or at least angry about something. His eyes narrowed, features set into a scowl. Body tensed, ready to leap, begging for trouble.
‘Daryl Kent?’
He checked his gang first, a quick look either side. They moved in closer behind him, pool cues gripped tight. He looked back at Rose. ‘Who’s askin’?’
She showed him her warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Rose Martin.’
‘Five-O.’ Pleased with himself, like he’d just unravelled Fermat’s Last Theorem.
She waited. ‘Daryl Kent.’ A statement not a question.
A small nod. ‘Yeah.’
‘Can we talk?’
Another look round. ‘Talk here. My bredrin’s safe.’
Rose inwardly rolled her eyes. Talking like a New York gangster or a Jamaican yardie when he had probably been no further than Marks Tey.
‘You were Faith Luscombe’s boyfriend. Right?’
He shrugged.
‘That a yes?’
‘Yeah. Some. Not no more. Bitch was skanky.’
‘Certainly isn’t no more, Daryl, because she’s dead.’
It was like she had slapped him. Suddenly a different persona appeared. Shock passed over his features, followed by fear. Suddenly she sensed he was uncomfortable with his bredrin around him.
‘Seriously?’ His voice small, incredulous. A child’s response.
‘Seriously. Where were you last night, Daryl? Or this morning?’
He backed away from her, into the pool table. Fear spreading over his features. ‘Naw, naw… not me. You ain’t stitchin’ me up for it.’
‘Where were you, Daryl?’
Another look at his bredrin. They had dropped back away from him. Suddenly not that close. Rose was enjoying herself now. Putting this arrogant twat in his place.
‘With my… my new woman.’
‘What, your mum?’ She couldn’t resist it.
His bredrin sniggered. Daryl became angry.
‘Not my mum. Cheeky bitch. My new woman. Denise. Was round at her place.’
‘Right. And do you pimp her out as well?’
‘What?’ Shock and incredulity.
‘Get her to have paid sex with other men and then take her money off her? I thought you of all people would know what a pimp does.’
‘I ain’t no pimp.’
‘No?’ Rose’s anger was increasing. ‘I hate liars, Daryl. I really do. Such a lack of respect, being lied to. But you know what? I hate pimps most of all. Scum. Lowest of the low. Cowards, living off women. Too lazy to get themselves work.’
‘I ain’t no pimp!’
‘Liar.’
‘No I ain’t… ’ Another look round to his bredrin, who weren’t helping him. They had drifted away from him now. He was on his own. His anger increased. Rose saw his lips move, eyes dart. Trying desperately to think of a comeback. ‘But if I was a pimp,’ he said, ‘I’d turn you out. Show you some respect for talking to me like that.’
And that did it. All the excuse she needed.
She was on him. One arm locked round his neck, the other pulling his own arm up behind his back, stretching it as far as it would go. He cried out in pain. She felt his muscles tearing, heard something pop.
‘Take it outside,’ the barman said from the safety of the bar.
‘Fuck off,’ said Rose, then turned her attention back to Daryl. ‘Now, where were we? Oh yes. Liars and pimps. I hate both of them. And that’s you, Daryl. Now talk. You were Faith’s boyfriend. Did you pimp her out?’
‘No… ’
She pulled harder. He screamed. ‘Did you?’
‘No… ’ he gasped out.
It sounded like the truth, she thought reluctantly. He was too weak to keep lying while she was doing this. She kept going. ‘Where were you last night?’
‘With Denise, I told you… ’
She pulled again.
‘All right, all right… at home. At my mum’s… ’
‘That’s better.’
‘Wait… wait… ’
Rose waited.
‘Did… Donna send you? Did… she tell you that? Bitch… ’
A sudden realisation hit Rose. She had been played. Read, wound up and sent after Daryl. Donna had played her.
‘Why’s she a bitch, Daryl?’ Wanting to let go of him, not knowing how to. Not knowing how to let herself go.
‘Because… she hates me. Always hated me… hated me bein’ with Faith, mad lezzer wanted her for herself. An’ she got her an’ all… ’
Played.
It was a hateful feeling.
She gave him one last twist. He cried out and she let him go. He slumped to the floor beneath the pool table, gasping and crying. ‘You’re a psycho, a fuckin’ psycho… ’
‘And you’re still scum,’ she said, and walked out.
