nights? But there they were being faced down by a fucking busload of coppers in riot gear. You can’t get that kind of a turnout when it all goes off in the Moss on a hot summer’s night!’ Tony crushed out his cigarette and pulled another one out of the pack.
‘So, whoever is behind all of this has got a bit of pull?’ It was more of a statement than a question.
‘You could say that.’
‘Who is it, Tony?’ I asked.
A drift of smoke from Richard’s joint hid Tony’s face for a moment. When it passed, his dark eyes met mine. I could see worry, but also a kind of calculation. I felt like I was being weighed in the balance. I’d wondered why Tony had agreed to talk to me. It hadn’t seemed enough that he was an old mate of Richard’s. Now I realized what the hidden agenda was. Like his buddies, Tony had been comfortable with the way things were run in the city. Like a lot of other people, he wasn’t comfortable with what was happening now. They’d tried to sort it out themselves in the conventional ways, and that hadn’t worked. Now Tony was wondering if he’d found a cleaner way of getting the new team off the patch. ‘Somebody came to see me a couple of weeks ago,’ he said obliquely. ‘A pair of somebodies, to be precise. Very heavy-duty somebodies. They told me that if I wanted Manassas to carry on being a successful club, I should hand my promotions over to them. I told them I didn’t negotiate with messengers and that if they wanted my business, the boss man had better get off his butt and talk face to face.’
I nodded. I liked his style. It was a gamble, but he was on his own turf, so it wasn’t likely to have been too expensive. ‘And?’
‘They went away. Two nights later, I was walking from my car to my front door when three guys jumped me. They put a sack over my head and threw me in the back of a van. They drove me around for a while. Felt like we were going in circles. Then they tipped me out in a warehouse. And I met the boss.’
‘Who is it, Tony?’ I asked softly. He wasn’t talking to me any more. He was talking to himself.
‘Peter Lovell. Detective Inspector Peter Lovell. Of the Vice Squad. He’s due to retire next year. So he’s setting himself up in business now to make sure he can replace all his backhanders with a nice little earner.’
There was a long pause. Then eventually I said, ‘What’s he like, this Lovell?’
‘You ask the plod, they’ll probably tell you he’s a model copper. He’s got commendations, the lot. The top brass don’t want to know the truth, do they? Long as their cleanup rate looks OK to the police committee, everything’s hunky-dory. But this Lovell, he’s a real bastard. He’s on the pad with all the serious teams that really run the vice in this city. The faces behind the class-act brothels, the boss porn men, the mucky-movie boys, they’re all paying Lovell’s wages. But he makes it look good by picking up plenty of the small fry. Street girls, rent boys, any small-time operators that think they can live off the crumbs from the top lads’ tables. Whenever Lovell needs a good body, they’re his for the taking, there to make him look like a hero in the
‘What about his private life? He married?’
‘Divorced. No kids.’
‘Girlfriend?’
Tony shook his head, his mouth twisting in a grimace. ‘Word is, he likes fresh meat. And his paymasters know it. Soon as they get some nice new recruit who’s managed to avoid being raped, they give her to Lovell to break her in. Not too young, though. Not below about fourteen. He wouldn’t like people to think he was a pervert.’ He spat out the word as if it tasted as unpleasant as Lovell himself.
I took a deep breath. It was going to be a real pleasure to nail this bastard. ‘How many people know he’s the face behind the flyposting invasion?’
‘Not many,’ Tony said. ‘It’s not common knowledge, take it from me. One or two of the big players on the music scene, not more than that. That’s the only reason there’s not a war on the streets right now. They’re keeping the lid on it, because as long as Lovell’s still on the force, he can screw us all one way or another. But somebody’s got to put a stop to him. Or else there’s going to be blood and teeth on the floor.’
I stood up. ‘I’m going to have to think about this, Tony,’ was all I said. We all knew what I meant.
He lit his cigarette and jammed it into the corner of his mouth. ‘Yeah,’ he muttered, unfolding his body from the sofa and making for the door.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ I said.
He jerked to a stop and half turned. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘You want to talk, get Richard to call me and we’ll set something up. I don’t want you anywhere near Manassas, you hear?’
I heard. He walked out the door and I moved over to the window, snapping the standard lamp off as I went. I pulled the blind back a couple of inches and gazed down three storeys to the shiny wet street below. A taxi sat at the traffic lights, its diesel ticking noisily above the background hum of the city. The lights changed and the taxi juddered off.
‘I’ve never worked for gangsters before,’ I remarked as I watched Tony dodge out of the front door and double back past the student residence.
‘It can’t be that different. Some of your other clients have been just as dodgy, only they were wearing suits.’
‘There’s one crucial difference,’ I said. ‘With straight clients, if you succeed, they pay. With gangsters, unless you succeed,
Richard put an arm round my shoulders. ‘Better not fail then, Brannigan.’
Chapter 19
Even I don’t know many people whose doors I can knock on just after one in the morning in the absolute certainty I won’t be waking them up. But I didn’t have any qualms about this particular door. I pressed the bell and waited, leaning up against the doorjamb to shelter from the persistent night rain.
After Tony had sloped off into the groovy world of nightclub Manchester, I’d felt too wired to go home to bed. Richard had tried to talk me into a Chinese followed by cool jazz in some Whalley Range cellar known only to a handful of the true faith. It hadn’t been hard to say no. I’ve always thought jazz was for anoraks who think they’re too intellectual for train spotting, and my stomach already felt like it had been stir-fried. Besides, I knew exactly how I could profitably fill the time till sleep ambushed me.
The door opened suddenly and, caught unawares, I tipped forward. I almost fell into Gizmo’s arms. I don’t know which of us was more appalled by the prospect, but we both jumped back like a pair of fifties teenagers doing the Bunny Hop. ‘You don’t believe in office hours, do you?’ Gizmo demanded belligerently.
‘No more than you do. You going to let me in? It’s pissing it down out here,’ I complained.
I followed him back upstairs to the computer room, where screens glowed softly in the dim interior and REM reminded me that night swimming deserves a quiet night. ‘Tell me about it,’ I muttered, shaking the raindrops from my head well out of range of any hardware.
‘Gimme a minute,’ he said. There were only two chairs in the room, both of them leather desk chairs. I sat in the one Gizmo wasn’t occupying and waited patiently while he finished whatever he’d been in the middle of doing. After ten minutes, I began to wish I’d brought my own games software with me. I cleared my throat. ‘Be right there,’ he said. ‘This is crucial.’
A few more minutes passed and I watched the headlights on Stockport Road sneak round the edge of the blinds and send slender beams across the ceiling, an activity that could give counting sheep a run for its money. Then Gizmo hit a bunch of keys, pushed his chair away from the desk and swivelled round to face me. He was wearing an elderly plaid dressing gown over jeans that were ripped from age not fashion and an unironed granddad shirt. Eat your heart out, corporate man. ‘Got some work for me, then?’ he asked.
‘Depends. You found another job yet?’
He snorted. ‘Come round to take the piss, have you? Like I said, Kate, I’m too old to be a wunderkind any more. Nobody believes in you if you’re old enough to vote and shave unless your name’s Bill Gates. No, I haven’t got another job yet.’
