Substantial Threat (12 page)

After he had been served, he and Roscoe seated themselves at the back of the room where there was a little space, but no chance of talking. The band was deafeningly loud.

Henry seemed to be enjoying the music, but when Roscoe surreptitiously glanced at him, she saw he was actually scanning the bar area, inspecting every face, sometimes pausing as a thought struck him.

She looked round, too, and noticed several people eyeing Henry with a mixture of suspicion and hate. They were no doubt some of his previous customers, she thought. It was as plain as day he was well known in these circles, and though this was sometimes a disadvantage and a danger, Roscoe felt safe and comfortable next to him even though some of the characters looked like they would have been happy to smash their beer glasses and grind them into his face. Henry did not seem unduly perturbed by their attention.

‘Seen anybody you know?' she asked him, being forced to repeat the question an inch from his ear as the band cranked into the latest Oasis rocker.

‘Only fifty per cent of them.' He laughed. ‘This is one of the big low-life hang outs, but there's never really much trouble. A bit like a watering hole in the Masai Mara. Some are hunters, some are prey, but here there's a kind of truce between them.'

There was no doubt in Jane's mind as to which category Henry fell into.

‘Here – hang on to this. Just need to pay a visit.' He pushed his glass into her free hand. Before she could say anything, Henry had ducked into the crowd and was heading towards the toilets.

He had seen someone he needed to talk to.

‘Ten minutes.' Crazy hung up.

‘What the hell has he been up to?' Ray demanded.

‘Had a few probs.' Crazy shrugged. ‘He'll tell you when he gets here.'

‘Well I don't know about you, but I'm effin' starvin',' declared Marty with a stretch of his limbs. ‘I need some sustenance and I'm gonna get some chips. Anybody else want any?' The other two shook their heads. ‘Suit yourselves.' Marty stood up. ‘How's about putting the kettle on anyway?' He peered at Crazy and raised his eyebrows, hoping to galvanize him into some movement. Crazy did not move. ‘We're gonna be here till Dix lands and then we've got to count the cash . . . yeah?'

Crazy sighed and dragged himself out of his seat. ‘Okay – get me a fish, then.'

‘Ray?' He looked at his half-brother. ‘Sure you don't want owt?'

Ray shook his head.

‘Buzz me out, then.'

Marty went to the front door and waited while Ray pressed the buzzer release, allowing Marty to step out into the night.

It was cold, a biting draught coming down from the steep hillside. Marty shivered and hunched down into his coat, digging his hands deep into his pockets as he moved away from the door and headed towards the town centre of Rawtenstall. He knew there was a fish and chip shop about five minutes away.

Suddenly he felt very nervous, yet undeniably elated.

The gents' toilets were at the back of the pub. Henry followed his man into them, about fifteen seconds later. When Henry pushed the door open, he was not surprised that the other man was nowhere to be seen and that the toilets appeared to be empty. Henry had long since ceased wearing leather-soled shoes. They creaked and announced arrival. He preferred man made because they allowed him to sneak up on people.

There was a low murmur of voices about halfway down the toilets, coming from one of the cubicles. Henry smiled and his heart moved up a gear. He loved times like these.

The sound of voices remained indistinct, but grew slightly louder as Henry slid along from cubicle to cubicle, holding his breath. He reached the occupied cubicle just as the door swung open and a small man he did not recognize stepped out, then froze at the sight of the detective soaring over him.

Henry smiled wickedly. In a hoarse whisper he rasped, ‘Police – scram!' The little man paused uncertainly. Henry added, ‘Before I change my mind.'

The man needed no further prompting.

Henry swung into the cubicle, rammed his hand against Troy Costain's chest and forced him down on to the grey, cracked toilet, the seat of which was not down, ensuring that Costain's bottom hovered only inches above the surface of the water and whatever happened to be floating about in it.

Costain struggled, but he was no contest for the six-foot-two Henry, who grabbed his denim jacket and said, ‘I'll push your arse all the way down this bog if you don't stop.'

If was only then Costain actually realized who his assailant was.

‘Oh, shit,' he breathed, ‘it's you. I thought I was going to get hammered.'

‘Yeah, it's me. I want to talk to you and if you don't tell me what I want to know, you will get hammered.'

‘God, Henry – I can't talk here,' Costain pleaded. ‘Please, not here.'

‘Okay.' Henry stood back. ‘Car park. Five minutes. And if you're not there, I'll be round knocking at the family home, letting the rest of your criminal tribe know what a helpful little soul you've been to me over the past ten years.'

‘Henry,' Costain said seriously, ‘you're a real twat.'

Henry patted Costain's cheek and gave him a winning smile. ‘I know.'

Dix hated being late, but he also hated not doing his job properly and doing the job properly meant turning up with all the money that was owed to Ray Cragg, not just eighty per cent of it. He was fuming and not a little nervous as Miller, his driver, powered the car across the county.

Ray would be angry because of his tardiness, but he would have been even angrier if all the money wasn't there. At least Dix had good reason to be late – and maybe Ray would do something constructive about the reason now.

Miller cooled it as he drove into Rawtenstall, past the magistrates' court building on the left, then around the fire station roundabout, left into Bocholt Way past ASDA, the river Irwell running parallel to the road on their right.

Miller wound his way through some terraced streets and stopped at the top of Balaclava Street to let Dix out to walk the last 100 metres. Ray did not like to see any cars coming down the cobbles. He preferred to see people approaching on foot.

‘Give me fifteen minutes,' Dix said as he swung his legs out of the car.

‘Sure. I'll go and juice up at ASDA.'

He drove away and Dix, holdall in hand, trotted down towards the counting house.

Miller yawned and rubbed his eyes as he drove away. It had been a long, tiring day and he was looking forward to getting back to Blackpool and hitting the sack with his girlfriend. Exhausted as he was, though, he still managed to glimpse the two cars parked at the end of a nearby street, containing two guys each.

They looked out of place. The hairs on Miller's neck crinkled as they rose.

It was a low-walled car park just off the busy main road. It was poorly lit and over the years there had been many crimes committed in it, ranging from car theft to rape, from mugging to manslaughter. The proximity of the pub, people passing by on foot and in vehicles, did not prevent the commission of offences.

Henry and Jane sat in Henry's car, engine idling, heater blowing.

‘Now I don't want you to tell on me,' Henry said quietly, ‘but this guy is an unregistered informant.'

‘Tut tut.' She grinned.

‘And last time I spoke to him was when you went AWOL.'

‘Was he any use?'

‘Naah,' drawled Henry, ‘not much.' He failed to mention that during that particular encounter, his frustration had so boiled over that he had splattered Costain in a heap on the road leading up to Blackpool zoo. The recollection did not make him smile.

From where they were parked they had a view of the side door of the pub, but not the front. If Costain chose to be uncooperative he could easily have legged it without Henry knowing, but Henry firmly believed his informant would decide to have a cosy chat instead.

Costain was one of several sons in a family of gypsies who had been settled for a couple of generations on the Shoreside estate in Blackpool. They terrorized the inhabitants and made their living mainly through intimidation and theft. Troy Costain had come to Henry's notice over ten years earlier when he had arrested him for theft. On his arrival at the police station, Troy's hard man image had cracked immediately and his fear of incarceration in a pokey cell was apparent when he begged Henry not to lock him up. He promised to tell Henry anything he wanted to know, which was music to a cop's ears. A good informant on Shoreside was like gold dust. Most folk on the estate kept their mouths shut and told the police nothing.

The side door opened. A blast of rock music shot out and the furtive figure of Troy Costain sneaked out.

‘Here he is,' whispered Henry.

Costain stood on the steps and peered out at the dark car park. Henry flashed his headlights once. Costain started to zigzag his way around the other parked vehicles.

‘It's Troy Costain,' Henry said to Jane before the informant reached them. The significance of the surname was not lost on her. Troy's brother had been the victim of the killer who had kidnapped her. She shifted with discomfort. ‘But he won't know who you are,' Henry reassured her.

As Costain reached the car, Henry opened his window. ‘In the back.'

Costain slid in, shaking his head. ‘Fuck me, Henry, you don't half put me in some shite positions,' he moaned. ‘One day someone'll find out about us and I'll be a dead man.' His voice was jittery. Only then did he notice Jane slumped low into the front passenger seat. ‘Oh fuck!' he groaned. ‘Who the shit is this?'

‘No one you need worry about.' Henry adjusted his rearview mirror so he could observe his man without having to twist around. Costain closed his eyes and slammed his head back on to the seat. ‘The noose tightens,' he said, blowing out long and hard.

‘So what were you doing in the bogs?' Henry enquired.

‘I'm saying nowt.' Costain's lips went tight as piano wire.

Henry shrugged. ‘Just want to know what I'm turning a blind eye to.'

‘Just some nicked property. Nothing really.'

‘You sure?'

Costain paused. ‘Just put him on to a good shoplifter that's all.'

‘Okay,' Henry said accepting this. ‘Whatever.'

‘So why the hassle?'

‘I've hassled you, have I?' Henry said, affronted. ‘Just run that one by me, Troy?'

‘You know what I mean. Turnin' up at my waterin' hole and puttin' me in a . . . a situation which I've got to explain to some very nasty people.'

‘You'll think of something,' Henry said with certainty. ‘Go on, have a guess why I'm here.'

‘Doh – let me think about that one.' Costain put a finger to his lips in a dumb gesture.

‘You don't have to be the Brain of Britain to get it right, Troy.' The car was beginning to steam up. Henry flicked the fan heater up a notch and readjusted the rear-view mirror for a better view of his informant.

‘Yeah, right . . . Rufus and his two cronies blasted to smithereens not too far down the road.'

‘Correct. One point.'

‘How much is this gonna be worth?' Troy asked. ‘Because I'll tell you now, whoever grasses on whoever pulled those triggers is gonna need some dosh to lie low, get out of the country or whatever. It's not gonna be cheap information, Henry.'

‘I take it you already know something, then?'

‘Not saying that.' Costain became cagey. ‘But if I did' – he opened his palms – ‘it would be expensive. Big drugs people involved there, I'd say.'

‘No!' exclaimed Henry. ‘I would never have guessed.' He paused, then for the first time turned in his seat and looked squarely at Costain, who shrank a little deeper into the upholstery. ‘I'll make it worth your while, but you'd better get something quick. Slow won't do.'

‘I'll see.'

‘Good man. Hey, just an afterthought, you knew Johnny Jacques, didn't you?'

The words penetrated Costain's cranium quite slowly. He said, ‘What d'you mean, knew?'

‘I take it from that reaction he used to be a bit of a buddy of yours?'

‘Bit of a buddy? Bloody good mate . . . what's all this “knew him” and “used to be” crap?'

‘You haven't heard? He's been taking flying lessons, only his wings didn't flap fast enough. Splat!' Henry clapped his hands once to reinforce the last word.

‘Jesus! Dead?'

‘Dead as a pancake, I think the expression goes. So who would want to hoiek him out of a window?'

‘His bird? He was always messing her around.'

‘She got burned to death in her flat, Troy, the same flat JJ took a leap from.'

Costain reached for the door handle. ‘I'll be back to you soon.'

‘You know my mobile number,' Henry called out to Costain's retreating back.

‘It's Dix,' Crazy said watching the CCTV monitor. He pressed the door release button and Dix went out of sight as he stepped into the counting house, reappearing a couple of seconds later in the living room, sports bag in hand, humble in his body language.

‘Sorry about the lateness,' he apologized. He gave the bag to Crazy who immediately unzipped it and tipped the contents out on to a table top.

‘You'd better explain. We should be out of here by now,' said Ray.

‘It's that idiot, Zog. He's just one lazy twat. Doesn't want to hand any money over, can't be arsed to collect it in the first place. I had to shove the shotgun up his shitter and go round all his people to collect his debts. Took time, Ray, but at least it's all there.' Dix nodded at the pile of cash. ‘Eleven grand.'

Ray sighed. Zog had been getting to be a nuisance. The only problem was that his string of contacts was second to none and his infrastructure of drug selling in Fleetwood was excellent. He was just very lazy, reluctant to pay up and a user himself. ‘We'll have to see about him,' Ray said. ‘Later.'