On the face of it, the target seemed unaware that he was being followed. Unfortunately this indicated to Henry that he wasn’t up to anything unlawful — yet.
The only problem Henry now had was that his mini personal radio, strapped to his belt at the small of his back and wired up to a discreet earpiece, a tiny mike pinned on the collar of his windjammer and a transmit button on the palm of his left hand, had packed up. In other words the battery had lost its charge, the bane of every policeman’s life; and like most cops Henry hadn’t brought a spare. So he was alone without any immediate means of contacting the rest of his team. All they could do was pinpoint the Porsche and sit on it until the target returned. Henry knew they would do this as a matter of course, but he cursed his own stupidity and short-sightedness for insisting on working alone, just because he felt like Greta Garbo.
He circled the room feeling more and more ancient by the minute as he brushed past young girls who looked no older than his thirteen-year old daughter Jenny. He half-expected to see her face in the crowd.
Then he spotted his man.
Henry froze. He’d almost walked right up to him. He took a step back and a group of youngsters spilled into the vacuum he’d created.
The target was actually sitting in one corner of the room, in an area separated from the rest of it by a fancy wrought-iron, thigh-high railing. He was at a table together with another man and a woman. Lounging on the wall behind them were two casually dressed gorillas, whose eyes constantly scanned the room. Bouncers? Bodyguards?
Interesting, whatever.
Henry pushed his way to the bar. After an interminable wait he bought a bottle of Bud, declining the glass offered because it seemed to be the fashion to drink it straight from the bottle. Must be hip, he thought, and hiply took a cool, refreshing, fizzy swig. He then engineered a position by the edge of a slot-machine where he could see his target yet remain unseen himself.
The area the three sat in was like a total exclusion zone, even though there were two vacant tables. When a young couple innocently decided to sit at one of the tables, the gorillas swooped down from their tree and blocked the way menacingly.
Unwisely the young man remonstrated. He must have said a few harsh words; one of the gorillas responded by punching him hard and low in the stomach. Bent double with pain, he was quickly led away by his girlfriend. The gorillas loped back to their station.
The other people in the pub who’d witnessed the incident looked in another direction, not wishing to get involved.
Henry’s eyes narrowed. An over-the-top reaction for no reason at all, he thought. They were certainly a nervous crew behind that wrought-iron fence. But what worried him most was the glimpse of a firearm when the jacket of one of the bodyguards inadvertently swung open. A bulge under the jacket of the other told Henry he was similarly tooled up.
The detective’s attention moved to the man in the middle. He was obviously the boss.
Henry didn’t know him, his face rang no bells, but suddenly he found himself very interested.
He was quite a young man, in his early thirties, fit-looking with jet-black hair, a neatly trimmed moustache, a swarthy complexion and the dark, all-seeing eyes of a predator. His clothing was casual but expensive; Ralph Lauren polo shirt, beautifully cut chinos and loafers. No socks. A slim, understated watch was attached to his wrist and a chunky gold chain encircled his tanned neck. He was good looking, exuding an air of confidence, wealth and violence. It seemed to Henry that he would have looked more at home on the Costa del Crime, rather than here in Blackpool, the Costa del Shite… because there was one thing Henry Christie did know about this man, simply by looking at him: he was a top flight criminal, a major player. Henry would happily have bet his next month’s expenses cheque on the fact.
Yet, despite the outward appearance of calm, something in his manner, a fraction below the surface, told Henry he was unsettled. His non-verbal signals betrayed him.
The girl who sat next to him was positively gorgeous — a black chick who looked young enough to be jailbait. One of her hands rested provocatively at the top of the man’s thigh and she stuck close to him as though superglued, laughing in all the right places. Her short, low-cut dress left little to Henry’s imagination and he soon found himself unconsciously trying to peer up her legs.
But this was no girlfriend. Everything about her screamed hooker; expensive hooker. And she looked uneasy, too. Her brown eyes never stayed still for an instant. Her shoulders were taut. She was very, very nervous.
Henry finished off his Bud and returned to the bar. This time he had a less fashionable bottle of non-alcoholic lager which tasted bitter after the slightly sweet American brew.
As he glanced casually around the room, Henry spotted another man watching the trio. He was mid-height, with blond hair and a moustache. Pretty nondescript, though he looked vaguely familiar. A moment later the man had gone. Henry thought nothing of it, resumed his position by the bandit and took a long drink from his bottle. Ugh. All the flavour brewed out with the alcohol.
He was about to make a phone call into the Blackpool Communications Room for them to pass on his present position by radio to his team when the three got slowly to their feet.
They were on the move.
Henry swore.
The boss man nodded to his gorillas. One of them took the lead, forging a way through the throng. The three slotted in behind with the other gorilla taking up a position at the rear, his right hand hidden underneath his jacket. They went out of a door at the rear of the pub. Henry gave them a few moments, then followed.
Karen answered the door in her bath-robe.
She’d had a long hot soak and a shower. Nothing could shake the sense of disaster in her mind, but at least she was now clean and ready for bed. She’d just rolled the quilt back on her double bed when the doorbell rang.
She was tempted to ignore it, but found she couldn’t.
Dave August stood there, swaying slightly. His official car, the Jaguar, was parked with one wheel on the kerb, unattended. Obviously he’d driven there by himself. Yet he smelled of alcohol. His eyes were watery and bloodshot.
‘ What the hell do you want?’ Karen asked.
‘ To explain?’ he said meekly. Then: ‘Oh, come on, Karen. You owe me that at the very least.’
‘ Do I?’ she asked resolutely.
‘ Look, can I come in, or shall we continue to conduct our business in public?’ He was having a little difficulty stringing the words together.
She considered slamming the door in his face then relented, allowed him to enter.
She followed him into the lounge. He knew the way. It was a beautifully furnished room, much money having been spent on the tasteful decor.
August turned to her as she came in behind him. ‘Karen,’ he began, his arms outstretched.
‘ Not so fast, David,’ she told him coolly. ‘You said you wanted to explain something. If you think you’re going to get a fuck after the way I’ve been treated, you’re well off the mark.’
August backed off. ‘Very well,’ he conceded, tight-lipped.
He plonked himself loosely down on the plush sofa and crossed his legs. She perched on a chair-arm. Her robe fell open, revealing her thighs. She quickly pulled it back and covered up, though not before August had seen.
‘ Well, I’m waiting,’ she said at length.
‘ I… I don’t really know where to begin,’ he stuttered. ‘Look, could I have a drink?’
‘ I think you’ve already had enough.’
‘ Please. ‘
Karen sighed impatiently. She fixed him a large whisky, dropped an ice cube into it and handed it to him. ‘Thanks,’ he said. Most of it then hit the back of his throat. ‘That’s better.’
Karen’s mouth twisted into a line of disapproval.