‘Shit — does he? I wonder if the licensing lads know about that.’
‘He’ll have got in under the radar. Probably using a clean front man.’
Brighouse nodded.
Henry put his weight to the substantial door. It didn’t move. And there was no way of booting it down. It wasn’t some flimsy plywood or MDF door to a bedsit. It was thick oak and properly secured. Henry surveyed it from top to bottom and saw a bell on the wall which had the look of being disconnected. Not that he would have rung it anyway. Runcie wasn’t likely to open up and let the boys in, if he was here.
‘Round the back,’ Henry said.
Brighouse gave him a wary look. ‘Boss, I don’t want to shit my suit up.’
Henry treated him to his best superintendent’s caustic, visual dressing down, all eyes and disapproving mouth, and the young man got the message instantly. Henry refrained from saying patronizingly that he’d ruined more suits than Brighouse had had hot dinners. Probably wasn’t a good boast for a living legend to make. Instead he stalked away, turned into the next side road and found the alley that ran parallel to the rear of the club. Another location he knew well.
It was a typical Blackpool South back alley. Empty beer cans, cider bottles, dog shit, discarded fast food packaging and, before he knew it, or could lift his foot up quickly enough, Henry had trodden on a hypodermic needle that crunched like a baked cockroach. His mouth turned into an ugly sneer of anger as he lifted his foot carefully from the broken glass.
Up ahead in the darkness the alley was blocked by a parked car, which Henry assumed might belong to Runcie. He and Brighouse crept towards it, leaving fluorescent street lights behind, entering a dark world. Henry saw there were two cars in the alley, both parked facing the same direction, nose to tail.
With some shock he realized that the nearer one was the Nissan he had seen on Shoreside. His mouth tasted bitter again as his system pumped the last dregs of adrenalin into him. Beyond the Nissan was an old-style Fiat Panda, one with a fold-back roof.
‘That Panda’s Runcie’s,’ Brighouse whispered behind Henry. ‘I think.’
‘And this one’s from the drive-by shooting,’ Henry said under his breath.
‘Oh.’ Brighouse sounded uncertain.
Henry continued to creep down the alley, careful where he placed his feet. The driver and front passenger windows were wound down on the Nissan. Even feet away Henry could feel the heat of the engine rising on his face, hear the tick-tick of it cooling. A car with a little engine that had been screwed to the ground.
And — not for the first time that night — he could smell the unmistakable odour of cordite from the discharge of a gun.
‘What we gonna do, boss?’ Brighouse said hoarsely. His adrenalin was flowing too, but he was probably having his first flush of it that night, so he had plenty remaining.
‘Investigate.’
‘Does that-?’
Henry wasn’t completely sure what the next words were going to be, nor did he ever discover, as the sentence was stunted by the sound of gunfire from within the club. Dulled. Muted. Unmistakable.
The young detective’s next words actually turned out to be, ‘Fuck-shit!’ and he ducked instinctively. Henry was sure they were not the words he’d originally planned to finish his sentence with.
‘C’mon.’ Henry sidestepped between the cars and went to the door set into the high wall at the back of the club. Highly illegal barbed wire was looped loosely along the top of the wall to deter burglars. Henry flicked the latch on the door and put his shoulder to it. This door, unlike its cousin at the front, was rickety and rotten and loose. It scraped open and he stepped into the rear yard. This was not a particularly large area, but it was a mess of tangled and broken pallets, a few beer kegs and a couple of mega-sized wheelie bins.
When Henry had last been to the club, the back door had been sealed by a huge steel panel, pock-riveted to the brickwork. That had long since been peeled away, revealing the door which led into the kitchen area. Henry headed for this door, seeing it was ajar, his mouth now salty and dehydrated. It was a long time since he’d had a drink of anything.
‘Henry — is this wise?’
Ahh, Henry thought. Maybe that was what Brighouse was going to say.
Henry ignored him and entered the club. A low wattage bulb lit the kitchen, hanging by a bare wire. Henry crossed to the next door. If he remembered correctly, it opened into a series of corridors at the rear of the premises, off which toilets, offices and storerooms were located. Beyond was the way through to the main part of the club.
As he stepped into the first corridor he was instantly confronted by the charging figure of a hooded man, a machine pistol in his hands; behind him was another, similarly clad figure, this one carrying a revolver in his right hand. The two guys from the Nissan.
The meeting was a surprise to all concerned. If it hadn’t been deadly it would have been farcical when Henry and the first man collided headlong into each other. They fell into a tangle of thick limbs and torsos, groans of expelled air rushing out of their lungs.
And behind each man was a second man, of course.
The man with the revolver pointed it at Brighouse and fired. It was an ill-judged, unsupported shot, one handed. The recoil snapped the man’s hand high and sent the bullet into the wall above the detective’s head.
Not that Brighouse would have been hit anyway. As soon as he had seen the weapon rising, self-preservation kicked in and he dived back into the kitchen like a synchronized swimmer launching into a swimming pool — but quicker and not so gracefully.
Henry scrambled wildly and hit out.
The man he was tangling with whipped the barrel of the machine pistol across Henry’s temple, a glancing blow, knocking him sideways. Then the man was up on his feet, and both gunmen hurdled over Henry through to the kitchen and fled out past the terrified Brighouse, who had somehow ended up on his knees in front of the gas cooker, hands held up in surrender.
The man with the revolver pointed it at Brighouse, who clamped his hands together as if praying. ‘Don’t shoot,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve got a fam. .’
He did not fire, and they were gone.
Moments later, Henry staggered through the door, holding his face, blood from the gash on the side of his head all over his hands.
Brighouse dropped his praying hands hastily and looked shamefacedly at Henry, who gave him a glare, found his balance and ran out of the kitchen as he heard an engine starting up, a crunch of gears and a squeal of rubber.
Henry sprinted into the alleyway to see the Nissan swerving backwards onto the street, rocking as the brakes were slammed on, first gear was engaged and the car sped away.
By the time Henry made it to the street himself, the car had gone, leaving a trail of burned oil smoke hanging two feet above the road surface. He could hear the sound of the engine diminishing into the night.
‘You must think I’m a coward.’
Henry had found some kitchen roll, folded it square twice and was holding it against the cut on his head. The blood had flowed onto his face, neck and collar, but the cut itself did not appear too severe. It just hurt.
‘Do I hell. You did exactly the right thing. All you did was get out of the way of someone who took a pot shot at you. Good thinking if you ask me. I’d’ve done the same if I hadn’t run headlong into one of the bastards.’
‘You’re saying I did right by not tackling them?’
‘Yeah, you did right,’ Henry said softly. ‘Don’t dwell on it,’ he advised, but he could see that the prospect of being labelled a chicken would haunt Brighouse for some time to come, if not for ever. It was in his eyes. Self-recrimination. ‘OK?’ Henry said, ending the conversation. ‘Let’s go see what damage they’ve done.’
He and Brighouse had not been joined by any backup — mainly because all other available men were now up on Shoreside and there wasn’t another cop free within twenty miles. Henry, however, would lay odds that they would be safe now. Whatever had been going on in the club was over with. The job had been done.