FB groaned inwardly. ‘C’mon, let’s grab a brew.’
Henry stood up, brushed his rumpled clothing down. He needed a shower and a change. His underpants were notably uncomfortable.
Without bothering to check his desk he followed FB towards the lift. A typist walking the other way then dumped a bundle of newly typed reports and files onto his blotter; on top of that the Admin Officer placed the remainder of the day’s other correspondence.
The meeting concluded at 1.15 p.m., no Minutes having been taken, but certain agreements having been made. All three men were ready for their treats which were waiting in the reception foyer of the club. A fifteen year-old boy — thin, wan and pathetic-looking — for Conroy; women for the other two. High-class hookers who were going to cost a lot of money.
Shadowed by the gunmen, the three wandered into Reception, their conversation much lighter and more relaxed than it had been. They talked about football and cars.
A man approached them.
Conroy’s guards stepped in between. Their hands slipped inside their jackets, a simple gesture which carried a menacing message. They didn’t seem to realise that had the man been a professional, they would all have been well dead by then.
But he wasn’t.
His name was Saltash and he was a pimp. He preferred to be referred to as a ‘procurer’. His business card stated I Procure the Needs of People on one side and Procurer to the Professionals on the other.
‘ It’s OK,’ Conroy said quickly, calming his jumpy bodyguards. His men became easy and drew aside. ‘What’ve you got for us today, Saltash, you slime-ball?’
Like an over-attentive, smarmy waiter, Saltash bowed courteously and led them to his ‘products’ — another misnomer he liked to use.
‘ For you,’ he said to Conroy. He indicated the young lad with the flourish of a magician. ‘This is Gary… Gary, stand up.’ Gary stood. He had a very spotty complexion and wore a sneer of contempt for Conroy. ‘Meet Mr Conroy.’
Conroy smiled. He liked them to have a bit of spunk about them (his little joke).
Saltash continued, ‘For you, Mr Morton, I’ve brought along Angela again — I know you like her and she adores you. Angela!’ Saltash motioned with his thumb.
Angela rose. Tall, leggy, dark, mysterious. Aged somewhere between twenty-four and thirty-six. She was virtually lovely, but slightly raggy around the edges. She had a deep, grainy voice with a southern accent which made Morton’s hair tingle. And she spoke dirty, especially when drawing breath during oral sex. Morton adored her. She thought he was a fool.
She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘Baby… we need to fuck,’ she whispered.
‘ And for you, Mr McNamara… Gillian.’ Gillian was already on her feet. She was as tall as Angela but had much more of everything and she was black. She shook hands with McNamara whose face had already hardened into a cruel mask of lust.
Saltash’s experienced eyes saw that all was OK.
‘ Usual prices?’ Conroy asked. This was always his treat.
The procurer nodded.
‘ Usual services?’
Another nod of consent.
Conroy handed him an envelope. It was always a cash transaction. He looked at Gary who stood there looking bolshie. ‘Get up those fucking stairs,’ he hissed.
The defiant front wilted to one of passivity and acquiescence. Like a frightened dog, the boy did as he was told.
The other two men led their ladies upstairs.
As ever, three rooms had been put aside for their pleasure.
Saltash went into the restaurant and ordered a three-course meal with wine.
He thought he had a wonderful job.
The Duty Inspector hated what he was doing, taking a statement of complaint from a youth he knew to be a troublemaker, drug user and thief, with a string of convictions as long as a wet day in Fleetwood. It as a good test of the Inspector’s interpersonal skills that he didn’t get up, go round the table and complete the job Henry Christie had started a few days before, and rip Shane’s one remaining testicle from its moorings.
‘ I shall pass these details onto the relevant people,’ he explained to Shane at the conclusion. ‘I shall tell our Scenes of Crime Department to come and visit you later today to get a photograph of your… um… operation scar and you will hear very shortly from the Discipline and Complaints Department, I expect.’
The Inspector then bit his lip as he handed Shane a leaflet about how to complain against the police and how complaints are subsequently investigated. He showed him out of the police station — together with his legal adviser — as though he was a valued customer who would receive the most favourable attention. Please do call again.
What riled the Inspector was that was exactly how the D amp; C Department would perceive Shane: a client.
It made him sick to his stomach.
But, that said, Henry had obviously gone too far.
All the enthusiasm had drained out of Henry when, twenty minutes after having been told — informally — of Shane’s complaint against him, he sat down heavily at his desk. On top of everything else he was dealing with, the news had rocked him like a body blow.
He felt deflated and threatened.
The horrible spectre of a Crown Court appearance loomed ahead, with all its attendant publicity. As he sat there, head in hands, he decided that if he did end up facing a judge and jury, there were only two words he would say: ‘Not Guilty.’
All he wanted to do was sit and cry, he was so depressed. The workload, long hours and lack of sleep over the last few days had taken their toll; today’s additional weights — the violent death of Derek Luton, news that McNamara was making noises in high places, and the complaint from Mulcahy — were not far off being the last straw. The one that broke the detective’s back.
‘ Right,’ he said to himself. ‘Let’s get this into perspective.’
Firstly, a court appearance was the worst thing that could possibly happen. Most complaints filed against the police fizzled out and came to nothing. This one could be the same. Henry believed he had used ‘reasonable force’ in order to subdue Shane who had, after all, attacked him with a knife. It was more than likely that when the file of evidence was submitted it would come back with No Further Action Recommended. It was his word against Shane’s. The only thing going against Henry was his stupidity in not filling in the custody record.
Secondly, McNamara did not intimidate him. In fact, Henry relished the prospect of taking on people in high places.
Thirdly, Degsy’s killer had to be found and a Detective Inspector with his mind on other matters would not achieve this.
And fourthly, long hours and hard work killed no one. Or so it was said.
‘ Right,’ he said again. ‘Get a grip and deal with everything as it happens.’
However, it was with slothful reluctance that he took the top piece of paper from the pile on his desk and read it. Correspondence waits for no man. Failure to deal with it simply means more. It doesn’t stop coming just because there are other things to do.
He began to deal.
The procurer drove his three products back to Blackburn later that afternoon. He delivered them to various locations. Gary asked to be dropped off near to the railway station. Angel was left outside a motel on the edge of town where Saltash had another client waiting for her. Gillian wanted to be taken home.
The whole journey had been unusually quiet. Normally the two girls were full of laughter and mischief whilst Gary, for his age, had a very inventive sense of humour. Today was different. They were all withdrawn, sullen and somewhat tense. Saltash was quite happy that there was no chatter. He was over two thousand pounds to the good — tax-free, of course — and each of his products had pocketed two-fifty plus whatever tips they had been given. That was their business.