‘ Fuck off out of it,’ Rider’s voice said in a tone not much louder than a whisper. ‘Now, if you know what’s good for you.’
The man didn’t argue. He jacked up his trousers and bolted.
Rider knew he had only a short time.
He stepped menacingly into the cubicle where Toni was hanging onto the toilet bowl as if she’d been violently sick in it. Her big blue eyes looked fearfully up at Rider; ten years ago she had lived in absolute terror of him and now he’d come back to haunt her. He had been very cruel to her in those days. Treated her badly, verbally, and once physically abused her. He had made it clear he despised people like her. And Munrow had laughed and failed to protect her. All he was interested in were her numeracy skills, otherwise she could be treated badly by anyone. He hadn’t cared a fuck. She’d hated Munrow, but stuck it because the money and hours suited her lifestyle.
Quickly Rider snarled, ‘You have a choice, Toni. Answer my question now, or I smash your beautiful face to fucking pieces… then you answer.’ As he spoke, Rider knew he’d gone soft. In the few seconds since making the decision to act with violence and then going into action, he’d already backed off. Ten years ago her head would have been down the toilet already.
‘ Where is Munrow?’ he asked, eyes blazing at her.
‘ John, I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since he came out,’ she cried. Her voice was deep, gravelly and could arguably have been described as sexy. Tears appeared in her eyes. ‘Please don’t hurt me.’
‘ You had the choice.’ Rider grabbed her hair with the intention of pulling her head back before driving it into the porcelain. He’d forgotten she wore a wig and all that happened was his hand came away with a finger-load of blonde silky hair. ‘Fuck!’ he hissed and threw it over the partition into the next cubicle where it landed with a splash in an unflushed toilet.
Toni cowered. She huddled in the corner with both hands covering the embarrassment of the short cropped hair underneath. She started to cry with short, jerky whimpers.
Rider stood back. ‘Tell me where he is and I’ll leave you alone. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will, Toni.’
Through her tears, she informed him.
‘ Sensible fella,’ Rider said. He couldn’t resist patting her head patronisingly. ‘By the way, get a better razor. I can still see your five o’clock shadow, even under all that make-up.’
Seconds later Rider was pushing his way towards the club exit. Racing in the opposite direction were the two bouncers, on their way to break up the reported fight in the toilets.
Once outside, Rider breathed deep. He was relieved to be out of that atmosphere and the clientele in particular. Call it prejudice, he thought, but I hate transvestites.
The pub was situated in the Little Harwood area of Blackburn, about two miles from the centre of town. Twelve men had assembled in the back room. One of them stood at the door in order to prevent any unsuspecting member of the public from bursting in. The remainder sat facing the large TV screen, watching the live transmission of a Blackburn Rovers match on Sky. The Rovers were one down.
A serving hatch connected the room to the bar, but all the necessary drinks had been bought and the shutter had been drawn and bolted down. This business had to be conducted privately.
Charles Munrow pushed himself out of his seat and walked across to the TV. He switched it off. Silence descended on the room.
The other men watched him nervously. They were all tough, uncompromising individuals, but Munrow left them standing in terms of sheer brutality and animal violence.
He was nothing special to look at.
He wasn’t six foot six with a scar across his cheeks, tattoos on his arms and built like a brick shit-house. He was very average-looking. Five-ten. Firmly, but slimly built, with a pinched, unfriendly face with very closely cropped grey hair. Nothing stood out, except that aura which warned without speaking.
In the days of the triumvirate of Munrow, Rider and Conroy, Munrow had been the most violent out of the three. Conroy would rather have had someone else to do his dirty work; Rider needed the right set of circumstances to light his blue touch paper, otherwise he was a pussy cat.
During armed robberies it was always Munrow who would shoot some poor bastard Group 4 guard’s foot off. Just for the hell of it. Always him, when arguing, who would pull a triple-edged Stanley Knife blade and swish it across somebody’s cheek. Cuts like those were impossible to stitch.
He had been brought up to be violent and loved it.
In the end he was the only one of the three who went to prison. It would have been him eventually anyway.
Eleven years in Strangeways had done nothing to soften his approach to life. He came out with a vengeance and the idea that he’d pick up the pieces where he’d left them. Assume his rightful position in gangland — at the top.
Things had changed dramatically.
The gangland he knew no longer existed. With the glaring exceptions of Moss Side and Salford, it was all much more subtle and organised. Now the buzzwords were ‘compromise’ or ‘negotiation’ or ‘strategies’. Words Munrow did not understand.
When he approached Conroy expecting to be let back in, he found the door wedged shut. He quickly saw the reality that he was not wanted any more.
All he had left was a rundown off-licence and two poxy launderettes which were throwbacks to the 1970s. Most people had their own washing machines now. Who on earth wanted to use a scruffy launderette?
He was virtually broke and needed to get back into the mainstream.
Which he decided to do by violence.
Munrow cast his eyes around the room. Some of the men were contacts from another era who had been left behind, like him; some were young bucks who wanted a chance to prove themselves. All were capable of murder. What’s more, all were willing…
They were to be the nucleus of his new business team.
Munrow opened his mouth. Prison life had put an even harder edge on his tobacco-stained vocal cords. Behind every word he spoke there was the hint of a cough ready to break. He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and spoke whilst the smoke was in his lungs.
‘ We control the doors,’ he said gruffly. ‘We control the drugs in and out. Simple, innit?’ Smoke drifted lazily out through his nostrils and mouth. ‘And tonight we’re gonna make inroads into this problem of the doors. I don’t want nothin’ fancy. Just hard and fucking violent. We do three clubs tonight. Two at the same time — midnight — and the third, all of us together, at quarter to two. Dennis, are the cars ready?’
Dennis nodded. He was one of the balaclava twins who had dealt with Rider.
‘ Is everybody tooled up?’
Heads nodded. They were eager to go and get some action.
‘ Good. This should be fucking easy. They’re all tarts on the doors these days. They won’t be expecting us and we do ‘em good and proper. In and out. Don’t waste time, Make your point, then leave before the cops, or anyone else, has time to get there. And don’t use shooters unless absolutely necessary… we’ll leave that for later when we all get together.’
The bedroom upstairs at the back of the pub smelled of beer. From the plug-hole in the cracked sink emanated the unmistakable whiff of blocked drains. The walls were damp, paper peeled off, adding to the aroma.
There was another stronger smell in the room: that of decaying human flesh.
The room was an unhealthy environment for anyone to be in, let alone someone who’d been shot in the leg and had received no medical treatment for the wound.
Such as in the case of Jonno, the young man who had been shot by John Rider a few days before at Blackpool Zoo.