‘I want you to tell me about a 1986 Jaguar XJ6.’
‘Wha—?’
‘It was stolen last week. I want to know where from.’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’
‘Of course you know, Delon. You were the designated driver for all of Tiernan’s crews.’
‘I don’t remember,’ Delon says.
‘Delon,’ says Ptolemy in her sweetest voice. ‘Do you know what will happen when Mr Tiernan goes to court? DC Severin here will be called to give evidence, and the first question they will ask him is, “Who tipped you off about Mr Tiernan’s operation?” Do you know what he will say?’
‘I’ll say it was you, you fucking halfwit,’ Severin says, giving Delon’s toe another painful tweak. ‘And Mr Tiernan will be sitting in the court when I say it – and he’ll be looking at you, Delon. He’ll be looking at you and working out just how soon he’ll be able to break every other bone in your body.’
‘But—’
‘No buts, Delon,’ says Ptolemy.
‘So think again, my man,’ says Severin. ‘Think nice and hard, and maybe I’ll say it was Philliskirk who was pissed and running his mouth off in that pub. Where was the XJ6 taken?’
Delon needs no more encouragement. He blurts out the location.
‘There now,’ says Severin. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it? And now I’ll get the nurse to bring the bedpan, shall I?’
* * *
In a smart house in the sprawling Newcastle suburb of Heaton, Alex Vos is staring at the gently smoking neck of a glass bong being held under his nose by his best friend, Chris.
‘Come on you fucking dweeb,’ Chris says. ‘Get your lips around it.’
His words are met with a murmur of approval from the three other teenage boys sprawled in Chris’s attic bedroom.
‘I’ll be sick,’ Alex says.
‘So you’ll be sick,’ says one of the other boys. ‘So fuck?’
‘Everybody’s sick, Alexei,’ says Chris. ‘That’s why you’ve got to do it.’
‘That’s not terribly logical, C.’
‘Fuck logic, you tool! Who the fuck are you? Mr Spock?’
Another boy, who happens to have brought the weed to the party, makes a stoned lunge for the bong, but Chris flaps him away.
‘It’s Alex’s turn,’ he says firmly. Then he pushes the bong even closer to Alex’s face. ‘It’s your turn,’ he says.
With a deep sigh of resignation, Alex takes the bong in both hands and brings it to his lips. He takes a hit of the tangy smoke and immediately begins coughing.
Chris grins, taking back the bong and patting his friend on the back. ‘You da man,’ he says. ‘Now let’s go out.’
In the Bug House meeting room, the incident board is now dominated by a blown-up image of Jimmy Rafferty. Beside it is a photograph of the 1986 Jaguar XJ6.
‘Do you really fancy this kid for Okan Gul’s murder, Theo?’ says Mhaire Anderson. She is sitting in a chair facing the board, peering at it over the top of her new spectacles.
‘He’s not a kid, guv’nor,’ Vos says. ‘He’s a violent offender. Four years ago he was a whisker away from being a murderer. Plus the rope that was found in his car is a match to the rope used on Okan Gul, the stun gun has his fingerprints all over it, and there are fibres from Gul’s clothes in the boot. Which perhaps explains why he never bothered to report the car stolen and why he has subsequently vanished off the face of the Earth. You want more?’
‘You know me,’ Anderson says. ‘I always want more.’
‘Rafferty’s Jag was stolen to order from a car park in Morpeth the day after Gul was killed less than four miles away at Stannington. So in answer to your question, yes, I fancy him for the murder.’
‘OK. But what’s the connection with the Turkish mob?’
‘We’re assuming there is a connection.’
‘Jesus, Theo! You said it yourself: Gul was kidnapped, zapped with a stun gun and tied to a railway bridge,’ Anderson points out. ‘You can’t tell me that this was a random killing. That Jimmy Rafferty did this because Gul happened to spill his pint.’
‘All I’m saying is we’ve looked into his history,’ Vos says. ‘There is absolutely nothing to connect him to Jack Peel or the Manchester mob.’
Anderson takes off her glasses and polishes them on the lapel of her jacket. ‘So what’s his motive?’
‘I don’t know. But you’re right: there’s nothing random about this. It’s totally premeditated. I just think we’re being distracted by this big heroin deal. Don’t forget, Gul’s last visit to Tyneside took place when Heddon and the KK head-bangers were meeting in Amsterdam. So why was he here? Who was he meeting?’
‘Well, I don’t imagine it was a cultural visit.’
‘Me neither. I’d bet the house he was setting up another import deal, only this time with one of the Newcastle gangs. And not necessarily heroin. The KK are capable of supplying anything from cheap coke to cheap fags. They’re the Matalan of illicit, smuggled goods.’
‘Anyone in mind?’
Vos shrugs. ‘You know this city as well as I do. Timmy Wong, Ma Breaker, the Tunstalls, the Gilotis – take your pick. Or maybe it was all of them. And maybe that’s what got Okan Gul killed. In Amsterdam he’s a big-time gangster. Used to getting his own way. Maybe he just pissed someone off. Someone who decided to teach him a lesson.’
‘Then how do you want to play it, Theo?’
‘We have to go back to the tried-and-trusted methods, guv’nor,’ Vos says. ‘We need to rattle some cages.’
At the Excelsior Bingo Hall on Shields Road, Ma Breaker has five cards on the go and a blotting pen in each hand.
At Aspers Casino on Stowell Street in the heart of Newcastle’s Chinatown district, Timmy Wong has three grand on red at the roulette table.
At Sandro’s Ristorante on the quayside, Sandro Giloti and his brother Italo have opened a second bottle of Sangiovese and Sandro is pouring it into the glasses of two attractive escorts who have been hired for £1,000 each from an agency in central Newcastle.
At Close House Country Club on the outskirts of Newcastle, Eddie Tunstall is watching football on a flatscreen TV in the members-only bar and drinking mineral water on his doctor’s advice.
And by the end of the evening, all of them will have had their evenings’ entertainment unceremoniously interrupted by members of the Major Crime Unit.
Meanwhile, in a bar on a side street near the river chosen specifically for its cheap alcohol and its less than scrupulous policing of the under-eighteen drinking regulations, Alex Vos walks with as much dignity as he can to the nearest toilet, where he locks himself in a cubicle and throws up.
When he emerges, several minutes later, there is a girl standing by the door, leaning on the beer shelf. Alex recognizes her as the same girl who has been smiling across at him all night. She is blonde and beautiful, and he does not for one second think that she is waiting for him until she smiles again to reveal perfect white teeth and says, ‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ Alex says, aware of his vomit breath and of his friends sitting over in the far corner of the bar, laughing heartily at something – at him? No, they can’t see him because of the throng at the bar, and they can’t hear him either, because Dexys Midnight Runners are singing ‘Come On Eileen’ on the jukebox and the music is so loud he can hardly hear the girl when she leans over to him and says, ‘Do you want to go somewhere quieter?’
And then he doesn’t know what time it is or where his friends have gone, but he is with the girl and they are walking along the Quayside, where the evening is just beginning; the dwindling pub crowd has been boosted with a transfusion of clubbers, and the late-night bars are open for business. He is weaving along the pavement, his footsteps dipping in and out of tempo with the thudding bass-drum beat from bars on either side, and he can hear the girl’s laughter, although he cannot understand what she is saying. Faces come and go like streetlights in his peripheral vision, their words cut-and-pasted in his mind, then instantly deleted. He pauses to be sick once again in an alleyway, and when he staggers back into the streetlights a white van is parked by the side of the road with its engine running; and the girl – the girl with kaleidoscope hair? – is gesturing for him to get in; and he tells her where he lives and she smiles and laughs and gestures and says, ‘Come on, get in, I’m heading that way anyway.’