Final pep talk over, he then brought the meeting to a close, checking with each pair of detectives what their tasks were for the day, and making sure that every angle was covered. When he got round to Tina and me, he gave us both a grim smile. ‘Nicholas Tyndall, Strangleman Grant’s boss. He operates off your manor, so I want you two to pay him a visit and rattle him a bit, make out that we know a bit more than we do. Get him down here to make a statement and see what you can get out of him.’
‘He probably won’t talk,’ I said. ‘We’ve never got anything out of him before.’ Which is the case with a lot of the more serious criminals. They don’t build up their little empires and stay out of nick by being co-operative. I guessed that Tyndall would do nothing more than point us at his lawyer.
‘Well, see what you can do. This is important.’
He gave me a look that suggested he didn’t think my attitude was positive enough, but I looked away, deciding that I didn’t like DCS Noel Flanagan. I’d met his sort before. Ones who think they’re born to lead and everyone else is born to be led.
The annoying thing is they’re often right, but what they tend to forget is that it doesn’t actually mean they’re going to be any good at it, and Flanagan was a case in point. In Vietnam, he’d have been shot by his own men.
And would probably have deserved it.
14
Trevor Murk was annoyingly good-looking. He had finely chiselled features, unblemished olive skin that hinted at summers spent in warmer climes and ancestors from the mysterious south, naturally tousled jet-black hair and deep-brown eyes that twinkled with mischief and easy charm. He was six feet two and he always dressed in clothes that fitted him perfectly and flattered him to just the right degree. It was annoying not only because his first name was Trevor rather than Enrique or Antonio and his last name Murk rather than something exotic, but because, for all his physical advantages, coupled with no small measure of intelligence, he would never amount to anything more than a petty criminal and grass. Put bluntly, he was too fucking lazy. Trevor Murk wouldn’t get off his arse if it was sat on a nest of fire ants, and it was well known that he’d never completed a morning’s work in his life, let alone a full day’s, and, moreover, was proud of the fact. He wasn’t work-shy, he was work-allergic.
However, it was still difficult not to like him (although Stegs tried hard enough) because in the end he was a good laugh, and his cheerily amoral demeanour was somehow infectious. Spend too long in his company and even a Godsquadder like Brian the vicar or Vokes’s missus would have probably ended up mugging old ladies or sacrificing chickens as an offering to the Dark One.
The place where he and Stegs met on those occasions when they had business to discuss was the quaintly named Cherry Tree Inn, a huge, hellish place of fruit machines, loud carpets and all the atmosphere of your local job centre, situated in Enfield, a short drive from Barnet. It suited their purpose because it was big and soulless with plenty of space between the tables, making eavesdropping or even accidentally picking up snippets of conversation a near impossibility. It also had eleven different lagers and a similar number of bitters on tap, and served big chips with the food, so it at least had a few things going for it. Not that Stegs was hungry as he pitched in there at five past one that afternoon, waiting to hear what interesting tip Murk had for him. He’d already had a McDonald’s Big Mac happy meal down the road and it had just started to repeat on him. That was the thing he hated about Big Macs: they took about ten seconds to eat and about ten hours to get rid of.
He ordered a pint of Kronenberg in the front bar, then made his way round to the much larger lounge bar and dining room, which was roughly the size of a provincial bingo hall but, today at least, was a lot less crowded, with only about a third of the tables occupied. He was disappointed but not surprised that Murk was nowhere to be seen. He’d once told Stegs that he never rose before eleven and, if entertaining, often didn’t make it out before the early afternoon, depending on the lucky lady’s looks and stamina.
Stegs found himself a seat in the corner next to a window overlooking the Cherry Tree’s beer garden: a hunched, cobbled backyard containing a handful of forlorn-looking plastic chairs and tables that was surrounded on every side by a high wall and had probably not seen the sun since some time in the nineteenth century. Then he lit a cigarette and waited, trying not to think of what Murk might be up to at this very moment in time because it would only make him jealous.
Five minutes later, just as he was putting out the smoke and thinking about whether or not it was worth lighting up another one, he saw Murk emerge from the front bar, carrying a pint of his own. Stegs acknowledged him with a cursory nod and a tapped finger on his watch, and Murk gave him a rueful grin in return. He looked about as guilty as the Guildford Four. A girl at one of the tables with her boyfriend eyed Murk subtly but admiringly as he passed and he gave her a cheeky little grin in return before sidling over to where Stegs was sitting and clumping himself down in the seat opposite.
‘Long time no see, Stegsy,’ he said, putting out a hand.
‘That’s right,’ said Stegs, taking it reluctantly, ‘about fifteen minutes longer than I thought it was going to be.’
‘You know me, my man, I don’t like to be shackled by the chains of time. You got a spare fag?’
Stegs pulled one out for himself, then slid the pack along the table. Murk teased one out and smoothed it between his lips, accepting a light from Stegs. It was amazing. The bloke didn’t hurry anything.
‘So, you had something I might be interested in.’ Stegs was keen to get down to business.
Murk tried without success to stifle a chuckle. ‘That’s right, I have.’
‘What’s so funny, Trevor?’
‘All right, all right, cool it a mo, sweetboy. Don’t get peeved. I’ve got a very tasty morsel for you. It’s just that every time I think about it, it makes me laugh.’
Stegs took a drag from his cigarette, and noticed with annoyance that the girl who’d been looking at Murk earlier was watching him again. There was no justice in this world.
‘Go on.’
Murk leant forward. ‘I’ve told you before I’ve been in a few pornos over the years, haven’t I? You know, support roles, so to speak?’ He was trying hard to look serious but it wasn’t working. Stegs didn’t bother replying, he simply sat glaring at Murk, wondering what the fuck sort of tip it was that he was offering. ‘Well, I did one once called Ass Lovers in London.’
‘Am I meant to be impressed?’
‘Not particularly, but the point was it was quite a big film by porno standards. You know, a big budget and all that. And the star of it was a bloke called Tino Movali, better known as Tino Ten Inch. You might have heard of him.’
‘Why would I have heard of a bloke called Tino Ten Inch?’
‘Because he’s been in loads of them. As porn stars go, he’s like A-list. Anyway, during the making of Ass Lovers we got quite matey.’
‘I’m not sure I want to hear about that.’
‘No, no, no, no. Not like that.’ He shuddered theatrically. ‘What I’m saying is, when filming was over, we went and had a few drinks together, got friendly — you know, in a having a grin together sort of way, and all that. He even offered me some work over in Amsterdam. He’s Dutch, by the way. I didn’t take it because I had something else on at the time, but I sort of kept in touch with him, and when I was in the Dam a few months back spending some taxpayers’ on a much-needed weekend R and R, we met up for a few drinks. So we’re like mates.’ He paused to take a drag from his fag. ‘Anyway, we went our separate ways, and I hadn’t heard hide nor hair from him since then, until suddenly out of the blue he gives me a bell the other night, and do you know what he’s saying?’