Curly got immediately to his feet and moved forward to stop the man coming any closer. ‘Hey, you!’ he said. ‘Private office. Nobody’s allowed back here.’ Startled by his loud voice, the barmaid paused to see what was happening and glanced into the room.
Before Curly could get any further, the man pulled a gun from the pocket of his overcoat and shot him. Curly fell to the floor, clutching his side. The man then turned his attention to Corrigan, who was now cowering on the banquette, pleading for his life, trying to shield his body with his briefcase. The waitress was terrified, but she said she was rooted to spot; it was like watching a road accident in slow motion. Corrigan picked up a handful of money and held it out, telling the man to take what he wanted and leave. The man fired again, and Corrigan jerked up off the banquette, holding his arm out, trying to make a dash for the door. The man shot him again, this time in the stomach. Corrigan fell to the floor and groaned, trying to hold in his oozing insides. The man stood for a few moments and surveyed the scene, perhaps enjoying the sight of Corrigan suffering before he died, then he raised the gun again and emptied it into the prostrate body. Corrigan jerked with each shot, but not another sigh or groan escaped his lips, only a final bubble of blood that slid down his chin and hung there.
By this time, the waitress had snapped out of her trance and made a run for the back exit, which proved no problem. Nobody tried to stop her. The shooter wasn’t interested. It would appear that once he had completed the deed he set out to do, he sat down on the bench where Corrigan had been sitting and simply waited for the police to come.
It didn’t take long. The manager had heard the shots and phoned 999. The customers had all dashed outside before anyone could stop them, and most of them had gone home by the time the police arrived, about ten minutes later.
When Annie and Winsome met Ken Blackstone there the following morning, the pub was still taped off as a crime scene, and the CSIs were still busy, but there was no sign of Corrigan. His body had been removed from the back-bar office, though his blood had spread in great stains across the floor like a map of the world, and the CSIs would have the time of their lives deciphering the spray patterns that had spurted over the nicotine-stained walls. Curly was in Leeds General Infirmary.
‘It’s Killingbeck’s patch, of course,’ explained Blackstone, ‘but they know we have an interest, and of course, we know you have an interest. Besides, I’d say this counts as Homicide and Major Crimes, if anything does. Nice to see you again Annie, Winsome.’
‘Yeah,’ said Annie. ‘We must stop meeting like this. People will talk.’
‘Not Warren Corrigan, it seems.’
‘The other bloke?’
‘Curly? Aka Gareth Underwood. Last I heard, they had some hope for him.’
They stood and surveyed the scene of carnage for a while, before the CSIs shooed them away, after which they took a table in the main bar.
‘Drink?’ Blackstone offered. ‘Manager says to help ourselves.’
‘It’s a bit early for me,’ said Annie.
Winsome agreed.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Blackstone. ‘The sun must be over the yardarm somewhere. I’ll have a small brandy, Nick. Get one for yourself as well, then come and join us.’
The man did as Blackstone said. When he came back, he sat down opposite Annie.
‘This is Nick Gwillam,’ said Blackstone. ‘Trading Standards, Illegal Money Lending Unit.’
‘Where’s your boss?’ asked Gwillam.
‘Tallinn,’ said Annie.
‘Lucky for some.’
‘So what’s the story?’ Annie asked Blackstone.
‘Not long ago, a young girl called Florica Belascu topped herself here in Leeds. She’d borrowed money from Corrigan, or one of his minions, and it had come time to collect. Naturally, she couldn’t pay, and she had a small drug habit to support. Corrigan suggested she try going on the game, make a bit of money from kerb-crawlers. He wasn’t into that line of business himself, he said, but he thought he could fix her up with someone who’d take good care of her. She refused. Seemed she hadn’t sunk so low that she’d sell herself on the street. A couple of days later, the minion and one of his underlings came back and raped her, gave her a bit of a slapping around and left. Reliable witnesses bear that out. Next morning, she was found hanging from an old wall fixture in the bathroom. CSIs had little doubt she did it herself, despite the rape and beating. Either way, the finger points at Corrigan.’
‘Who was the minion? Curly?’
‘No. Curly’s mostly for show. Like a guard dog. It was a scumbag called Ryan Currer. We’ve already got him banged up for an assault on another estate.’
‘Who found the body? How did you find out about all this? Surely the girl didn’t tell you?’
‘Florica was too scared to talk, but her girlfriend wasn’t. She had no debts, and she hated what Corrigan was doing. Florica was a lezzie, but she wasn’t out of the closet. They lived together, but kept it low key. Tatyana, the girlfriend, was the smarter of the two. She’d managed to keep herself hidden during their visits. They didn’t know about her. She’d tried to help Florica with the money, but she didn’t earn enough herself, even though her employment was legitimate. She’d witnessed a lot of what had happened, though not the rapes and beating. She’d been at work then, cleaning offices in the city centre. We checked. She found Florica afterwards, which is how we know she was still alive when she went to bed that night. Florica didn’t want the police involved, and she refused to go to hospital. Tatyana patched her up. In the morning, Tatyana found her hanging in the bathroom.’
‘She talked to me, Tatyana did,’ said Gwillam. ‘Me and Bill.’
‘Is this connected with Bill Quinn’s death?’
‘Don’t think so. Can’t be a hundred per cent certain, but I don’t think so. This is a family matter. A matter of honour, of vengeance. The man who walked in here last night and did us all a favour is called Vasile Belascu. He’s the girl’s father. He said he shot Corrigan in revenge for his daughter’s death. They believe in vendettas where he comes from, apparently.’
‘How did he know what happened and where to find him?’
Gwillam winked. ‘A little bird told him.’
‘You’re sailing a bit close to wind, aren’t you?’ Annie said. ‘You, too, Ken.’
‘We contacted the girl’s father in Romania,’ Blackstone said. ‘We told him his daughter had committed suicide, and we wanted him to come and identify the body. We had no idea what he would do.’
‘So who told him about Corrigan?’
‘Same person told us, I should think,’ said Gwillam. ‘We didn’t tell her not to tell anyone else. But we might never know. She’s gone back to Odessa now, it seems.’
‘Christ,’ said Annie. ‘This just gets better and better. I think I will have that drink, after all.’
‘You’d better tell me who it was,’ said Banks. ‘Who told you to seduce Bill Quinn and drug his wine?’
‘It does not matter,’ said Larisa. ‘The man who instructed me was not the man who wanted it done.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I heard him on the telephone.’
‘Who was it, anyway?’
‘The club manager at the time. I do not remember his name. Marko or something.’
‘Where was this?’
‘I was working in a nightclub. Not doing anything wrong, you know, just a waitress, coat check girl, sometimes hanging out and talking with the customers. Downstairs was a big noisy bar and a dance floor with spinning balls of light and strobe shows, but upstairs was just a quiet bar where people could relax and have a drink.’