“Keep yer fucking hair on!”
Linda waited twenty seconds and tapped again a little louder.
“I said fucking wait!”
A few seconds later, the barman stomped through the doorway and planted both palms firmly onto the bar with a meaty slap. He was a tall, hulking man, aged around fifty. Probably weighing a little over 250 pounds, barrel-chested and solid, he had that equal mixture of muscle and fat, seemingly characteristic of British racists and soccer hooligans. Like a badge of honor, he kept his head shaved to display a Union Jack tattoo above his right ear. His greasy jeans and tight white t-shirt did little to improve the ambiance of the bar, or hide his prison tattoos. Instantly recognizing her outfit as a symbol of bureaucracy, he firmly crossed his arms and stared at Linda with open hostility.
“What?”
Undaunted, Linda gave him a bright professional smile.
“Stanley Fletcher?”
“Who wants him?”
Linda flashed her ID badge.
“Linda Smart, Inland Revenue.”
Fletcher didn’t move a muscle.
“Go see my accountant.”
“Actually, it’s you we need to speak to.” She flicked her eyes towards Stone to reinforce the implied threat. “Is there somewhere more private we can speak?”
Fletcher turned his head slowly and stared at Stone for a few seconds, as if assessing his chances in a fight. Stone stared back. Apparently unimpressed, Fletcher turned his attention back to Linda.
“Here’s fine. What do you want?”
“My partner and I… ” she looked towards Stone again, “are looking into the tax status of a charity called Second Chance — to ensure that they are worthy of their charitable status, and the tax benefits therein.”
Fletcher looked down his nose and flicked his head in a sharp nod. The move reminded Stone of a snake preparing to strike at a mouse.
“What’s it got to do with me?”
Either Linda failed to notice his threatening posture, or she chose to ignore it. “Your tax records show that last May you made two payments to Second Chance.”
“What of it?”
“What was the nature of those payments?”
“Charitable contributions… ” Fletcher smiled wickedly, revealing a gold incisor. “I gave money to help people less fortunate than me.”
“You gave money twice. Exactly the same amount in two payments, just three weeks apart.”
“So? It’s not a crime is it?”
Linda ignored his question and politely ploughed on. “Why two payments?”
“It felt so good the first time that I wanted to do it again.” He licked his lips lustfully as he made a big play of undressing Linda with his eyes. “I’m sure you know what that feels like.”
She ignored his provocative jibe.
“How did you get in contact with Second Chance?”
“Someone gave me their phone number. I don’t recall who it was.” He uncrossed his arms and, as if to indicate that the interview was about to end, he began wiping the bar with a beer stained cloth.
“Their office doesn’t have a phone.” She nodded towards Stone. “We checked.”
Fletcher slowly held up a finger and tapped the side of his head.
“I remember now. It wasn’t a landline I called, it was a cell phone.”
“I would like that telephone number.”
“Would you now?”
“Yes… we would.” She glanced at Stone again.
The barman stared at her with undisguised contempt as he dealt with some internal conflict. Then he seemed to come to a decision.
He gave a harsh sigh and dropped the cloth onto the bar.
“Wait here — I’ll get it.”
He stomped away into the other bar. After a couple of minutes Linda turned to Stone and gave a questioning shrug, he raised a palm and gestured for her to wait. Fully five minutes later, Fletcher returned, he was smiling.
“I can’t find it right now, I looked, but I can’t find it. Come back tomorrow, or give me your number and I’ll call you when I find it.”
Linda glowered at Fletcher. He glared back with dead eyes, challenging her to push the issue. She turned to look at Stone for some guidance. He shrugged and put his hand on the door handle, suggesting they should leave. Linda looked back and forth between the two men, her anger building along with her obvious frustration.
“We’ll be back,” she hissed through tight lips.
Fletcher smiled wickedly at her retreating back.
“No you won’t.”
As Linda reached the door, Stone indicated that she should allow him to go through first. The barman had been gone a long time and Eric suspected that Fletcher hadn’t been looking for the phone number. Outside, his suspicions were instantly proven correct. Their path to the car was blocked by three bikers. Two were wielding pool cues and the third carried a baseball bat.
“Stay here by the door,” Stone whispered to Linda, “I’ve got this.”
“Have you?” she replied a little shakily.
“I hope so. But if it turns out that I haven’t, I want you to run, and keep running until you get somewhere safe.”
She crossed her arms defiantly.
“I’ll wait here. I think you can take them.”
Stone gave Linda a nod of acknowledgement. He walked slowly forward to address his would-be attackers.
“Lads… you don’t need to do this.”
“Yes they do!” Fletcher said loudly from the doorway behind Linda. “And when they’ve finished with you, we’re gonna have some fun with her.”
Stone quickly glanced over his shoulder at Fletcher, but carefully kept a watchful eye on the three men.
“This is between you and me — Scud,” Stone drew out the nickname with contempt. “If you touch her, I will kill you.”
“Big words… from a guy about to lose his kneecaps and elbows,” Scud Fletcher sneered, “and I count three against one.”
“I count two, the last one always runs. After that you’re going to give us that phone number.”
He turned back to face his attackers.
“Last chance lads, whatever he’s paying you — I guarantee it isn’t enough.”
The three men glanced at each other in silent discussion and then they nodded to each other as they agreed to proceed with their attack. They were clearly all members of the same biker gang. Each wore a red bandana and had identical lightning bolt tattoos on the left side of their necks. Stone thought that they were in their late twenties. They looked quite fit and he guessed they were probably experienced in the unique violence of street fighting. That suited him just fine.
Unless he had no alternative, Stone preferred to let his attacker make the first move. Once they attacked, they were more or less committed to a particular course of action. That lent a kind of predictability to the events that followed, because then Stone would be in control. If Eric attacked first, he would have to look for a response and react accordingly, putting him at a disadvantage.
Unarmed and outnumbered, realistically he should have no chance. First, they should surround him to prevent escape. Then they could use the length and power of their weapons to beat him to a pulp, whilst remaining a safe distance from his feet and fists. However, Stone knew that they would attack one at a time, probably in order of their seniority within the gang. The weapons gave him a clue, one baseball bat, and two pool cues. Stone guessed that the baseball bat was from behind the bar, and it had been lent to the gang leader by the barman, whereas the other two men had to make do with whatever else was handy. That was good news for Stone.
A pool cue can double as a magnificent weapon. It is a precise sporting implement, usually made from fine ash, with an additional weight fitted within the handle. Beautifully balanced, and almost sixty inches long, it gives excellent reach, and tremendous leverage, to the skilled user. On the other hand, the baseball bat was obviously a cheap model. Just twenty-six inches of poorly balanced softwood, with a rubber handle. However, the history of baseball bats being used for violent and brutal attacks had obviously made it the weapon of choice for the gang leader. That was good news for Stone as well.