Vicious Lives

Prologue

Spring 1972

‘Christ, what a mess.’ The young constable watched ashen-faced as the two ambulance men struggled to wrench open the smashed car door. A stream of radio static hit the crisp night air.

‘Fire brigade’ll be here in five minutes,’ said his older partner matter-of-factly. ‘How we going?’ this to the sweating ambulance men.

The senior paramedic spoke quietly. ‘Doesn’t look good mate. Driver’s dead, that’s for sure.' The sudden rending metallic groan as they wrenched the passenger door partly open made the young P.C. jump visibly.

‘Take it easy luv, just going to move you upright, okay?’ A just audible murmur told them she was still alive. The medic lifted her torso clear of the bulkhead. She moaned again, stronger this time.

'She's trying to say something?' Half question half statement. The elder PC looked at the paramedics.

One of them leant in close and listened quietly.

The woman gurgled. With an immense effort she expelled a breath, forcing the sound from between her teeth. It was quite clear. 'Joe!'

The pursed lips and shared glance of the two medics brought the young constable closer.

‘She okay?’

Silence for a second. ‘No. She’s going.’

‘Can’t you give her CPR or something?’ said the young cop, close to panic. The medic looked him straight in the eye and then back at the woman. The P.C. took in the sight in one appalling split-second image. The sliced, gaping throat, her chest soaked in the welling blood, pumping and oozing down over the ripped-open blouse and puddling in her lap. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

‘Go and see if anyone’s been thrown out, all right!’ Literally pulling his young partner away from the scene and pushing him towards the field at the side of the road. The senior P.C., heavy hearted at the carnage, shook his head. He’d never get used to it, not this bad. He just didn’t show it.

Chapter 1

Autumn. 1986

From where he stood, Roy Vago had a perfect view back along the broad woodland footpath. He smirked to himself. He’d chosen his ground well; he knew that. At the spot he was standing, behind a thick, stunted oak with some brush either side, a smaller side-track angled off to his right and wove through a thicket of low growing scrub, the narrower path angling back on the main path – impossible to see anything from there. Not that he expected any problems.

It was just after midday. The early local joggers and dog-walkers had long gone, and no one usually came this way at this time – except for Gobbo that is. He’d recce’d it well. And if anyone else did show, well, tough!

Roy fingered the heavy iron pipe in the right-hand pocket of his leather bomber jacket. He’d had to slit the lining and reinforce it in order to accommodate the pipe, but it worked well. This was his favourite weapon for this sort of work – close in, overwhelming odds, in his favour of course, he made sure of that.

He’d picked this one over all the others. Laying his toolkit out on the bed this morning, he’d picked up each one in turn, drawing strength from the feel of each piece as he lifted it, felt its weight; felt the throb of excitement in his stomach as he considered the potential of each piece for the job in hand, choosing carefully. Roy prided himself on getting it right, covering all the angles.

If it’d been a mob job he’d have chosen something longer, maybe heavier but definitely with a taped loop at the end – couple of times he’d crapped out by having his wrist jarred and losing his weapon – still had the bruises! But this time – no, this one was fine; piece of cast steel gas pipe about nine - ten inches long, threaded each end, lead shot filled to about halfway and then plugged with putty, and a good solid steel blanking nut at each end. Good balance, he’d thought, smacking it into his left palm.

Picking up a roll of duct tape from his kit, he’d torn a long strip and bound it tightly round the last two thirds of the pipe, not the grip – he liked to feel the steel in his hand as he hacked and bludgeoned his adversaries into submission. Afterwards he unwound the blood-soaked tape and disposed of it - the filth could go and fuck themselves!

Now, lying in wait for his quarry, he was dead calm. He never got jittery like some of the other mugs, jumping about, talking non-stop, laughing at nothing. No, he’d do the business, and be calm while he was doing it. It was only afterwards he’d kick off. He was workmanlike was Roy – do the job, then celebrate, that was him.

He savoured the planning, the contemplation of crunching bone, of parting flesh with a blow. The actual act was cold and dry, like the emotion had drained out. He was clinical and precise - bit like a surgeon, he’d told himself on more than one occasion.

‘You want a fucking heart transplant?’ he’d said to one mouthy little arsehole who'd been dissing him around his patch, and he’d begun making an incision in the terrified bastard’s chest. He’d carved a heart in his skin, just to show him.

Yeah, he carried a blade sometimes – he knew he wouldn’t completely lose it and gut someone in the heat of the moment; it was just that he got interested in his brutal results. He could, and frequently did, recount the exact injuries he’d inflicted – and their effects. He had a photographic memory for that sort of detail.

Roy heard the soft crackle of footfalls on dry leaves, and a shortish stocky figure rounded the bend in the pathway and headed directly towards him, about thirty yards away, oblivious.

Judging the distance precisely, with his quarry twenty yards away, Vago slipped from behind the brush onto the side path and sauntered easily towards the main path, hands in coat pockets.

The instant he saw Vago, Gobbo stopped dead, as Roy knew he would. Roy smiled inwardly; he’d got him to within a foot of where he’d planned. He stopped, dead casual.

‘Now then mate. Nice day for it.’ Roy smiled, but his eyes were dead, watching Gobbo’s face for the fear he knew would come.

He glanced quickly to both sides, as Roy knew he would. Seeing no immediate danger he relaxed slightly, he was chunkier than Vago, but stayed wary. He never heard the footsteps behind him. He never heard them because Roy had swept away the dry leaves from that section of path ten minutes ago. The first thing he knew was the arm round his neck throttling him and dragging him backwards. The next was the sickening blow to his unprotected stomach as he grabbed at the arm around his neck.

Roy Vago watched coolly as his two accomplices dragged the lad into the thicket. He felt the familiar grim satisfaction at seeing his plan work to perfection. The other two would regard him with even more respect than they already did, he knew that – and they’d broadcast it too; the right people would get to hear. Roy was well pleased with himself, and he wet his lips as he started the next phase – the punishment.

Weakened from the blow in the guts, Gobbo was easy meat as they forced his arms behind his back and taped his wrists together. Then they taped his ankles. Teddy Clarke tore a six inch strip from the roll and looked at Vago. Roy nodded, and Teddy stuck the tape firmly over Gobbo’s mouth, forcing the panting victim to hyperventilate through his nose. Mark Quaid then dropped him hard on his back.

‘You know what this is about mate, don’t you?’ Roy walked slowly towards the prostrate youth, who wriggled back and managed to brace himself in a half-sitting position against a tree. He shook his head and looked wide-eyed at Vago.

Drawing the pipe from his pocket, Roy Vago smashed it with great force against the outside of Gobbo’s left knee. Gobbo screamed in agony, but with his mouth taped up it came out as a long, low hum, and Roy watched fascinated as the colour drained from his victim’s face and tears sprang into his eyes. He bent over and with his left hand pinched the snorting nose of his victim between his fingers.

‘You do know what this is about mate, don’t you?’ he said, looking at the white fear in his eyes. Half suffocated, Gobbo knew he’d get no mercy. He tried to nod, but he felt like his nose was in a vice. Vago smiled at him, cold eyes glinting.

‘I thought you’d remember, eventually,’ he released his grip. ‘You won’t be taking the piss again, mate,’ and Roy administered the 'punishment' in his usual detached and thorough way.

When he’d finished, he stood looking carefully down at the bleeding, broken figure, laying curled up on his side with his knees drawn into his chest, panting and grimacing with pain, eyes black and blue, skin gashed, but nothing life threatening. Then Vago pushed him over onto his back with the toe of his boot.

‘One word in the wrong ear, you’ll never walk again, okay?’ His victim didn’t move – couldn’t, Roy knew that. He also knew there’d be no comeback, his reputation would ensure that. Roy Vago was a nasty, cunning bastard. He’d be sixteen next birthday.

Winter. 17 Dunbar St. Grimsby. 1987

‘I don’t know why you ever bothered having me in the first place,’ screamed Cathy. ‘Everyone’s bloody dog gets treated better than me.’

‘You was a mistake, I told you that before,’ yelled her mother, her fat, slack lips quivering. ‘You’re bloody useless anyway – never done anything for us.’

‘I’m your bloody daughter; you’re supposed to do things for me - like feeding me for a start.’ Cathy could feel her eyes misting over but she was buggered if she was going to let it show to her parents. Parents! Bloody Christ almighty, these weren’t parents. One of them wasn’t even her father, dirty perv. Dirty drunken perv.

She swept her arm across the grime encrusted table top and sent a slew of empty baked bean tins, filthy cutlery, old scratch cards, papers – all rubbish, crashing across the dingy sitting room. Her mother, sitting at the table, winced.

‘You can stop that right now you little show-off,’ shouted her mother. ‘It won’t get you anywhere,’ she added menacingly.

Cathy wasn’t sure what she meant. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been round the shops cos I know you have – he’s drinking your last shopping trip isn’t he?' She looked with utter contempt at the stout, soft-bodied figure of her step-father, hunched bleary-eyed in the raggy old wood-framed armchair opposite. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even reacted to Cathy’s rant, just sat there, bottle in hand resting on the chair arm, staring stupidly at nothing in particular.

With a suddenness that made Cathy flinch, he thrust the bottle neck into his fat, wet mouth and tipped the cheap red wine down his fat neck.

‘And you’ve got the bloody cheek to call me useless. Look at him – fat, lazy git. Never done a day’s work in his life.’

‘It’s not his fault – at least he brings the social in doesn’t he …’

‘Yeah, and he pisses it up the wall, just like you – and he stinks … just like you,’ she hissed venomously at her mother.

Cathy grabbed her coat from the back of the chair. She’d had enough. ‘I’ll sort my own tea out then, shall I? As usual.’

‘Bloody little madam …’

Cathy didn’t hear the rest; didn’t care anyway. She slammed the front door so hard if there’d been any glass in it, it would have shattered. She knew now that she could say what she liked. He wouldn’t move out of that chair till tomorrow – not even to go to the toilet. He’d piss himself again like he usually did, then he’d go to the bathroom, toss his rotting trousers and underwear in the bath and leave them there till her mother bothered herself to wash them – or not, whatever.

Her mother, although she’d plenty of gob right now, didn’t have the will to do anything to her anymore. Unlike a few years back. Her mother would have grabbed her and her step-father would have ripped off his thick leather belt and laid into her; and if he was in a particularly vicious mood he’d hit her with the buckle end.

She shivered at the memory and pulled her coat collar up as a raw wind tore down the narrow street. She hated this place. The other kids at school had laughed at her shabby clothes, and after a while her mother couldn’t even be bothered to mend or patch them any more – she felt humiliated. But it had toughened her up eventually, and after she’d sorted out one or two of the girls verbally, and especially after she near poked out the eye of one of the lippy young lads who’d taken the mick, they left her alone. She’d been hauled up in front of the Head of course, but she didn’t care – her earlier compliant, eager-to-please nature had been kicked out of her. What she felt now was a growing rage at the indignities forced upon her by just about everyone around her.

She loathed her step-father. Only a few months ago he’d gone all strange one night, started being nice to her. She’d been wary from the start – she knew where this could lead, he’d tried it before. Began talking about 'uncles' and nice presents, and how everyone would 'come out all right.' He’d brought some old bloke with staring eyes round, and it scared her – she ran screaming out of the house when he touched her, and when she told her friend Sarah, Sarah told her boyfriend and Sarah’s boyfriend laughed and said they were 'pimping' her. Cathy didn’t even know what he meant. When she found out she was devastated.

‘How could they do that to their own daughter?’ She’d cried in Sarah’s arms for hours. She wasn’t overly surprised about her step-father – he’d been touching her since he moved in, when she was about six. But her mother! She must have known because she was there when the perv came in. Trouble was, somebody must have said something because she started getting funny looks from the neighbours, and from people she’d never met.

‘Bloody hell Sarah! I’ve never done anything and they’re looking at me like I’m dirt,’ she’d said tearfully to her best friend.

She’d left the house in a rage one time, after a hefty clump from her drunken mother. ‘For nothing Sarah, nothing!’ And seeing one of her sour-faced neighbours opposite standing arms folded at the window, she’d picked up a half-brick lying in the gutter, walked across the road and thrown it straight through the window.

‘You’re no better than me, you cow,’ she’d screamed, and run off down the street. That sealed her feisty reputation in most corners of that drab, brooding estate. And she didn’t care. Not one bit.

Now, turning the corner at the end of the long row of grimy terraced two-up two-downs, Cathy slowed to catch her breath after bursting out of her slum of a house and clopping fiercely along the deserted pavement in her new high heels. Well, why not, she thought to herself – it was the only way she was ever going to get new clothes or anything, and she smiled momentarily as the memory of her and Denise and Sarah bunking out of Marks and Sparks in the precinct with God-knows-what stuffed about their persons!

Cathy sighed. Sarah lived two streets away and she headed briskly in that direction. Tonight’s set-to was nothing out of the ordinary. If she was honest with herself she’d provoked it – she’d felt lousy all day.

The situation at home never varied – her rotten step-father would collect his dole, and the pair of them would head straight for the Kings Arms as soon as they’d cashed the Giro. Like a couple of kids with a bit of pocket money out for sweeties, they’d giggle and laugh and plan what they’d sup. Afterwards they’d stagger out half pissed and into the Spar shop opposite for wine and beans, and a pouch of tobacco.

Well at least I eat better than them, she thought, remembering how she almost used to throw up every time her mother had opened a tin of beans. She realised at an early age that she’d need to fend for herself. It was at times an absolute necessity. She’d bully the younger kids at school for their dinner money, or order a burger and chips in the Wimpy, then leg it.

She turned into Sarah’s street; a cut above the others, Sarah’s parents were always saying – they’d got a front garden, all three feet of it! Handy for hiding the rubbish bags behind the front wall, thought Cathy. And most of the front gates were missing – firewood she supposed. Well they’re no better than us, she told herself; although, she had to admit, she liked Sarah’s parents. They always treated her well – said hello and smiled at her. That made her feel good.

Her other close friend, Denise, had told her a few years ago that she was adopted. Cathy liked the sound of that word. Adopted – she wished she was adopted, like Denise. Wanted, needed, picked out specially. She wished she could also be adopted by Sarah’s mum and dad, that would be great. She really loved Sarah and Sarah loved her, she knew that. She’d been on the point of blurting out her unhappiness to Sarah’s mum once, but, somehow that didn’t seem right.

Shrugging resignedly, Cathy walked quietly up the alley separating each block of six houses and even more quietly opened the large wooden back gate. Closing it carefully behind her she picked up a few bits of gravel and aimed them at Sarah’s bedroom window.

She grinned to herself. Sarah would sneak her in and they’d have a chat and a laugh, eat some biscuits, then they’d get under the covers and she’d soon have a comfortable sleep. They’d stay awake till midnight though, and then Sarah would, very softly, sing 'Happy Birthday' to her, and Cathy would be fourteen years old – almost grown up.

Chapter 2

Summer. Grimsby. 2008

Joe Kell drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel – where the fuck was Quaid? He didn’t like this dead-of-night poncing around stuff at all, didn’t feel secure. He was keenly aware that parking in a deserted supermarket car-park on the edge of town left too many uncoverable options. Unusually, Quaid had been in a hurry and this was the best Joe could come up with at short notice, but he still felt jittery; rather they stuck to the previous arrangement, public toilet in the shopping mall – daytime!

He checked his watch again, then felt a lurch in the pit of his stomach as a pair of headlights swung quickly into view. He relaxed back in the seat as Mark Quaid’s black BMW turned in and hissed quietly over the wet tarmac towards him, parking twenty yards away. The soft whisper of the engine died.

Joe frowned; what’s he playing at? He’d expected Quaid to park next to him, do the deal then fuck off! He sat there for a second or two, waiting. Nothing moved in the other car.

Looking round warily, he got out of the car, leaving the driver’s door ajar and walked towards the BMW with the dark tinted windows. He was about to knuckle the glass when it slid slowly open and Joe found himself looking at an unfamiliar face.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ he hissed.

Jack Summers suddenly found a gun barrel two inches from his nose.

‘It’s okay, Joe,’ said Mark Quaid, panicking in the passenger seat. ‘Just a bit of extra security, you know, night-time and all.’

‘Well you could have mentioned it, you prick, your mate here nearly got himself an unscheduled nose job.’

‘Sorry mate,’ said a white-faced Summers. He turned to Quaid, ‘Christ, Mark, you never said he’d be tooled up.’

‘I brought my own night-time security, okay?’ Kell rammed the gun back in his pocket, giving Summers a hard, lingering look. ‘Let’s get on with it, eh, - you got the wedge?’

‘Yeah – you got the stuff?’ Quaid was determined not to be out-menaced. He knew Kell had a short fuse, and, to be honest he hadn’t expected the shooter, but still, this was a hard game, they weren’t sucking lollipops together, so he’d said what he said with an edge to his voice.

Kell didn’t miss the tone; he knew it was for Summers’ benefit, so, fair enough. He turned to Summers – not typical muscle, big-ish but soft-looking.

‘Put your hands on the wheel, mate, where I can see them.’ He’d taken Summers out of the action; just a bystander; the hired help.

Jack Summers moved his hands reluctantly to the wheel, staring straight ahead as Joe passed the package under his nose and took the envelope from Quaid, rifling through the contents once, then stuffing it in his inside pocket.

‘The boss says he’s up for a bigger deal next time – you fixed okay?’ Quaid checked the package, then slid it into the glove compartment.

‘He does, does he,’ said Kell, flatly, not wanting to hang around. ‘Well, don’t you worry about how I’m fixed – and stick to the usual arrangements unless I say otherwise, all right?’ He gave a meaningful look at Jack Summers, who was still looking distinctly uneasy.

Joe turned on his feet and walked briskly back to his own car, cutting off Quaid’s reply curtly. Sliding behind the wheel, he pulled the door shut with a soft click. He’d taken a chance there and he wished he hadn’t.

‘Fuck!’ He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. Summers would know him again, he was sure of that. Should have stayed in the car and waited for Quaid to get out. Instead of which he’d got an eye-witness to a dodgy deal. And the last thing Detective Sergeant Joe Kell wanted at this moment was an eye-witness to a dodgy deal.

George Parker was uncomfortably hot. He could feel the sweat in the small of his back sticking his shirt to his skin, his feet felt two sizes bigger than his shoes and his face was steaming.

‘Fucking motor!’ he spat venomously at the dash, as he drew his hand back in through the open window and fingered the buttons that opened all the others.

He knew he should have had the air conditioning sorted as soon as he realised it wasn’t right, but it hadn’t been hot then, had it? Christ. Top of the range Merc, ML 500 4x4, fifty grand’s worth of motor car, 150º in the shade and I’m cooking like a fucking spit-roasted chicken, he thought savagely.

The blast of air through the four open windows screamed in his ears and made his eyes water. He hung grimly onto the wheel, putting up with the blast until the temperature inside dropped to a level that would support human life. Perhaps he’d better slow down a bit, he reasoned, eyeing the needle, steady at 105 mph, but it was the only decent stretch of road before the Humber Bridge, the only chance to really gun it, see what it did. Still, even though there wasn’t a patrol car in sight, he could do without another pull. He couldn’t ask Peter to pull strings again; not this soon anyway.

It was all Jackie’s fault, he thought, as he eased back to a reasonable 75mph. She’d been a bit snappy lately, picking him up on just about anything, just generally crabby, and he couldn’t figure out why. Not that she’d tell him of course, that wasn’t the way it worked. She’d keep poking away at him until she’d slipped one under his guard, then he’d bite and they’d have a right ding-dong of a row - which was what she wanted, a full on, uninhibited, defences down rant, and they’d be at each other like a couple of town criers with attitude. Still, it gave them an opportunity to refurbish parts of the kitchen, or to purchase some new hi-fi equipment, depending on where in the house it all kicked off.

George sighed heavily. She’d almost got to him this morning, just when he didn’t need it. He’d got something to sort out at the new development site in Hull and he needed a clear head; and he could do without this fucking weather!

He pushed the button to close the driver’s window and escape the piercing draught, then relaxed slightly as the tapered concrete towers and cables of the bridge itself swung into view in the distance, like the masts and rigging of some enormous ship. Magic, he thought. The Humber Bridge. It never failed to impress him every time he saw it, even two or three miles out. Tons of steel and concrete set in wide open, undulating countryside - but it looked right.

Yes, George Parker was impressed. He liked 'large' did George, and he was headed for something large right now - The Hull River Centre, a huge brown-site retail development; shops, offices, leisure centre, the works; and as far as the vast profits he expected to make, it was the dog’s bollocks.

A dust cloud surrounded the 4x4 as George skidded to a halt in the makeshift car park at the edge of the site.

‘How do, boss.’ Clive Shaftoe had spotted Parker’s vehicle as soon as he pulled onto the site and diverted his journey across the site to meet him.

George had spotted the plump figure of his project manager as he pulled in, and he’d deliberately driven to the far side of the parking area and waited. Let him sweat, he thought.

Shaftoe dusted himself down, kicked the dust off his shoes and squeezed his fat frame into the passenger seat at a nod from Parker.

‘Right, what the fuck’s going on, Clive? I spoke to Smithy this morning and he tells me we’ve been having hold-ups on the first fix in the Mall section.’

‘Well, I don’t know what he’s doing phoning you …’

‘He phoned because he thought we might have a problem.'

‘Well I wish you’d ask me, George, I’m the bloody project manager! Smithy’s got no business telling you that.’

‘I’m asking you now Clive; and if I ask Smithy or anyone else what’s going on they tell me.’ He didn’t need to add 'or else.' 'So, what’s happening? Stuff’s going missing, he tells me.’

Shaftoe kept his exasperation under control. ‘No, it hasn’t gone missing, it just hasn’t arrived yet.’

Parker fixed Shaftoe with a glare. ‘I pay you good money to make sure things like that don’t happen. That’s what you’re here for, for fuck’s sake. Have you got any idea what the penalty clauses are on this job, Clive?’

‘No I haven’t.’

‘You don’t want to know, I’m telling you, you’d have nightmares - I have nightmares, mate; now get this sorted. If it starts going bad at this stage it’ll rack up and we’ll never get in front. And that means goodbye to any bonuses, you get my meaning?’

Clive got the meaning all right. Bonuses from George Parker came by two different routes - one via your pay packet, and taxable, the other out of a brown envelope, the weight of which depended how far up the chain of command you were, and what rules you were prepared to bend. Clive Shaftoe had come to greatly appreciate his occasional brown envelope.

‘Boss, I’m on it already. If Smithy hadn’t gobbed off, I’d have had it sorted before you knew it.’ Shaftoe would see Steve-bloody-Smith as soon as Parker had gone and show him what was what, mouthy little bastard! ’I always look after your interests, George, you should know that.’

George did know it. He knew it because, like anyone who received large amounts of George’s hard-earned, he had him checked out, quietly and thoroughly, as an ongoing feature of his employment. So he knew his overweight project manager looked out for him; he also had reason to believe that he was very much looking after himself as well, which was the main reason he’d driven up today - to look Shaftoe in the eye and ask him the questions.

George Parker had an instinct with body language; bit of a gift, he supposed, like a poker player, and he trusted it. And he was usually spot on. Like now.

‘ Make sure you are looking out, Clive - don’t want any bother, do we?’

Shaftoe knew exactly what he meant by that. No, he didn’t want the sort of bother Parker was talking about. He’d heard about people who’d 'bothered' big George, and they were never quite the same again; if they were around at all, of course …

Parker looked shrewdly at Shaftoe’s retreating back, as he picked his way back over the site. He’s maybe not screwing me now, thought George, but he wants to, he could see it in his eyes. He wondered sometimes if he intimidated people too much; he knew he overwhelmed most of them. But he knew human nature - you pay them good money, they always wanted more. You pay a man a grand a week and give him the opportunity to screw you for another grand, and he’d do it. Pay him two, three, ten! and he’d still do it.

He’d seen it all before - it was a way of life, and he entirely understood it; everyone did it to some degree or other. Put the opportunity their way and they’d take advantage, man or woman, brickie, bank manager, tax inspector, high-flying company execs - yeah, especially those. George grinned at the thought of some he’d got on his payroll, unofficial of course. But you had to do it. If you were playing the game you had to know the rules, or you were dead. Quite literally sometimes.

He started the motor, then spotted the mobile on the dash. Bloody typical, he snorted. Well, Shaftoe would have to wait till later for his phone back, he was in no mood to do favours. He spun the wheel and shot out of the site, tyres spitting stones like bullet’s and leaving a plume of grey dust in his wake. That was George Parker, big, bold and brash - just like his vehicle.

Joe Kell swung his legs out from under the duvet, put his feet on the floor , his elbows on his knees and cupped his face in his hands. It felt like an inflated balloon that had just lost half its air, saggy and baggy. He rubbed his cheeks and opened his eyes a crack. Swallowing with difficulty, he ran an experimental tongue round the inside of his mouth. Still a bit groggy, he turned to Linda, snuggled under the duvet next to him.

‘Sorry about last night, Lin.’ He reached out and stroked her shoulders under the cover. At least he thought he was. He pulled up the duvet and stared stupidly at the empty bed.

Christ, what’s happened, he thought? He looked at the chair at the far side of the bed - it was empty. He frowned and stood unsteadily at the side of the bed. He was convinced he’d had Linda last night; sure of it. He pulled the duvet right off the bed, as if she were hiding at the bottom, and looked for signs of wild sex. All he could see was bits of grey fluff, and what looked like crumbs. Bits of fluff, he thought, where does that stuff come from? He staggered into the lounge. It was empty. Then he became aware that he was still wearing his underwear, which seemed to suggest that he hadn’t got it quite right.

But he remembered phoning her and asking her over. After the dodgy business with Quaid in the car park, he’d needed some company. Feeling his way into the small kitchen, he saw the empty scotch bottle straight away. Pulling the rolled up paper from the neck, he read the note. Phone me when you’re sober - and this will only ever happen once more, then I’m off.

She hadn’t signed it; didn’t need to.

Joe put the note carefully down on the worktop, smoothing it flat between both hands and read it again. Yeah, he’d read it right first time. If he pissed it up again, she’d leave him, simple as that. Course she would. Who’d want to be around some whisky-sodden, puking, stinking pathetic excuse for a man, let alone be in bed with him?

Joe wasn’t being particularly hard on himself. He was well aware of the condition he got himself in at times. And he wasn’t an alcoholic. He kicked off in many different ways from time to time; fuck knows why, he just did; but it was hard on anyone else around when he lost it, as he was prone to do.

He caught sight of the kitchen clock and realised with a sinking heart that he should have been at the nick half an hour ago. There was only one thing for it, he turned on the shower, selected cold, and resignedly shivered and shook his way back to normality.

Wrapping a towel around himself, and still feeling a bit groggy, he made his way back into the kitchen. He stopped with a jerk and felt his legs almost go from under him.

‘Jesus Christ, Linda, you nearly gave me a fatal heart attack.’ Joe pressed himself against the door jamb for support.

‘After last night that was on my wish list,’ snapped Linda. She wasn’t smiling - Joe registered that at least. ’I’m surprised you actually remember my name, Joe. It is Joe, isn’t it? I thought I came up here for some loving attention from a nice bloke I see occasionally - you know, the tall, dark handsome caring one. Instead I’ve wound up with this total prick, this dribbling piss-artist with about as much savvy as a warm turd.’ Linda snapped this out cold and flat. ’And you smell just as bad,'

Joe could feel the bitterness in her tone. He knew he’d screwed up again, and there wasn’t much he could say.

‘Lin, darling, I’m sorry.’ His words sounded pathetic even to him.

‘Fuck off, Joe. Don’t ''darling'' me. You were pissed when I got here - how bad’s that. You call me up, obviously needy, and by the time I get here it’s obvious what you needed, and it wasn’t me, was it?'

‘I do need you, Lin, I’ve told you before; sometimes you’re the only thing that keeps me sane …’

‘Don’t mention pressure of work again Joe or by Christ I’ll break this bottle over your head.’ She circled the neck of the empty whisky bottle with her fingers.

‘Okay! Okay!’ Joe raised his hands unsteadily. ’Just give me a minute, I’ll get some clothes on, all right? I won’t be a tick.’

Linda stood up and glared at Joe. ’It’ll take more than a minute by the look of you.’

‘Don’t go, Lin please; let me just get tidy. Please don’t go.’ He knew he was pleading, but he didn’t have much choice. He was alarmed at Linda’s tone - she’d always screamed and hollered before, now she was cold, resigned.

‘Hurry up.’ She could barely look him in the eye.

Linda filled the kettle slowly from the cold water tap, pushed the whistle firmly onto the spout, sat it on the ring and shook her head despairingly. Can’t even buy himself a decent kettle! He wasn’t hard up, she knew that, and she didn’t think it was because he couldn’t be bothered either. He was just preoccupied. All the time. She’d never met anyone as preoccupied as Joe Kell. She even wondered sometimes what he thought about during their love-making. You couldn’t ask though, she reasoned, God knows what he’d say.

Linda sighed heavily. She felt really bad over this. When the call came from Joe she’d felt all girly and excited. She hadn’t seen him for a month - he’d been on some course or other - so when he rang late last evening and suggested she came straight over she felt happy and full of the joy of expectation. After a quick bath and half an hour trying on various outfits, she made the final decision and set off. From her flat in Lincoln to his in Humberside took barely an hour - she left in high spirits, couldn’t wait to see him, especially as he’d sounded just a bit down on the phone.

The sight that greeted her filled her with revulsion. She’d seen him drunk before, but this time he was out of it, so far gone, she’d thought, that he must have taken drugs or something from the state of him. He could barely function, and all the joy just drained out of her. He didn’t want her, he wanted mothering, patting on the head, reassuring, and, God forbid, putting to bed.

She felt used and cheap, and she knew Joe didn’t have a clue how it was affecting her, deep down. It was humiliating, it nagged at the very core of her being, and worse, it wasn’t something she could easily put into words to make him understand. Not that he would if I could, she thought bitterly, far too selfish and wrapped up in himself. Linda felt the rage rising again and forced herself to be calm, listening helplessly and impotently to the sounds of Joe 'tidying himself up.'

Linda had always acknowledged the depth and range of her feelings for Joe. Sometimes she loved him so much she wanted to hug him to death, draw him into her, consume him with her passion; other times she wanted to kill him, damage him, hurt him badly. She could take the macho stuff in her stride, all men were like that to some degree, bloody show-offs, bursting with pride and arrogance. No, it was the indifference that she couldn’t handle, the times when Joe would be with her, but a zillion miles away at the same time. It was the blank stare, the unfocused eyes; when she knew all his responses were on autopilot, and she couldn’t dig him out of it. That drove her into a frenzy. She couldn’t get him into the here and now, and to focus on her.

Linda perched uncomfortably on a hard, wooden chair, hugging herself and feeling small, hemmed in.

‘Thanks,’ said Joe, taking the cup of tea pushed wordlessly in his direction.

She looked him up and down, shaking her head. He’d always been able to do that, like a magicians assistant, walking behind a curtain then reappearing moments later completely transformed. Well, it didn’t cut any ice this morning.

Joe sipped his tea gratefully, trying to gauge her mood. He knew he’d crapped out, but he had before, and he’d always managed to retrieve some dignity for both of them, he reckoned; or at least allowed her to vent her fury till she was spent, then made heartfelt promises he knew in his heart he was probably incapable of keeping; but it kept them together - till the next time.

Joe felt at times like this he was always running one step ahead of the execution squad - knowing he wasn’t guilty but powerless to convince his pursuers. That’s what he thought, anyway. He wanted to say sorry again, beat himself over the head with the words, but he’d seen the shake of the head and didn’t want to provoke another outburst.

Linda looked at Joe and felt a tiny pang of sympathy, which was not what she wanted at this minute. He obviously had his demons, but then haven’t we all, she thought fiercely.

‘Joe …’ she started, and tailed off as he turned his doe-eyes on her. She wasn’t in the mood for his 'making up' overtures, so she turned her head away. ’Joe, this has to stop.’

The sheer relief hit him like a brick; he thought she was going to dump him right there and then.

Linda turned and saw the look on his face. ’I’m deadly serious, Joe, I can’t take this stuff again. You’ve no idea what it does to me.’ She paused, feeling tears not far away. ’It’s bad for me Joe. I can’t seem to make you understand. There's something the matter with you, and I can’t afford for this to keep happening to me. You can’t , or won’t, talk to me about it, and Christ knows how many times I’ve tried to get through but it never happens, does it?’ She could feel her temper rising and swallowed hard.

‘I love you Joe, and I know you love me,’ and she did know that, had known for ages, ’but it feels like it’s being poisoned slowly. It’s a bloody horrible feeling Joe, and it doesn’t seem like it’s ever going to let up.’

Alert to all the nuances of Linda’s anguished deconstruction of his character, Joe had worked out that he was possibly being reprieved - yet again. She was dead right of course, he was a stupid prick at times, and he didn’t know why either; but the one thing he was certain about was that he couldn’t bear to split with Linda. He was needy; he finally realised the truth of that, but it didn’t seem to help - he felt ashamed to admit it to himself. Now he waited for the axe to fall.

‘I don’t know what to say anymore, Lin …’ He wanted to say more but couldn’t think what.

‘Well, this is it, Joe.’

His heart gave a lurch. ’Christ, Lin …’

‘Take this seriously Joe because I mean it. If this ever happens again … then it’s over. And there won’t be any going back, you just won’t see me again.’ She looked earnestly into his dark eyes. ’I do mean that . It will be over.’

He believed her. ’I can’t change overnight, Lin, I don’t think that’s possible.’

‘Then we’re dead Joe. That’s it. You’re being negative about it ten seconds after I’ve said it - giving yourself a way out already.’ She stood and gathered herself together.

Joe began to panic. ’Well, hold on Lin … I didn’t mean I couldn’t change …’

‘You were giving yourself an excuse Joe, like you always do. Either you get a grip and refuse to give yourself a reason not to, or …’ she shrugged. This was hard and she just wanted to go now.

‘Think about it, Joe. It’s like giving up smoking. Either you want me, or you don’t - you want something else more.’ She turned to go. ’No, don’t get up. I’ll just go. You stay and think about it, okay?’

Joe nodded. He reached out to touch her hand - but it wasn’t there; she’d gone.

Chapter 3

Roy Vago fixed his opponent with a penetrating stare, peeled two twenties from the wad next to his right hand and slapped them onto the pile in the centre of the table

‘Right, wotcha got?’ He wasn’t smiling.

Lenny wondered what he’d got into here. They were in the back office of the snooker hall and they’d asked him to stand in till one of their mates arrived, Vago not being keen on three-handed poker, but there was a very weird atmosphere at this table.

Lenny turned over his cards. ‘Two aces,’ he said, almost apologetically; which, together with the one in the flop, made three. ‘What you got?’

‘Mind your own fucking business,’ snarled Vago, pushing his two face down hole cards across to the next dealer, knowing that no-one would dare look.

‘Right, right.’ said Lenny, badly wanting to scoop up his winnings and disappear quickly.

Roy lent back in his chair and pulled open a drawer in the office desk.

Teddy Clarke, sitting next to Vago, smiled inwardly, he guessed what was coming. Lenny didn’t, as Vago’s arm swung round and pointed the gun straight at Lenny Carter’s head.

‘You cheating little fucker, Carter - You’ve been slipping them off the bottom. Don’t lie to me, you bastard, I’m going to blow your fucking head off!’

‘Jesus fucking Christ, Roy, I never did, I swear - I wouldn’t know how …’ He tipped his chair back violently and cracked his head on the filing cabinet behind him.

‘So if you did know how, you would eh! Fucking cheat us out of our hard earned cash.’ Vago looked at Lenny, tipped back on the chair, short, skinny legs waving around. ‘I’ll blow your balls off,’ and he pointed the gun at Carters crutch and thumbed back the hammer.

‘For fuck’s sake, boss, I never cheated, honest.’ His voice was a high pitched screech now, his face white and pasty; Christ, he thought, what the fuck’s this bloke on?

‘Right, you’d better take it then,’ said Vago easily, and he leaned back, de-cocked the hammer and put the gun back in the drawer. He looked at the other two and burst into a roar of laughter. ’Look at him, he’s shat himself, skinny little prick.’ It was a loud raucous laugh, a laugh the others had heard before, many times; usually with a victim on the end of it. In this case Lenny Carter.

‘Bet you wish you hadn’t won now, eh?’ said Teddy Clarke, grinning widely and enjoying the joke.

I’d rather not be in the same room as that fucking psycho, thought Lenny, but it didn’t do to say no to Roy Vago.

‘All right if I go now, boss - I'd better get down the arcade and empty the slots before they jam again? ’ He smiled weakly at Vago, his insides feeling like slush in a bucket.

‘What! With some of my money in front of you? You fucking sit there till I’ve won it back, right.’

It was a command, and Lenny resolved to lose every hand; or else chuck it all in on some crap hand and fuck off out of this mad-house as soon as he could.

Five minutes later Lenny Carter was gone, to his great relief, and minus his stake - about fifty quid, which he didn’t give a shit about right then. He’d thought for one awful moment they were going to make him win, and keep him there for more of their 'fun'.

Teddy looked at Roy and smirked. ’You gave him a right scare, Roy; d’you see his face when you shoved the shooter in his bollocks?’

‘He’s left something behind, definitely ,’ said Mark Quaid, sniffing the empty seat suspiciously, ’you’ll have to disinfect this chair,’ and they all roared again.

Vago looked at his watch. ’Where the fuck is Summers, Mark?’

‘Should be here shortly; I told him one o’clock.’

‘Probably shagging that black tart of his,’ said Clarke.

‘Nothing like a bit of black, eh, Mark?’ grinned Vago, watching the discomfort flit across Quaid’s half-caste features.

‘Yeah, if that’s what you like.’ Quaid knew he was on brittle ground, and it was out before he’d thought, but fuck it, Roy dished it out plenty, so he could have some back occasionally.

Teddy Clarke whistled delightedly. The prospect of danger always had him going, whether or not it involved himself. And he didn’t care either way. He’d taken shit from Roy Vago since he’d known him, and given it back in spades. In fact, to his knowledge, he was the only bloke to have decked Roy Vago, even if only momentarily, and gone on to lead a useful life afterwards, even though it happened years ago. Apart, that is from the incident that nobody mentioned! Although there had been a strong rumour - which Teddy always publicly discounted as prickish mouthing off.

Roy had let the jibe from Quaid pass, but not before he’d given him the flint-eyed scary-stare.

Mark caught it and understood it. Don’t push it, it said. Bollocks, thought Mark. He knew he could handle himself in a straight fist-party, but he also knew he didn’t have Vago’s unpredictability, nor his utter ruthlessness. People feared Roy Vago in a way they didn’t fear him, or, say, Teddy Clarke - as hard a nut as he’d seen.

Make no mistake, he thought, me and Teddy have put the shits up a few in our time, and blokes didn’t willingly call them out, but Roy was in a different league - he exuded menace.

Mark had practised his 'hard' look for ages as a teenager, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, until his mother had caught him and burst out laughing.

‘Who do you think you are, bad boy - Robert Mitchum?’

Mark had been mightily embarrassed. He also didn’t know who the fuck Robert Mitchum was either, so he quietly got hold of some old movie mags, looked up his old films and rented one out - from another town naturally. He was impressed with what he saw - that look! Yeah, so he put a mirror in his bedroom and practised in there, and as he got older he got it, eventually. He could put people off with a look. Except Vago. Didn’t impress him at all.

Roy had cleared the cards away and replaced them with a bottle of scotch and a bottle of vodka and three glasses. He poured himself a small scotch and nodded to the others. Quaid had a vodka and splashed some bitter lemon into it from a bottle on the window cill, Clarke took a large shot of whisky.

Roy looked at Mark Quaid.

‘You see your bloke about the stuff?’

‘Yeah. Says he can deal, no problem.’

‘Is he kosher?’

Quaid remembered the gun stuck up Jack Summers nose. ’Yeah, he knows what he’s about.’

‘He’s not some fucking hoodie bastard kid trying to muscle in?’

Quaid snorted at the thought. ’No. No way.’

‘Want me to check him out?’ Teddy liked checking them out, especially if it meant they were duds that didn’t have the right profile, and he could persuade them just how short life could be in this game.

‘It ain’t necessary, Ted. I’m not fucking stupid,’ said Quaid firmly, preferring to keep his contacts to himself. As long as he could, anyway.

‘Okay. Set it up, Mark. And don’t bring in anyone we don’t know, all right?’ said Vago. ’Be careful, especially round here; I don’t want the cunty filth connecting this set-up with slabs of shit, yeah?’

‘I’ll go alone. I don’t know what’s keeping Jack, but I'll leave him out anyway; matey wasn’t too pleased to find me with a pal last time - threatened to blow his face off.’ Which wasn’t quite true, but Mark revelled in the violent imagery; and it wasn’t far wrong anyway.

DS Joe Kell pulled into the car park at Barrat St. nick. The row with Linda was still fresh in his mind, and he knew beyond doubt that if he didn’t do something drastic about himself he’d lose her. He struggled to put it out of his mind as he clicked on the central locking then made his way into the building.

He walked past the DI’s office making a half-hearted attempt to look as if he’d been there for an hour already. He could see DC's Bannister and Shea in the corner, chatting.

‘Joe! In here a minute, will you.’ DI Peter Yorke had come up behind him and ushered him into the office.

Joe waited for the slap. None came. ’Listen, we’ve got a suspect downstairs for a string of burglaries around the area. There’s a witness coming in at …’ He looked at his watch, ’she’s probably here now, in fact. Joe. She’s an old lady and she’s scared stiff. She says she was coming home from the shops last Tuesday afternoon, and as she went to open the back door, it opened, and she was stood there facing this stranger, a bloke, who rushed past her and disappeared .’

‘She got a good look, then?’

‘Says she’ll never forget him.’

They looked cynically at each other. They’d heard this before, of course, but when it came to it , faced with a number of similar faces, their certainty vanished.

‘Much missing?’ said Joe, rapidly tuning back into the world of professional policing.

‘Bit of cash that was in a jar, a mobile phone - not hers, apparently, drawers emptied on the carpet, that sort of thing. The phone belongs to her son - she reckons she doesn’t have anything worth stealing.'

‘The mobile on it’s own would make it worth it,’ mused Joe. ‘What d’you want me to do, set up a video ident ?’

‘No. He’s in interview one, you know, the one with the glass panel in the door?’ Yorke raised his eyebrows at Kell.

Joe nodded. ‘A quickie then; obviously known. eh?’

‘Oh yes. Well known. I want to turn his house over before he’s had a chance to think;’ said Yorke, ‘and any associated properties,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Right. Yeah … How tall is she?’

‘Tall enough.’

‘Okay, where is she?’

Yorke picked up the phone and dialled a number.

‘DI Yorke. Is the old lady there yet?’ He paused. ’No, it’s Mrs …’ He flicked through some papers on his desk, ’… Reston. Yes … No, keep her there, DS Kell’s coming down to fetch her.’ He put the phone down and turned to Kell. ’Treat her gently, Joe; she’s not frail, but she is scared, all right?’

‘I’m there.’

Joe Kell knew that this was not exactly current procedure, although it was still legal, and he had no qualms about that - he’d pulled plenty of strokes of his own. But it was unlike Yorke to suggest it. Must have his reasons, he thought, and he’s the boss; probably some history there, then - like I should worry!

He pushed open the door to the custody area, and saw her immediately, sitting on the bench. Quite tall, as Yorke had said, grey haired and stout.

‘Mrs. Reston?’ he said pleasantly.

‘Yes, that’s me, dear; are you looking after me?’ Her thin, troubled voice belied her size.

He took her through the door and along the corridor towards interview one.

‘Frightened the life out of me, that chap. It really gives you a bad turn, you know.'

‘I guess you’d know him if you saw him again, eh?’

‘I’m good with faces, officer, it’s names I can’t always remember.'

‘Right. I want you to do me a favour. We’re going to walk past a room up ahead. I want you to have a look in through the glass panel in the top of the door, and tell me if you recognise anyone in there, okay? Can you do that for me?’

‘You mean if I see him. That chap. That’s what you mean isn’t it?’

Joe smiled reassuringly. ’If you think you see the man you saw in your house, you just tell me.’

They walked slowly up the corridor. Joe stopped her just before the door, and stood with his back to the wall on the other side of the door. He gave a quick peek inside, noting the uniformed constable standing with his back to the wall watching the suspect sitting at the table in the centre of the room. He gestured for Mrs. Reston to step forward and take a look.

She took a deep breath and edged across the door, stopped, and peered in. Her hand flew to her mouth, and Joe grabbed her before she could cry out.

‘Was that him?’ He knew the answer already.

‘Yes. Oh, that horrible man! He’s been in my house …’ her hands were shaking.

Joe knew the feeling. Heart pounding in his chest, he was quickly coming to terms with the fact that the man she’d just identified had been sitting in Mark Quaid’s car with a gun barrel up his nose not six hours ago. Fucking hell, he thought, that’s all I need.

George Parker was in his office poring through sets of files piled on the desk.

‘Someone’s up to no good, I can smell it,’ he muttered to himself. It was nothing he could put his finger on exactly, just a feeling he had, an instinct that highlighted the difference between how things should be and how they actually were. He usually sussed it out in the end, and when he did, there was always some tosser with his fingers in the till. Sheer human greed, he thought, without a trace of irony.

‘Tracy, get us another coffee, will you,’ he bellowed to his secretary in the adjacent office. He flicked through another file. ‘A plumber that’s what I am,‘ he stated loudly. He chewed on that for a minute. He spent a lot of time and effort plugging leaks.

‘Didn’t know you were a tradesman, Mr. Parker.’ Tracy slid through the door and placed the steaming cup on a coaster on the desk.

‘I was just referring to the fact that half the gob-shites I employ are draining me dry; or would if I let them. And you can call me George you know.’

‘Yes, I know that Mr. Parker.’ She smiled sweetly at him. ‘I don’t like to mix business with pleasure.’

‘Do you mean calling me George would be a pleasure, Tracy?’ he teased.

‘You know what I mean, you’re twisting my words,’ she protested.

‘Okay, back to your day job.’ He wasn’t really in the mood for banter. He couldn’t even indulge the thought of pleasuring the delectable Tracy without business worries intruding. Someone, somewhere was having him over, and to add to that, his tender for a public works contract, the biggest in the county over the next five years, was being impeded. His representatives on the council’s Public Works Committee , that is, those taking a substantial 'retainer' for looking after his interests, were suddenly being uncooperative. Well, he’d bloody show them what the wrath of George could bring on their shoulders. You don’t take Parker’s coin then spit it back!

He picked up the phone and dialled rapidly, drumming his thick fingers on the desk top as he waited.

‘DI Yorke.’

‘Peter, it’s George.’

‘Christ! George, I asked you to call on the mobile, not the bloody office phone.’

‘Yeah, sorry, must have left the number somewhere. You ashamed to be seen talking to me or something?’

‘Tongues wag, George, as you well know. What’s the matter, run out of money to count?’

‘Very funny, Pete. Listen, you got time for a round?’

‘We talking holes, or special brew?’

‘Both if you can manage it.’

‘Okay, nine of the best I can manage; you’ll lose of course.’

‘I better hadn’t. Want me to pick you up?’ asked George, solicitously.

‘No, thank you very much, George. I’ll meet you at the club house, say, half two - I’ve got a briefing to do. Okay?’

‘If you’re quite sure, then … Oh, and Peter …’

‘What now?’

‘Better bring some balls.’

The phone went dead.

Peter