The Mephisto Threat. E.V. Seymour

Tallis knew how Oxslade felt. PIs aroused the same high level of suspicion as journalists. ‘This connected to the reason you want to trace Napier?’

      ‘No, that’s entirely personal,’ Tallis lied. ‘My interest lies in the very people you referred to, the people I used to take down.’

      ‘Not sure I follow.’

      Tallis flashed his best smile. Oxslade was privy to the massive database detailing all the active Mr Nastys. Of course he followed. ‘I remember there was this bloke in Wolverhampton. He had four different addresses, four different women, no meaningful employment and a great lifestyle. He was eventually tripped up through extensive examination of his business and financial transactions.’

      ‘The way we get a lot of these blokes now,’ Oxslade concurred.

      ‘I appreciate you can’t tell me who’s still in the game, but how about we play I Spy.’

      ‘You mean you name and I nod yes or no?’

      ‘Yup.’

      Oxslade rolled his eyes. ‘You have to be joking.’

      ‘It’s not as though you’re telling me anything I don’t already know.’

      ‘Things have moved on.’ Yeah, Tallis knew. Road-traffic accidents were now referred to as collisions or incidents. Even the word ‘force’ had been substituted for ‘service’. However, some things never changed. ‘It’s much tighter,’ Oxslade said categorically. ‘I can’t tell you stuff like that.’

      ‘You’re not telling me anything, just agreeing or disagreeing. Come on, we’re on the same side here.’

      ‘But I don—’

      Tallis stood up. ‘You think about it,’ he said decisively. ‘I’ll get in the next round of drinks.’

      Think, think, think! If he were in Oxslade’s shoes, he’d have walked by now. Somehow he had to say something that would connect and bring Oxslade on side. Prove that his desire to know who the main players were was justified.

      From the look on Oxslade’s face when Tallis sat back down, he had a mountain to climb. He really didn’t like what he was about to do. It was gross exploitation, but he needed Oxslade’s help. ‘I have a client who’s worried sick about her son. Usual story. Rebellious youth. Broken family. Dad pissed off. Son fell in with a bad lot and got himself involved in drugs and gun running. Lately, he’s started kicking around with bigger fish.’ Tallis took a sip of beer, watched Oxslade’s face; saw how his pitch was going down. A lot of the shine had gone out of Oxslade’s bright and bushy expression. ‘His mum’s all messed up,’ Tallis continued. ‘Reckons that, with the right encouragement, right motivation, her lad could make something of his life.’ Bit like you, Tallis thought. ‘I’ve got some names.’ Tallis reeled them off from memory. They were probably two years out of date but these individuals would probably still be on the scene—if they were still alive. Oxslade’s pale features fell into a frown. The freckles on his face seemed to blur together to form one single skin tone. Tallis thought he’d blown it. ‘Only small fry, I know,’ he added.

      ‘Your information’s out of date. Wayne Jennings is in Featherstone,’ Oxslade said, cool eyes meeting Tallis’s. ‘Alrick Hughes was found dead after a drugs overdose last summer. I suspect Stu was your source regarding myself.’

      Shit, Tallis thought. ‘Don’t blame Stu. It was a chance remark.’

      ‘Which you took and ran with,’ Oxslade said, cold. ‘The other bloke you mentioned skipped the country, used to work for Johnny Kennedy, lately resident of Her Majesty’s Prison Birmingham.’

      The name was hauntingly familiar to Tallis. Maybe he was simply getting it confused with a long-deceased American President. ‘Is Kennedy still in the game?’