training under Dermot. He was Denzil and Spider’s mentor. I told ‘em, I said work hard, lads, do what Dermot tells you, and I’ll I see you meet all the right people, get real chances to make a go of it. But it looks like Denzil’s past caught up with him.’
‘And if someone’s settling an old score with Denzil, then odds on that they’ll want to settle it with Spider too.’
‘Most like,’ said Stella. ‘If I knew who it was, I’d tell you. I’d let you rough me up some more first, but I’d tell you.’
‘Aye, I think you would at that,’ said Gene, nodding to himself. ‘One more thing before we adjourn for scones and tea. We found a bullet in Denzil’s gob, unfired, shoved down after he died. What’s that all about?’
‘A sign,’ said Stella. ‘No, not a sign … more like a rebuke.’
‘A rebuke?’
‘Them boxers in the underworld – they’re bastards, but like all bastards they’ve got a code of honour. The only weapons they fight with are their fists. Anyone using guns or knives or baseball bats, they’re seen as … as disrespectful. Cowards. Not real men.’
‘So,’ mused Gene, his eyes narrowing. ‘At some point in his sordid past, Denzil Obi – and probably Spider along with him – got paid to give some bloke a straightener. And they used a weapon to do it, maybe a gun. And the bloke they walloped has either got a very aggrieved relative, or else he didn’t snuff it and is now feeling perky enough to go looking for revenge.’
‘And he carried out that revenge with his bare hands,’ put in Sam at last. ‘Denzil was punched to death. No weapon.’
‘Just a bullet down his wind pipe as if to say guns are for poofters,’ said Gene. ‘Very poetic.’
‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ said Stella. ‘You’ll have to speak to Spider if you want more – but I don’t think he’ll talk to you.’
‘No. He didn’t seem very chatty,’ said Gene. ‘Where can we find him when he’s not at the gym?’
‘You’ll be able to slap his home address out of me, I promise you.’
‘Appreciated,’ said Gene, releasing her from his powerful grip. ‘Well, Angela, you’ve been very helpful in our enquiries. Thank you for your time and cooperation. You can put your shoe and earring back on now. I’ll leave one of my colleagues, Detective Sergeant Carling, to get that address from you. He’s the chap with the moustache, you might have glimpsed him on the way in here. You’ll like him. He’s pretty handy.’
‘But not a patch on you, I bet,’ said Stella, looking languidly up at him.
‘Few men are, luv. Few men are.’
And Gene, who was indeed some kind of a gentleman, offered her a post-interview cigarette.
CHAPTER FOUR: GET HER TO THE GREEK
Night was settling over Manchester, and the boys from CID had repaired to the fag-stained snug of the Railway Arms. After his session with Stella in the Lost & Found Room, Gene had worked up a majestic thirst; Ray, too, had earned himself a drink, having been obliged to slap Spider’s address out of her; and even Chris needed a stiff one, his innocent young eyes still goggling at the sights he had witnessed. Given all the giving and receiving of pleasure through violence going on in CID today, Sam half expected to hear the strains of Blue Velvet playing on the pub stereo – but no, it was just Steely Dan singing Do It Again.
‘It’s dem tursty coppers again!’ grinned Nelson from behind the bar. He turned up his West Indian accent to 10 for their benefit. ‘Is it de beer or de music or mah bee-ootiful face dat keeps bringing you back in here?’
‘Beer, music, then face, Nelson, in that order,’ said Sam. ‘Don’t be offended.’
‘If you were four hot ladies sayin’ dat, den I’d be ahffended! What can I be gettin’ you boys?’
‘Four pints of best. God knows, we’ve earned them today.’
‘Makin’ dis city safer for de lahks of me – you surely have earned ‘em!’ Nelson beamed. He was really putting on his routine tonight. As he pulled the pints, he shot a glance at Gene: ‘Hey Mister DCI, you lookin’ lahk de cat what licked up aaall de cream!’
‘The guv’s in luv,’ smirked Ray. ‘He met the girl of his dreams today.’
‘There is a line, Raymond,’ intoned Gene. ‘I’d hate to see you cross it.’
‘She’s more your age than mine, Guv,’ Ray said, winking at Sam. ‘Hey Chris, if you don’t mind the guv’s leftovers maybe you’d like a go on her.’
‘Stella?! Give over, I’m no granny-sniffer!’ protested Chris.
‘She’d make a man of you.’
‘She’d make mincemeat of me!’ Chris cried. ‘I’m not into all that kinky stuff anyway.’
Ray sniggered. Gene looked sceptical. Chris got defensive.
‘I’m not!’ he insisted. ‘If you’re thinking of them magazines, I told you, I was looking after them for a mate. You’re the one who keeps bringing that plastic thing in, Ray!’
‘Oh please, not the plastic thing,’ groaned Sam, handing pints across. ‘I don’t want to think about the plastic thing.’
‘No plastic things, no kinky wrinklies, not here, not tonight,’ ordained Gene, and they all lifted their pint glasses. ‘Leave the filth of the world on the doorstep, lads. Let’s keep the Railway Arms hallowed ground.’
‘Amen to dat!’ put in Nelson.
Enveloped in the thick, cancerous atmosphere of the pub, Sam, Gene, Chris and Ray raised their rich, golden pints and drew deeply on them.
As Sam wiped away his froth moustache, Nelson leant close to him, dropped his exaggerated accent, and said in a low voice: ‘Only four of you this evening, Sam?’
‘I’m meeting Annie later, somewhere else,’ Sam whispered back.
‘Nelson’s little establishment not good enough for the likes of you two, eh?’
‘We’re having dinner together.’
‘You can get dinner here,’ Nelson grinned. ‘Two bowls of Smash and a selection of fish fingers.’ And turning on his accent again he added; ‘Birdseye’s finest! On de house! Wit mah compliments!’
Sam laughed and toasted him with his pint glass.
‘So,’ declared Gene, indicating to Nelson to get another round on the go, ‘pie and chips with DI Jugs more appealing than drinks with the boys is it, Samuel?’
‘It’s not the pie and chips he’s looking forward to,’ said Ray, and Chris sniggered like a schoolboy.
‘Actually, we’re going Greek, so it’s more likely to be calamari and stuffed vine leaves,’ said Sam with dignity, ‘if any of you lot know what they are.’
‘I know what stuffing vine leaves is all about,’ smirked Chris. ‘It was in them magazines I was looking after for me mate.’
‘Is that why the pages were stuck together?’ asked Ray.
‘I spilt me calamari,’ said Chris.
‘More than once,’ said Ray.
‘This is like having a drink with the fourth form,’ sighed Sam, and put down his pint glass. ‘I’d love to hang about and listen to this cracking banter all night, but the