Life on Mars: A Fistful of Knuckles

Beckoning Gene and Sam with a red-clawed finger, she had brought them through a door that led from the gymnasium area into her private office. It was lined with framed photographs of big men, boxers every one of them: some were groomed and suited; some sleek and oiled and posing in the gym; others sweating in the ring during a fight; not a few gushing blood and hardly able to see through swollen eyes – one or two lying sparko and splattered on the canvas, defeated and senseless.

‘Didn’t expect to find a bird running this gaff,’ said Gene, casting his glance around the office.

‘Thought the name might’ve given it away,’ Stella said, not looking up from filing her talons. ‘I was born into boxing. My dad, his dad, his dad before him. It’s in my blood. It’s my life.’

‘You should’ve been born a bloke,’ said Gene.

‘So should you, Detective Chief Inspector whatever you said your name was.’

‘The name’s Hunt. Gene Hunt.’

‘And I’m Detective Inspector Sam Ty-’

Gene silenced him with a curt wave of the hand, like Sam was cramping his style on a date. Which perhaps, in a way, he was. Gene’s eyes were fixed directly on Stella’s – and hers were now fixed on his. They were locked onto each other, oblivious to the rest of the world, like lovers. Sam fell silent and gave the two of them their space; it seemed wrong to intrude.

‘Denzil Obi’s got himself killed,’ Gene growled. ‘You know who I’m talking about.’

‘Of course I do. Denzil was one of my boys. I’m sorry to hear he’s come a cropper. Still, it happens.’

‘Does it?’

‘In this game, aye, it does. Boxing’s a tough world.’

‘What do you know about Denzil?’

‘This and that. Depends who’s asking.’

‘The Law, that’s who’s asking, now answer the bloody question.’

‘That’s no way to address a lady in her office.’

‘And that’s no way to treat a police officer on a murder enquiry,’ Gene said. ‘You’re starting to sound to me like somebody who knows more than they’re letting on.’

‘Little me?’ replied Stella, and she turned her attention back to filing her nails. ‘I don’t know nuthin’ … leastways, not about that sort of thing.’

‘Who killed Denzil Obi? Any ideas?’

‘None.’

‘Make a guess.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Pick a name out the bloody hat.’

‘Constable, I don’t know anything.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Double bollocks.’

‘It’s not my job to nick villains, Mr DCI Gene Hunt. You’re the policemen.’

‘You better believe it. And as a policeman I can take you straight into custody and put the right royal squeeze on you, sugar. The right royal squeeze.’

Stella dropped the nail file onto the desk, moistened her red lips with her tongue, and looked up at Gene through her long fake lashes. ‘So. If I don’t cooperate, will you haul me down the station in handcuffs?’

‘Before you can say ‘post-menopausal slag’, you bet I will, toots.’

Stella took her feet down from the desk, stood up, and planted her hands on her leather-clad hips.

‘Right then,’ she said. ‘I’m not co-operating.’

‘Then I’ll have to start getting rough.’

‘Then get rough.’

Gene glowered at her: ‘I’m not bluffing.’

‘Neither am I,’ said Stella, her voice now a husky whisper. ‘Neither am I.’

Gene moved closer, his face hard, his eyes harder. Stella pointed her breasts at him and lifted her chin defiantly. Sam could hear them both breathing noisily.

And then, it all happened. Whether it was Gene who made the first move or of it was Stella, Sam didn’t see. All he knew was that there was a rapid flurry of movement, thrown fists, slaps, kicks, and a sudden torrent of things swept from the desk as Stella was thrown roughly over it and handcuffed.

‘Don’t just stand there gawping, Tyler!’ Gene barked as he held Stella down, pressing her with all his weight to subdue her struggling. ‘Help me getting this wildcat into the motor!’

‘We can’t take her out through the gym, Guv, not in cuffs! The boys out there will rip us to pieces!’

Gene thought about this, even as he renewed his grasp on his thrashing captive.

‘You got a point,’ he said, and hauled Stella upright, clamping one arm round her throat. ‘We’ll just have to move this mucky mare the way they do with pianos.’

‘Guv …?’

‘The window, Tyler. Get it open.’

Sam hesitated. Surely this wasn’t right? Was there no better way than this?

Gene suddenly roared: ‘Not next week, dopey nuts! Right now!’

And catching the excited gleam in Stella’s eyes, Sam realized that for all her thrashing and struggling, Stella herself would have no objections to such rough handling.

Don’t think about it, Sam. Just do it. Let’s just get this bloody thing over and done with!

By means that could only be described as undignified, they got Stella to the Cortina. Gene bunged her into the back seat like she was a sack of old taters. At once, she struggled to come back at him, teeth bared, eyes flashing fiercely. Having both her hands securely cuffed behind her back didn’t daunt her for one moment from taking them both on simultaneously.

‘Get in the back and sit on it!’ Gene ordered, shoving Sam onto her. ‘Keep it under control until we get to the station.’

Sam find himself sprawled across Stella, fighting blindly with her, trying to grab some part of her so he could hold her still.

‘Get this weedy boy off me!’ she cried, thrusting her knee into his stomach. ‘Get the guv’nor back here!’

‘The guv’nor is driving!’ growled Gene, planting himself behind the wheel and furiously revving the engine. He stamped on the gas and the Cortina lurched forward.

Sam grappled horribly with Stella as she hissed insults at him and demanded the personal attentions of the guv. But when she realised Gene was not going to relinquish his role and skipper of the Cortina, she fell into a sulk. It gave Sam precious time to get his breath back.

But the moment they reached the station, it all kicked off again. Gene wrenched on the handbrake like he meant to snap the handle and stormed round the back, grabbing Sam with both hands and hurling him out of the way. Sam fell against the hard pavement and saw Stella going crazy, aiming for Gene’s eyes with two-footed rabbit kicks from her stilettos. But Gene got hold of her waist, dragged her out, and flung him over his shoulder, marching off with her like a Viking bringing home a plundered wench.

They burst into the CID room, Gene red-faced and striding, Stella thrashing and screaming abuse, Sam panting and trying to keep up. Chris’s eyes bugged halfway out of his head at the sight; Ray’s mouth dropped open so that his chewing gum fell into his typewriter; Annie sprung up from her seat, looking confused, not sure if what she was witnessing was an actual arrest or some sort of blokey prank.

‘I got me some cheesecake,’ Gene declared to his team as he lumbered by, slapping Stella’s arse so powerfully that the sound of it echoed round the office like a gunshot.

‘Call that a slap?!’ Stella yelled at him as he carried her away down the corridor. ‘Harder! Harder, you fairy!’

Gene booted open the door of the Lost & Found Room and disappeared inside. Sam paused, exchanging silent looks with his open-mouthed colleagues.

‘It’s like a caveman’s wedding,’ he said. ‘Back to work, everyone. Me and the guv have got it all under control. Everything’s fine.’

Nobody believed that any more than Sam himself did. Nervously, he turned and followed Gene into the Lost & Found room.

Her hands cuffed behind her back, Stella sat, panting and sweating, on a wooden chair, surrounded by abandoned bicycles, unclaimed briefcases, and all the rest of Manchester’s unwanted bric-a-brac that had found its way here over the years. Sam tried to keep his attention away from the way Stella was sitting; like a low-rent, fag-stained Sharon Stone, she had her legs open just that bit too far. Her blonde hair had tumbled over one eye. Her breasts rose and fell heavily beneath the zebra-patterned fabric of her top; she was Moll Flanders meets Bet Lynch on a bad day.

Gene fished out a packet of Embassy No.6’s from his jacket pocket.

‘You crumpled my fags, you fruitcake,’ he accused her, carefully removing a wonky fag from the packet. ‘That, toots, is crossing the bloody line.’

He lit up and drew on the nicotine like it was the elixir of life itself.

‘Right,’ said Sam at last. ‘Let’s all calm down. I don’t think any of us have got the energy for any more messing about.’

‘Speak for yourself, young ‘un,’ said Stella, her eyes fixed on Gene. Her lipstick was smeared across one cheek, her Dusty Springfield mascara was all over her face, and yet, dishevelled as she was, there was still a fierce fire burning in her eyes and in her blood. ‘You brought me here to pump me with questions. Well then – get pumping.’

Sam sighed and said calmly: ‘Stella, there’s no need for all this. All we want from you is information about-’

‘Not you, girly-bollocks,’ Stella interrupted, still staring at Gene. ‘Him. The real man. The guv’nor.’

Gene lounged against the wall, the fag smouldering in his gob, and silently narrowed his eyes at her.

‘You want to pump me?’ Stella glared. ‘Then pump me. Like only you know how.’

For several highly charged seconds, Gene fixed her with his stare. The air was thick with the mingled aromas of Gene’s Brut and Stella’s Charlie. Once again, Sam felt he was intruding on a private moment between these two – a ghastly, stomach-churning private moment he would rather not witness. It was like being in a seedy backstreet club. It was worse than the coroner with the whelks.

Gene exhausted his cigarette and heeled it into the floor. Then, very much taking his time, he began to pace slowly up and down behind Stella’s back.

‘Denzil Obi,’ he said, his voice low, his manner controlled. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me what you know about him.’

‘He were a nice enough lad,’ said Stella. ‘In his way.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He didn’t have a good start in life. Had to make his way as best he could.’

‘Bit of a Jack-the-lad, was he?’

Stella shrugged. Gene paced.

‘He had ambitions to become a boxer,’ Gene said. ‘What can you tell me about that?’

‘He weren’t a bad welterweight. Nifty. Bit of a rough diamond, but with work he could have gone places.’

‘It’s not the places he could have gone that interest me but the places he came from. The Black Widow had a seedy past, didn’t he. Illegal fights. Bare-knuckle bouts. He must have rubbed shoulders with some right horrible bastards.’

‘Most like,’ said Stella.

‘And pissed a few of ‘em off in the process.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Any ideas who?’

‘Nope.’

‘’Course you do.’

‘I’m legit, Mr DCI. I know nothing about the underworld.’

‘Pull the other one, luv, it lights up and plays Leo Sayer.’

‘I don’t associate with villains,’ protested Stella. ‘Not willingly, anyway. I’m straight.’

‘Straight? Straight?!’ Gene grasped her by the hair and twister he head round. ‘You’re as kinky as a bloody corkscrew, and in more ways than one. Names! I want bloody names! Denzil Obi got on the wrong side of someone – who was it? Give me a name!’

‘Make me.’

‘I said give me a name!

‘And I said make me!’

‘Give me a name! Give me a name!’ And now Gene began to punctuate his words with a series of slaps. ‘Give!’ – Slap! – ‘Me!’ – Slap! – ‘A’ – Slap! – ‘Blood!’ – Slap! – ‘Ee name!’ – Slap, slap!

Sam’s instinct was to intervene, but he restrained himself. Nobody would thank him for stepping in, least of all Stella. What was going on between these two was something too murky, too unsavoury for Sam to get involved with. He was better off out of it. He didn’t want to be soiled.

Gene yanked Stella’s face closer to his own and hissed into it: ‘Big fellas getting handy – that’s what gets your juices bubbling, isn’t it. That’s why you run that seedy gym. Watching blokes beating eight buckets of shite out of each other turns you right on, don’t it!’

‘Oh yes!’ The words came out of her as a gasp.

‘And getting on the receiving end of it tweaks your dial even more!’

‘Oh yes …!’

‘You dirty randy kinky scrubber,’ Gene snarled, and he hauled her up from the chair. One of her white stilettos went skittering across the floor. He gripped her by the shoulders and shook her; Stella’s head lolled about wildly, her hair falling all over her face, her manacled hands clenching and flexing behind her back.

‘You want the rough stuff? Eh?’ he barked.

‘As rough as you can make it, Guv’nor.’

‘Careful what you wish for … you might just get it.’

Stella was panting hard, pushing her heaving breasts into Gene’s barrel chest: ‘You’re … You’re …’

‘Speak up, petal!’

‘You’re getting close to making me … making me …’ She was breathing so hard she could barely get the words out. ‘… Making me talk.’

Gene span her round and yanked her arms up awkwardly behind her. She let out a cry – a cry of ecstatic pain.

‘Talk!’ Gene ordered. ‘Talk, you pervy slag. Or would you rather I turn you over to my colleague DI Tyler? He won’t treat you tough like this. Oh no. He’ll be soft and gentle. Very gentle.’

‘No!’ Stella cried.

‘He won’t lay so much as a finger on you. He’ll be patient, keeping his temper, treating you like a lady, with respect.’

‘No, please!’

‘Hour after hour of it! Cups of tea. Polite questioning. Playing it by the book. Never losing his rag – not once. Being nice!’

‘Please! Don’t leave me alone with him!’

‘You don’t want the Tyler treatment? Then get talking!’

‘Denzil and Spider!’ Stella panted, struggling to speak through the delicious pain. ‘They grew up together. Spider used to stick up for Denzil when the other kids picked on him and called him a coon and all that. They got them tattoos done together, to show they were like … you know, blood brothers. They didn’t have no family, not really – just each other.’

‘Very touching,’ said Gene. ‘But this a murder enquiry, not This Is Your Life. I want to know who’d have a grudge against Denzil!’

‘Denzil and Spider got into the word of illegal bare knuckle fights when they were still just kids,’ Stella went on. ‘It was all they could do to survive. Between them, they went up against some right hard bastards … big-money fighters, real legends …’

‘Names! Names!’

‘Too many to mention!’

‘Give me names!’

‘Lenny Gorman, Bartley Shaw, Patsy O’Riordan out of Kilburn. I could name a dozen others. Big men … real men … hard men …’ Her eyes glittered at the thought. ‘Any one of them could have had a grudge against Denzil.’

‘Why? Why would they have a grudge against Denzil?’

‘It’s what the underworld’s like,’ said Stella. ‘Fights that get fixed, fellas making off with winnings what aren’t theirs, blokes paid to bust other bloke’s hands. It’s the way it is. Betrayal and revenge. Denzil and Spider got involved in some pretty scummy business to earn themselves a crust. They were no different from anyone else in that world. Or in your world, Mr DCI Gene beautiful beautiful Hunt!’

‘Knock off the flattery and stick to the facts!’ snorted Gene, rewarding her compliment with a cuff round the ear that sent one of her dangly earrings flying off to join her missing stiletto.

‘They had a past, that’s no secret,’ Stella went on. ‘But they were good lads at heart. They were just trying to survive in a world that didn’t give a stuff about ‘em. And now boxing’s changing, offering a chance for boys like them to go legit, turn pro. They saw a chance to have a real life, a proper life, all above board and legal. That’s why they wound up at my gym. I got ‘em 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 table’s booked and Annie will be waiting. So, gentlemen, if you will excuse me?’

Chris opened his mouth to say something daft, but Gene cut in gruffly: ‘No more hilarious gags from you, Christopher. I’m very fond of this shirt, I’d hate to ruin it by splitting my sides.’ And he glowered so menacingly that Chris hid behind his pint glass. Gene went on; ‘Before you leave us, Sam, I’ve got some shop talk for you – for all three of you. Whoever killed Denzil Obi is a dangerous man – an extremely dangerous man – and right now, while we’re stood here, he’s running around as loose as a whore’s drawers. It’s likely he’ll go after Spider whatever-his-name-is. It’s also likely Spider won’t want us around – he’ll be more interested in avenging his beloved blood brother. So – we’re going to keep an eye on Spider and see if the killer reveals himself by coming for him. But that doesn’t mean we can just sit about on our arses. I want to get to this murdering bastard before any more blood’s spilt on my manor, is that understood?’