Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017

Copyright © Paul Finch 2017

Cover photographs © Henry Steadman

Cover design © Henry Steadman 2017

Paul Finch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007551330

Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780007551347

Version: 2017-09-12

PRAISE FOR PAUL FINCH

‘Wonderfully dark and peppered with grim humour. Finch is a born storyteller and writes with the authentic voice of the ex-copper he is.’

PETER JAMES

‘Edge-of-the-seat reading … formidable – a British Alex Cross.’

SUN

‘An ingenious and original plot. Compulsive reading.’

RACHEL ABBOTT

‘As good as I expected from Paul Finch. Relentlessly action-packed, breathless in its finale, Paul expertly weaves a trail through the North’s dark underbelly.’

NEIL WHITE

‘A deliciously twisted and fiendish set of murders and a great pairing of detectives.’

STAV SHEREZ

‘Avon’s big star … part edge-of-the-seat, part hide-behind-the-sofa!’

THE BOOKSELLER

‘An explosive thriller that will leave you completely hooked.’

WE LOVE THIS BOOK

Dedication

For my children, Eleanor and Harry, who, even though they’ve now left home, are always available to bounce around a few ideas.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Paul Finch

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Epilogue

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

The trouble with a really successful pub crawl – in other words, if you manage to hit all the hostelries on the proposed route – is that the team inevitably falls apart before you reach the end.

Oh, it’ll start off in the usual high spirits, with much yahooing and backslapping as you excitedly barge your way in through the first few sets of doors. But as the evening wears on, and the decibels rise, and the golden nectar flows down gulping throats, heads become progressively muzzier and one by one, as the team weaves ever on to the next establishment, members will drop by the wayside. Usually they end up lingering behind because they haven’t quite finished their pint, or because they’ve met a girl they know, or because they’ve lost track of where they’re supposed to be going next. Or quite simply, in that mysterious way of pub crawls the world over, they’ve simply vanished from the face of the earth – at least for the remainder of that night, no doubt to show up the following morning in a garden or on a park bench or maybe slumped in a shop doorway, rain-sodden and with head banging.

Either way, by the end of the night, only the hardy quaffers tend to remain; that small band of iron-core loyalists who will always see things through.

Tonight, oddly, even though the rest of his mates were well-known on campus as big-time boozers, Keith Redmond had somehow found himself at the last port of call alone.

It was called The Brasshouse and it was located on Broad Street, where its reputation as a popular watering hole was very well deserved. On this occasion though, Keith arrived there in a fog of confusion, at least twelve pints of lager sloshing around inside him, and none of the four or five faces currently in there – when he could focus on them sufficiently – even vaguely reminiscent of his fellow rugby club members. In the way of these things, he wasn’t quite able to work it all out. But as he ambled to the bar, filching his last tenner from his jeans pocket, he had some vague notion that the rest of the crew would catch him up in due course; either that, or they’d done what they’d said they were going to do some way back – namely not bother going the whole distance and, as it was only Wednesday, heading home early.

Keith wasn’t sure which it had been.

As he stood there alone, the last few of the other midweek drinkers nodding their farewells to the landlord and his staff and drifting out, it irked him that he’d been marooned here. Though, as he downed his last pint of the evening in desultory fashion, he supposed he hadn’t been marooned as such. If it had slipped his notice that they’d reached a communal decision to terminate the crawl early, then it was as much his fault as anyone else’s. So, he couldn’t really be angry with them. Not that this would stop him taking the mickey in the morning, or more likely in the afternoon, when he was finally fit to re-emerge, calling them plastics and phonies.

These things happened, he reflected, as he threaded his unsteady way back across a central Birmingham awash with glistening October rain, and at this hour on a weekday almost bare of life. He wasn’t sure what time it was. Probably around one. Which wasn’t too bad. He had no lectures of note in the morning, so he could sleep until noon.

But he was only a hundred yards down the road, heading due southwest towards Edgbaston, when he remembered something important. It was quite fortuitous. A ‘Poundstretcher’ sign caught his eye, reminding him that he was supposed to draw some extra money out tonight. He was going home to Brighton this weekend, for his older brother, Jason’s, stag do. Keith sniggered. There’d be no phonies tolerated on that seafront tour; any who thought they were going to try it would get dragged to the last few venues by their underpants’ elastic.

Of course, Keith wouldn’t be involved in any of that if he didn’t have enough money. In his quest to find a cashpoint, he backtracked a little along Broad Street, and then crossed the canal, heading roughly in the direction of the city centre.

It was vaguely unsettling, even in his drunken state: there was literally no one else around.

That was partly because of the lateness of the hour, but primarily because rain was still falling in torrents: rivers gushed out of pipes and gurgled down drains; lagoons had formed at road junctions, the occasional passing vehicle kicking them up in spectacular waves. Keith was in his usual attire – jeans, trainers, and zip-up lightweight anorak over his T-shirt, though in truth that ‘anorak’ certainly wasn’t protecting him tonight, his T-shirt already soaked through; at least that went with his jeans which were also sopping, not to mention his trainers.

On reflection, it might have been a better plan to have organised a taxi back this evening. This would usually be a last resort for Keith, who, as a student, preferred to spend what little cash he had on booze, but these conditions were pretty extreme by any standards. He could still try to flag one down, of course, but only after he’d drawn the money out for the weekend.

At least, one positive result of the downpour was the sluggish but steady return of sobriety. Keith’s head was getting the full, unrestricted brunt of it, his short straw-blond hair dripping wet even as it lay plastered to his skull. It was amazing what a reviving effect that could actually have on beer-laden thought processes. By the time he’d crossed Centenary Square, those familiar post-party urges to chuckle pointlessly at nothing, or sing out loud or kick at the occasional can had long departed. He now found himself walking steadily and in a reasonably straight line.

And at the same time, as he came back to his senses, he wondered if perhaps this wasn’t the best idea. His original intention had been to call at a cashpoint before they started hitting the pubs, or at least halfway through, when it wasn’t too late and when there were other people around. Keith wasn’t the sort of person who would normally expect to be robbed, but there was a particular story circulating at present that even he found unnerving.

He considered chucking it in and heading back to Edgbaston. But then another voice advised that there was a cashpoint not too far ahead, near the Town Hall, and if he turned around now when he was so close, he’d be an absolute idiot – not to mention a total wuss.

Keith puffed his chest and thrust out his jaw as he walked defiantly on. He didn’t play wing-forward for the university seconds for nothing. He was six feet tall, and though, at the tender age of twenty, not exactly solid muscle, he was on the way to getting there. He’d make a formidable opponent even for some loser like … What was it they were calling this bloke?

Oh yeah … ‘the Creep’.

Keith snorted with derision as he strutted determinedly past a row of silent shops, water pouring in cataracts from the canopies over their fronts. Even if the bastard showed up, it wasn’t as if Keith was totally on his own here. There were lights on in some of the flat windows overhead. He even fancied he could hear music. And if he could hear them, they could surely hear him if he cried out for help.

Not that he would be crying out, for all the reasons he’d just underlined to himself.

Of course, it wasn’t comforting that this guy – the Creep – supposedly came armed.

Keith shook the thought from his head as the object of his search at last slid into view. About thirty yards ahead, on the left, the bright green square of a cashpoint VDU revealed itself. He veered over there, turning his head and checking behind him as he did.

It was in the close vicinity of cashpoints, always late at night, where this nutball was supposed to hang around. Essentially, he was a mugger. He would stop folk in the street, produce his blade, and it was quite some blade, by all accounts, and demand the cash they’d just drawn from the telling machine – though apparently it was never quite as simple as that, or at least it hadn’t been so far.

Keith’s rain-greasy fingers fumbled at the buttons as he tried to bash in his pin number. For an absurd moment, he miskeyed and got a refusal notice. He hesitated before giving it another go, glancing around first. Pulses of heavy rain drove along the deserted street in a kind of choreographed procession. But he was still alone.

Unsure how many attempts he’d be allowed before it locked him out, Keith tried his number again, much more carefully this time. With relief, the transaction was completed and a wad of crisp twenty-pound notes scrolled from the slot. He crammed them into his pocket as he lurched back along the shopfronts.

It was about three and a half miles to his digs. That would be no problem normally, but though he wasn’t exactly leaden-footed, his energy reserves felt as if they were dwindling – that was probably as much to do with the cold and wet as it was the booze. Again, he thought about trying to hail a taxi, except that, typically, there were none in sight at present.

It didn’t matter too much. He was sure that he could make good time on foot if he got away from the town centre. That was all he needed to do, in truth. All the attacks had occurred in that inner zone, the areas around New Street and the Bullring; nothing had happened as far out as Edgbaston. As he walked down Paradise Street, and crossed Suffolk Street Queensway, his confidence grew that all would be well. The guy hadn’t always struck as soon as the victims had drawn out their cash; apparently, he’d shadowed a couple for a few streets, until they’d hit more secluded spots. But there’d been absolutely nothing out in the residential districts.

Keith felt mildly critical of himself. It had been folly – drunken folly, needless to say – to have got himself into this predicament in the first place, but the reality was that he’d probably not been in any real danger. There’d only been three or four of these attacks, as far as he knew, and Birmingham city centre was covered by CCTV, so it couldn’t be long before the lunatic was caught. Perhaps ‘the Creep’ had realised that himself and had already gone to ground. That was surely what any sensible criminal would do.

As he headed down Holliday Street, Keith casually glanced over his shoulder. And had to blink twice – as what looked like a dark figure about fifty yards behind stepped out of sight.

Keith halted and pivoted around to look properly, his heart suddenly jolting in his chest.

Seconds passed. There was no sign of anyone there now.

He walked quickly on, throwing more glances over his shoulder, but seeing nothing through the gauze of rain. Before he reached the canal, he cut left down a ginnel, unsure if this was the quickest route but determined now to keep heading southwest.

Could what he’d just seen have been a figment of his imagination?

He hurried down a covered walk, and emerged onto another main road, Commercial Street. From here, glancing left, he could see all the way to the point where it intersected with Severn Street. It was at least a hundred yards off, but a dark, upright shape seemingly waited at that junction. It was impossible to tell what it was from this distance – it could easily have been some kind of permanent fixture there, but on the other hand it might be someone loitering.

Keith hurried the other way along Commercial Street until he reached Granville Street. From here he had good vantage both to the left and right. Not too far away, a set of traffic lights sat on green; there were no cars to obey them, just more curtains of rain swishing over the empty crossing. He glanced back once to see if the figure at the intersection was still there, but it was impossible to be sure; again, the rain obscured all detail.

Low-key night lights were still on in various shops, he noted as he walked on. Funny how, when you were out alone at night that didn’t really bring you any comfort, somehow enforcing the message that there was no one else here but you.

He turned onto Bath Row, lurching sharp right. The deluge still hammered down. Keith wondered if it was going to slacken off at all before he got back to the flat, not that it would make much difference now, saturated as he already was.

For what seemed like the umpteenth time, he turned and glanced behind.

And this time saw a figure about forty yards away and on the other side of the road, but heading roughly in the same direction that he was. As before, Keith felt as if he’d been struck. But then he had a couple of reassuring thoughts: firstly, although the figure was wearing heavy waterproof clothing, with the hood pulled up, concealing the face was hardly sinister on a night like this; secondly, he’d made no effort to duck out of sight again.

It must be someone else on their way home. Nothing to be worried about.

Even so, Keith increased his pace, jamming his hands into his anorak pockets, and more out of instinct than logic, on the spur of the moment, taking a detour down another alley, this one leading around the back of the Shell garage. Technically, he was heading northward again – not where he wanted to go, but he had to admit, he hadn’t liked the way that other homeward-bound pedestrian had suddenly appeared from nowhere.

He peered backward as he trudged down the alley, its junction with Bath Row falling steadily behind. But no waterproof-clad figure strode past it as he’d expected. When the junction was a hundred yards distant, Keith still hadn’t seen anyone.

And that felt wrong.

He pressed on urgently, and almost collided with the steel post of a street sign, which he must have made a blind beeline for without realising. He skipped aside, but in so doing, slipped on a greasy flagstone, and landed heavily on his back.

A great video for someone to post on YouTube, he thought as he scrambled back to his feet, insulated from the pain by his growing sense of unease. In actual fact, he hoped that somebody was filming. It might help them catch this Creep nutter.

When he stepped out onto a narrow, largely residential thoroughfare which he recognised as Roseland Way, it was a relief. He wasn’t far from home now.

Within a few minutes, he’d worked his way down to the A4540, or the Middleway as it was known, a large inner-urban dual carriageway, which formed part of the Birmingham ring road.

On the other side of that lay Edgbaston.

He crossed the Middleway via an underpass, descending a flight of stone steps and heading quickly along the square cement passage, which led some thirty yards to the other side. The usual graffiti was there in abundance – ‘Blues’ and ‘AVFC’ – along with other vastly more profane slogans. Keith might consider himself a lad-about-town, but he didn’t particularly like using these subways at night, especially not alone – they were damp, desolate and echoey. But tonight was an exception. He just wanted to get home, get showered and get to bed. Not long now.

He was perhaps ten yards from the end when a figure descended the steps in front of him.

By its height and shape it was male, but there was no real certainty of that because it was covered by a heavy black rain-slicker with the hood pulled down over the face.

It came straight along the passage, head bowed, hands buried in its pockets.

Keith continued forward too, didn’t even falter in his stride. Partly this was due to surprise – it basically stupefied him; his brain, for all that he thought he’d sobered up, was still too sluggish to transfer immediate messages to his limbs. It was also, he supposed – somewhat fatalistically – because there was no turning back now.

He lowered his own head as he advanced, burrowing his hands deeper into his pockets, and at the same time moving slightly to the right. Drunk or not, he was still an athlete. He could still dodge and run. But the guy – who was quite clearly the same person Keith had seen before – now veered straight into his path.

They were about two yards apart when he looked up and met Keith face to face.

Keith couldn’t speak. He was too mesmerised by the waxy-pale features and the deranged grin imprinted on them. In fact, he was only able to move when the figure drew something metallic and gleaming from inside its right-hand pocket – which clearly wasn’t a pocket at all, because this thing came out inch after curved and glittering inch.

It wasn’t as much a knife as an old-fashioned cavalry sabre.

Keith jerked himself backward – and slipped on some waste paper. For the second time that night, he landed hard on his spine. For the second time, he barely felt it as he attempted to crab-scuttle backward. The grinning figure followed with a slow, deliberate tread, raising the sword as though for a massive downward chop.

‘Alright!’ Keith shrieked, scrabbling frantically to his feet but at the same time yanking the wad of cash from his jeans pocket and waving it at the advancing shape.

Sword still hovering, the Creep – whose maniacal expression never changed – reached out a gloved hand, and snatched the cash away. Keith could only peer up at the gleaming steel. In part because he couldn’t bear to lock gazes with those small and weirdly shimmery eyes – he’d read something in the paper about the Creep always wearing a demented expression and having a penetrating, glint-eyed stare – but also because he knew, he just knew, that awful blade would not be staying overhead. Even so, he never expected it to sweep down in a blur of speed, to deliver a murderous blow to the joint between his neck and shoulder, to bury itself deep in muscle and bone. Keith sagged to his knees, stunned by pain and horror.

But it was only when the blade was wrenched free that the blood fountained out of him, and he fell face-first to the concrete.

Chapter 2

Detective Constable Lucy Clayburn headed north along the M60, and at the Wardley interchange swerved west along the M61. It was just after ten o’clock at night, so even Greater Manchester’s famously crowded motorway network was relatively quiet, enabling her blood-red liveried Ducati M900 ‘Monster’ to hit a cruising speed of 80mph as she passed the turn-offs to Farnworth, Lostock and Westhoughton. She only slowed as she reached Junction 6, where she swung a right, entering the complexity of roundabouts and slip roads surrounding the Reebok stadium, the home of Bolton Wanderers Football Club.

From here it was straight north-west, first along Chorley New Road towards Horwich, and then north along Rivington Lane. Only now, on the northernmost edge of the Greater Manchester Police force area, with the great bulk of Winter Hill looming on her right – an amorphous escarpment on the star-speckled October sky – did the red-brick conurbation of the cityscape dissipate properly, to be replaced by the more pastoral villages, woodlands and stone-walled farms of rural Lancashire. In due course, she even veered away from this, riding east into the foothills of the West Pennine Moors, dipping and looping along narrow, fantastically twisty lanes. A few minutes later, deep in Lever Country Park, in the close vicinity of the renovated Tudor structure that was Rivington Barn, she throttled slowly down. A famous meeting point for bikers from all across the north of England, this picturesque but isolated spot was for the most part deserted late at night, but now one particular car park – a small area about four hundred yards from the Barn, hemmed on three sides by thick belts of trees – was a riot of light and noise.

Lucy homed in on it, gliding in among the many bikes parked haphazardly across its gritty surface and the bodies milling there in blue denim and worn leather. As usual, they were all ages, from rangy, pimply-faced teens to characters in their fifties with capacious ale-guts, bald pates and grey fuzz beards. Women of various ages were present too – Hell’s Angel type activity had never been exclusively confined to the guys.

Regardless of gender, the back of each jacket had been emblazoned in fiery orange letters: LOW RIDERS.

They fell silent as Lucy rode slowly among them, a natural alleyway parting for her. She hit the anchors properly at the far edge of the car park, where she turned the engine off and lowered her kickstand. She climbed from the bike, took off her crimson helmet and shook out her black hair, which tumbled glossily down her back and shoulders.

Immediately, there were wolf whistles, ribald comments.

Lucy didn’t react. She was in her motorbike leathers, which while they weren’t exactly skin-tight, were pretty clingy. Add to that her constant work-outs at the gym, which meant that she was in good shape. But when she turned and fronted them, and they recognised her as the copper she was, someone hawked and spat.

The Low Riders weren’t just a motorcycle club. They were traditionalists, with an ‘old-school’ ethos: Live fast, die hard. Leave us alone, and we’ll leave you alone. We operate by our rules, not yours. All of which translated into a lifestyle of endemic lawlessness and a natural distrust of the police.

Yellow teeth had now appeared in nasty, defiant grins. Lucy saw bottles of brown ale, the scattered empties as well as those half-full and clamped in oily fists (even though most of these guys would be on the road in the next hour). She saw spliffs too; not many, but enough on brazen display to signify a challenge. Not that making a drugs bust was why she was here tonight – as they realised perfectly well, hence their brashness.

One of them came swaggering forward.

It was Kyle Armstrong, president of the Crowley chapter.

Lucy hadn’t seen him for quite some time; he was in his mid-thirties now, but still the way she remembered him: tall and lean, with truculent ‘bad boy’ looks, a tar-black mane hanging to his collar, and thick black sideburns. In his tight jeans, steel-studded belt and leather jacket, which he almost invariably wore open on a bare, hairy chest, he had a raw animal appeal. He might be out of time, fashion-wise, but he’d always reminded her of one of those classy heavy rockers of the early days, an Ian Gillan or Robert Plant.

Of course, she’d never let him know that was what she thought about him. Armstrong’s ego was already the size of a barrage balloon.

‘New length on your locks,’ he said approvingly. ‘Just like the old days. Going plain clothes obviously suits you.’

Beforehand, when in uniform, a spell that had only ended about ten months previously, Lucy had always kept her hair cut square at the shoulder. She hadn’t been overly fond of that style, and so Armstrong was quite correct; being a CID officer did have its perks.

Again though, she wouldn’t admit this to him. Mainly because she wasn’t in the mood for banter. Were it any other low-to-mid-level criminal who’d requested a meeting with her, she’d have told him that he was the one who’d have to travel, but she and the Low Riders’ president had something of a shared past, which, being hard-headed about it, meant that a useful outcome here was marginally more possible than the norm.

Even so, she didn’t have to pretend that she liked the arrangement.

‘What do you want, Kyle?’ she asked.

He stepped around her, unashamed in his admiration for her leather-clad form, which irked her, though it was insolence rather than an actual threat – and anyway it didn’t irk Lucy as much as it did Kelly Allen, or ‘Hells Kells’, as Lucy had once scornfully (and secretly) known her, a busty beauty of a biker chick, famous in the group not just for her impressive physique, but for her waist-length crimson-dyed hair, which very much matched her temperament. Many years ago, Kells had zealously sought out Armstrong’s personal affection, and when she’d finally secured it – and it didn’t come easily – she’d defended that status like a tigress.

Kells currently watched from about ten yards away, not looking her sexy best in a raggedy old Afghan coat, but her kohl-rimmed eyes blazing under her blood-red fringe.

Armstrong, meanwhile, had moved his attention on to Lucy’s bike.

‘I heard you’d written Il Monstro off chasing some bad guys,’ he said.

‘Banged it up a bit,’ she replied. ‘Nothing that wouldn’t fix.’

‘How about the villains of the piece?’

‘They’re both doing life.’

‘Ouch.’ He grinned. ‘Should’ve known better than to mess with you, eh?’

‘So should you by now. What’s this about?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he chuckled. ‘I’m not after rekindling that fire we once had together.’

‘Good … because that’s dead.’ She could sense the rest of them watching her in expectant silence, which annoyed her all the more – it might be a police thing, but Lucy never liked being the only person on the plot who didn’t know what was going on. ‘In addition to which,’ she said, ‘it’s late and I’m in Court tomorrow. So, whatever it is, make it quick.’

‘All right … can we walk a little?’

‘If you don’t want the rest of the crowd to know what you get up to, you shouldn’t bring them with you,’ she said as they strolled along a narrow, moonlit path. ‘Or is that like asking someone to go out without his pants on?’

‘It’s them I want to talk to you about,’ Armstrong replied. ‘Or one of them. But there’s no point everyone being party to the nitty-gritty, is there?’

She supposed he was right about that. The rest of the clan would know that he’d asked her here to make some kind of deal, but the fewer of them who knew what it specifically entailed, the less chance there was that the info would leak out.

‘The word is you’re a big noise now,’ he said. ‘A full-time detective no less.’

‘And?’

He turned to face her, his wolfish features saturnine in the woodland gloom. ‘I need your expertise.’

Lucy had expected nothing less, but was still cheesed off about it. It was amazing how many of these outlaw gangs fell back on the law when it suited them.

‘Don’t look at me like that, babe,’ he complained. ‘We’ve never been enemies.’

‘Really?’

‘Look … we’re on different sides of the fence, I agree. But we weren’t always, were we?’

‘I was young and stupid back then,’ she said.

‘Some might say you’re stupid to do what you do now.’ Briefly, he sounded stung by her dismissal of their former relationship. ‘Lead a happy life, do you, Luce? Still see all your old muckers?’

‘My personal happiness is irrelevant, Kyle … whether I’m stupid or not depends on my response to this favour you’re about to ask.’

He didn’t immediately reply, humbled again – firstly because she’d clearly guessed why she was here, which kind of gave her an advantage, and secondly because if he wanted to get anything out of this, he had no real option other than to be nice to her.

‘One of our lot got turned over by Crowley Drugs Squad,’ he said.

‘Well … wonders never cease.’

‘No, look … this is serious. Remember Ian Dyke?’

‘Not sure. The memory plays tricks. All your idiots tend to blend into one.’

‘He’s been busted for possession with intent to supply.’ Armstrong shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t normally be a big deal … he was only carrying some draw, a few ecstasy tablets … but he really doesn’t want to go down.’

‘What’s that popular phrase?’ she said. ‘If you don’t like the time, don’t do the …?’

‘I know all that. Listen Luce, Dykey’s girlfriend’s just had a baby and he’s trying to get his life sorted. Got himself a proper job and everything. But this isn’t going to help with that, is it?’

‘If it’s only a bit of molly … he won’t go down for that.’

‘But he will lose the job.’

‘So, he’ll have to get another.’

‘Look …’ Armstrong seemed inordinately frustrated. ‘Of all my lads, Dykey’s the last one to deserve this shit.’

‘You telling me the Drugs Squad framed him?’

‘Nah … that’ll be his defence, but that’s not what happened.’

‘Well, then he does deserve it, doesn’t he?’

‘It was his last delivery,’ the biker stressed. ‘His very last one. After that, I was gonna cut him loose so he could start a normal family life.’

She eyed him with fascination. ‘So … is this your guilty conscience speaking, Kyle? Is the untouchable general finally getting a complex about the good little soldiers he sends into battle for him?’

‘Hey, I’m just trying to help a guy out who’s been a good mate of mine for a long time.’

She pondered, mulling over whether she could turn this thing to her own advantage. ‘Have we got a trial date yet?’

‘Yeah … next spring.’

‘Next spring?’

‘He’s at Manchester Crown.’

‘He’s at Crown Court?’ That surprised her. ‘And he was only delivering a few bits and bobs?’

Suddenly Armstrong couldn’t look her in the face.

‘Any other lies I should know about?’ she asked. ‘Like maybe he hasn’t got a job? Maybe his girlfriend hasn’t just had a baby? Maybe he hasn’t even got a sodding girlfriend … that’d be more believable, knowing half of your lot.’

‘Lucy, come on,’ he pleaded. ‘I can make this worth your while.’

‘Yeah … how?’

He lowered his voice, and glanced back along the path to the lights of the car park. ‘Maybe I can drop you a bit of intel now and then.’

‘Oh … you want to be my informant?’

‘For Christ’s sake, keep it down!’ he hissed. ‘And no, I never said that.’

‘But we’ll give each other a back scratch every so often?’

‘Come on … I know you do this stuff all the time.’

She contemplated his offer. ‘Anything you can give me now?’

‘No, but …’ He shrugged. ‘But when the time comes, you only need to ask. Come on, Lucy … you know me.’

Yeah, I know you, she thought. The Low Riders were reprobates through and through, and could hardly be relied on to give help to law enforcement. But they were connected, and if Armstrong – who at one time had been a lot more to Lucy than just an acquaintance, even if she had only been going through a ‘teen rebel’ phase – said he might be able to give her something now and then, there was always a chance it would be juicy.

She sighed. ‘You say this lad’s name is Ian Dyke?’

‘Yeah. He lives on Thorneywood Lane.’

Lucy knew the place. It was yet another nice-sounding street on a Crowley council estate, which in actual fact was so run-down that it ought to be bulldozed.

‘All I can do is speak to Drugs Squad,’ she said. ‘I’ve no clout … you understand that?’

‘Sure.’ He sounded happier.

‘I may be a detective, but I’m still only a constable.’

‘I know you …’ He eyed her suggestively. You can be very persuasive when you want to be.’

‘I can’t.’ she assured him. ‘And I’m not going to be. Best I can do is have a word.’

They walked back to the car park, where Lucy pulled her helmet on, kicked her machine to life and spun it round in a tight circle. Before heading back to the exit, she pulled up alongside Armstrong and lifted her visor. The rest of the chapter looked on in silence, though Hells Kells had now come forward and firmly linked arms with her beau. She glared at Lucy with icy intensity.

‘Let me know how we get on, yeah?’ Armstrong said.

‘There is no “we”, Kyle. So, don’t be pestering me. I’ll call you if there’s anything to report. And if we hit pay-dirt on this, I want something back.’ She pointed a warning finger at him. ‘I mean it.’

He shrugged. ‘Promised, didn’t I?’

‘Yeah … you promised all right.’ And she treated him to a dubious frown, before hitting the throttle and speeding out of the car park.

Chapter 3

Lucy Clayburn was known widely in the Greater Manchester Police as a biker girl, and as a deft handler of her Ducati M900. There was scarcely a colleague, whether male or female, who didn’t in some way find this intriguing.

Most of the men, especially those members of the Motorcycle Wing, thought it majorly cool, even more so when they learned that Lucy was also a self-taught mechanic. One or two of the more old-fashioned types were vaguely miffed, regarding it as a challenge to their machismo, but these were fewer and farther between each year in the British police service, so on the whole they kept quiet. There were equally diverse opinions among the women, a couple of the more serious-minded types dismissing it as a frivolous thing, accusing Lucy of trying too hard to win the men’s vote by playing the tomboy. But most of the girls were impressed, liking the fact that she’d strayed unapologetically into male territory and quietly admiring the derring-do it surely required just to ride one of these high-powered machines through the chaotic traffic of the twenty-first century.

All of this was somewhat ironic, of course, because Lucy didn’t take her bike out very often these days. Back in uniform, she’d regularly used it to travel to and from work, because when she was actually on duty back then she drove a marked police car. Now that she was in CID, she could either drive one of the pool cars – which often had interiors like litterbins, and stank of sweat and ketchup and chips – or she could drive her own car, which was easily the more preferable option. As such, she’d bought herself a small four-wheel-drive, an aquamarine Suzuki Jimny soft-top, which now provided her main set of wheels. The Ducati was still her pride and joy, but the bike shed where it lived and where all her tools were stored, was still at her mother’s house in Saltbridge, at the Bolton end of Crowley Borough, while Lucy had moved into her newly refurbished dormer bungalow on the Brenner Estate, at the opposite end. As such, she rarely even saw the machine.

The previous night, when she’d headed up to the West Pennine Moors to meet Kyle Armstrong and the rest of the Low Riders, had been an exception; riding her bike to that meeting could only have helped to win their approval. But later on that night, when she returned to Crowley, she parked the bike back in its shed, and without bothering to pop indoors to see her mum, who by that hour was most likely in bed, she headed across town in her Jimny. First thing this morning, she was back behind its wheel, eating toast as she drove into central Crowley, not towards Robber’s Row police station, but to the central Magistrates Court.

En route, she used her hands-free to place a call to the CID office, where she asked DS Kirsty Banks to sign her on for duty. And then placed a call to DCI Geoff Slater, at the Drugs Squad. Slater, whom Lucy had worked with in the past on ‘Operation Clearway’ – a non-drugs related case – was not available to take the call, so she left a message instead, asking him to contact her.

On arrival at the Court – an authoritative-looking Victorian building, complete with tall, stained-glass windows and faux Grecian columns to either side of its front steps, and yet faded to a dingy grey through time and weathering – she parked in the staff car park at the rear, entered through the staff door and went down the steps to the police room and the holding cells.

‘Where’ve you been?’ DC Harry Jepson snapped.

‘Why … I’m not late?’ She threw her overcoat onto a hanger.

‘I know, but I wanted to make sure we’ve got everything straight before we go up.’

‘Listen, Harry …’ Lucy checked her watch as she entered the kitchen area; they had a good twenty minutes before the trial commenced, ‘… if you tell the truth in Court’ – she stressed the word ‘truth’ as if it might be a novel concept for him – ‘then there’s nothing to get straight, is there. We’ll both be on the same page automatically.’

Jepson looked hurt. ‘I am going to tell the truth.’

‘Good.’ She put the kettle on. ‘So, what’s the problem?’

After ten years working as a uniformed constable out of various police stations in Crowley, her home town, but also home to GMP’s notorious November Division, or ‘the N’, as it was sometimes called, Lucy had made the long-awaited permanent move to CID the previous winter. To some extent, this had been a battlefield promotion, a result of the ‘exemplary courage and resourcefulness’, to use the words of the Deputy Chief Constable at her commendation, that she’d displayed during a long, complex and particularly dangerous undercover assignment, the now legendary Operation Clearway. Without any of this, it was highly unlikely that she’d ever have made detective. Long before Clearway, at a relatively early stage of her career, one spectacular foul-up had almost seen her kicked out of the job and had certainly looked as if it would follow her round forever. Even with Clearway under her belt, it was mainly thanks to the persuasive powers of Detective Superintendent Priya Nehwal of the Serious Crimes Division, that the GMP top brass had finally decided to overlook her previous indiscretion. That was the good news.

The bad news was that, for her first posting, working out of the CID office at Robber’s Row – Crowley’s divisional HQ – Lucy had been partnered with Detective Constable Harry Jepson, who, though affable enough when it suited him, was a bit of a throwback.

Harry had already been a detective for fifteen years when Lucy came along, but in all that time he’d never once been promoted, which implied that his dual habits of cutting procedural corners and showing heavy-handedness with suspects did not always pay dividends. He was a reasonably good-looking bloke, fair-haired and with a big frame – like a rugby player – though he was now in his early forties and a tad beaten-up around the edges. He was also a divorcee, unhappily so, with several kids to support, which embittered him no end; he drank too much as well, was increasingly slovenly in appearance, and inclined to gruffness with those he didn’t know.

Lucy occasionally wondered, though had never asked aloud, if her being partnered with Harry was deemed to be as much for his benefit as hers. Not that she was renowned for playing a totally straight bat, herself, she had to admit.

It was also a growing concern that she thought Harry might secretly be carrying a candle for her. She knew he was lonely and frustrated, and he was well aware that she too was a singleton. Though they enjoyed a productive working relationship, she’d several times caught him eyeing her approvingly when he thought she wasn’t looking. Not that Lucy was in any way tempted. Harry wasn’t unfanciable – he had a certain roughneck charm. But she had strict rules about mixing work and pleasure, much to her mum’s helpless fury.

‘Brew,’ she said. It wasn’t a question; she handed him a mug of tea, while still stirring her own.

‘Ta,’ he replied, distracted and flustered as he went through the details of the original arrest, noted in his pocketbook.

Lucy was quietly amused by that. Out on the street, he was as cool as they came – casually and confidently dealing with even the worst of the town’s yobs and criminals; a good man to have in a tight corner. But confront him with a wall of bureaucracy, and he became childlike in his ineptitude; face him with officialdom, and he lost all sense of who he was – grew nervous and frazzled.

Giving evidence in Court was never less than an ordeal for him.

The defendant that morning was a certain Darren Pringle, a repeat violent offender whom they both knew of old. Lucy didn’t think that Pringle had much chance on this occasion – he’d been charged with wounding, yet again. A habitually aggressive drunk, the previous August he’d come stumbling out of a Crowley pub, taken offence that a young chap was sitting at a nearby traffic light in a sports car, and with no provocation whatsoever, had walked around the vehicle, punched out its driver-side window and then punched out the driver, blacking his eye and splitting his eyebrow in the process. He’d then run for it, but Lucy and Harry, having taken various statements from onlookers and following a ‘vapour-trail’ of CCTV, had arrested him at his council flat the following morning, where they’d also seized his clothing, which had later proved to be covered with glass fragments and spatters of blood – both his own and the aggrieved party’s. It didn’t look good for him, but strange things happened in courtrooms.

They discussed the detail while they had their tea, and then traipsed upstairs to the lobby, where they had a quick conflab with the civvy witnesses and the brief from the CPS.

After that, they sat down on a bench to wait.

‘By the way,’ Harry said. ‘You know there’ve been a number of breaks on the Hatchwood?’

Lucy nodded. Hatchwood Green was one of the most deprived housing estates in the whole of Crowley Borough. Crime there was nothing new. But the recent spate of house burglaries had occurred at a remarkable rate, and a quick analysis of the various crime reports would reveal many similar characteristics between them.

‘Well … from today onward,’ Harry added, ‘that’s me and you.’

She glanced round with interest.

‘Stan’s had enough and wants it clearing up,’ he said.

Stan Beardmore was the divisional detective inspector at Robber’s Row, and Lucy and Harry’s immediate senior manager.

Before she could question him further on this, the clerk appeared and called Harry into Court. He stood up, straightened his loosely knotted tie and brushed down the lapels of his crumpled jacket.

‘Once I’m done, if I’m discharged I’ll head back to the nick and gather the intel,’ he said. ‘So we can hit the ground running.’

Lucy nodded, and waited. As she did, her phone rang.

‘DC Clayburn,’ she answered.

‘Lucy …?’

‘Morning, sir.’ She immediately recognised the gruff but friendly tone of Geoff Slater.

‘How the hell are you doing?’

‘Bumbling along, as they say.’

‘Nah!’ he laughed. ‘“Lucy Clayburn” and “bumble” can’t fit in the same sentence together. Thought you’d have your stripes by now.’

Lucy fleetingly pondered that. The mere fact she’d made detective was miracle enough; the possibility of being promoted to sergeant, even though in her mind at least she’d earned it many times over, seemed light years away. Slater of course, had no such millstones round his neck. When they’d last worked together, he’d been a detective inspector on the Serious Crimes Division. Now he was a detective chief-inspector, though he’d needed to accept a transfer back to his original stamping-ground of the Drugs Squad before any such honour had finally been conferred.

‘No way, boss … don’t think my face fits as well as yours.’

‘Bloody hell … if it was down to who’s got the best face, you’d be the Chief Con and I’d be deputy bog-brush.’

‘Flattery will get your everywhere, sir,’ she said, ‘as always. Especially when I’m after a favour.’

‘Shoot. Anything.’

‘You’ve got a case pending next spring at Manchester Crown … Regina v Ian Dyke.’

‘Oh yeah … that little shit.’ Slater chuckled darkly. ‘Courier for the Low Riders. Well, he’s gonna get what’s coming to him, I’ll tell you.’

‘Facing hard time, is he?’

‘With any luck. We’ve been trying to get into that lot for a while. We dropped lucky with Dyke. On his own he isn’t worth too much … we offered him the usual deal, but he wouldn’t bite. You know what bikers are like … they’re a tight crew. Anyway, like I say, he wouldn’t play, so he’s copping for the lot.’

That explained everything, Lucy realised. She already suspected that what Kyle Armstrong was really concerned about was whether Ian Dyke would try to make a deal and drop the entire chapter in it. But a promise was a promise, especially if it might pay off at some point.

‘I was just wondering,’ she said, not entirely comfortable with this, but persevering. ‘Well … if there was any way you might … well, go easy on him?’

There was a short but profound silence at the other end of the line.

‘Lucy … the trial date’s been set,’ Slater said. ‘April 3. And that was no small amount of gear we found on him.’

‘It’s just that it may be useful to one of my own enquiries.’

‘I can’t get the charges reduced at this stage, even if I was inclined to.’

‘Sir … you remember that really crappy job you gave me during Operation Clearway? Going undercover in that brothel over in Cheetham Hill?’

‘The job you lobbied me for, you mean?’ he said sternly.

‘Yeah, that one. And then remember how one of those bastards even threatened to blowtorch my nose off?’

‘Don’t try this on, Lucy …’

‘I’m not trying anything on. I’m just saying … I did a job of work for you, that year. We took down a crime syndicate and arrested two serial killers.’

‘For which you’ve been rightly recognised.’

‘Sir, it’s only a little thing I’m asking.’

‘Lucy …’ Slater sounded flabbergasted. ‘Ian Dyke’s a bad lad. He’s been spreading the Low Riders’ poison all over Crowley, and probably well beyond it, for years …’

‘You’ve just told me he’s a cog in a machine. Is it really going to advance the cause if you throw everything but the kitchen sink at him just because you can’t collar the rest of them?’

There was another pregnant silence.

‘Okay,’ he eventually replied. ‘I’ll tell you what I can do. And this is purely on the basis of our friendship, which is on thin ice at present, my girl.’

‘I understand that, sir … I’m very sorry.’

‘Yeah, you sound it.’ He paused, as if maybe about to reconsider. ‘If Dyke changes his plea to guilty … and he might as well because he hasn’t got a leg to stand on, I will personally write to the judge and point out that the accused has been helpful and cooperative throughout the case, has demonstrated genuine remorse and is seriously trying to get his life together. Now, you don’t need me to tell you it won’t necessarily save his neck, but it might mean that the judge will go a little easier on him … and, like I say, he’s got to change his plea first, and that hasn’t come from me, by the way … it needs to come from his legal team. So, the first thing Dyke needs to do is get onto his brief. Make sure he understands that, Lucy … the first move must come from him.’

‘Okay, sir. I’ll pass that on.’ Lucy knew this was the best deal they were going to get. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘I don’t know what you’re into with the Low Riders, love … but I advise you to be wary of them. They’re not just some run-of-the-mill motorcycle club. They’re a heavy crew and they’re regularly involved in crime.’

‘I know that, sir.’

‘And that president of theirs, Kyle Armstrong – he’s the worst of them.’

‘I know that too, sir. Thanks.’

Slater harrumphed. ‘See you round, Lucy. Take care.’

Chapter 4

Owing to Crowley’s status as a one-time coal and textiles hotspot, its warehouse and factory district was almost in the town centre, primarily because that was where the main rail-yard was, but it was also only a stone’s throw from the main shopping area.

As such, as recently as the 1970s, Crowley’s ‘inner ring’ had been crammed with working mills and factories, their forest of tall chimneys pumping smoke into the air above the Greater Manchester township day and night. It had certainly given the place some character back in the day, and it did so now – to a degree – a succession of immense industrial structures towering over the red-brick terraced neighbourhoods which for so many decades had supplied their workforces.

Of course, in the twenty-first century such buildings were an anachronism. Some, rather ambitiously, had been renovated into blocks of ‘desirable apartments’ (many of which were still for sale), while others had become visitor centres. Of the rest, most had been boarded over and left. To some this was a blight on the environment, but others saw it as an opportunity. For example, it was in Rudyard Row, a weed-filled backstreet snaking its way between several of the most decrepit of these empty Edwardian monoliths, where Roy ‘the Shank’ Shankhill ran his ‘business’.

Rudyard Row wasn’t an alley you’d stumble into by accident, because you had to work your way through a warren of similarly-squalid passages just to reach it, and so most folk, even locals, didn’t know it was there. In addition, there was next to no reason to go there. Some of the former workshops that lined it on either side were still used, but most of them were soulless facades of brick, with plank-covered windows.

It looked as dismal as ever on that dull, damp day in mid-October, when Malcolm Pugh showed up there. This was nowhere near his first visit, and highly likely it would not be his last, but he was no less nervous for that.

He’d come into town from Bullwood by bus. It was late-morning, rush hour long over, and so he’d travelled on the top deck alone, mulling endlessly over his plethora of problems. As he walked warily down Rudyard Row, he felt even more alone, but now he was frightened too.

In many ways, it was a good thing he was doing here today. He expected it to curry favour, but you could never be absolutely certain what the outcome might be when dealing with the Shank. He glanced left and right before knocking on the door to No. 38, the two numerals hanging rusty and limp amid strips of peeling paintwork.

What he neglected to do was look directly behind him, so he didn’t see the door to the derelict building opposite swing silently open on recently oiled hinges.

Initially there was no sound from inside Shankhill’s premises. Pugh was about to knock again when he heard what sounded like a rustle of newspaper on the other side of the door. He knew what that would be: Turk, that great slab of meat and bone that Shankhill called a minder, getting irritably up from his stool, rolling up whichever of the daily rags he’d been reading – probably something with lots of tits, bums and suspenders – shoving it into his jacket pocket, and …

‘Yeah, who is it?’ came Turk’s voice through the wood.

It was a curious accent. Pugh couldn’t place it. He’d always assumed from the guy’s nickname, and because of his swarthy complexion and short tangle of oily black hair, that he’d originated in the Middle East somewhere. Not that it was important. All that really mattered where Turk was concerned was that he was six-foot four at least, and that he worked out daily, and/or did lots of steroids, which had built him a herculean physique. Reputedly, he liked nothing better than to imprint his many sovereign rings on the bodies and faces of those his employer took issue with.

‘It’s Malcom Pugh. I need to see Roy.’

A snicker of laughter sounded on the other side. ‘You never get tired of it, do you?’

‘I’m not here for a loan … I want to pay him back.’

‘Yeah?’ Turk sounded amused, as though this had to be a scam and he wasn’t buying it.

‘Seriously. Come on, Turk … Roy’s expecting me.’

There were two resounding clanks as, first, a top bolt was drawn back, and then a lower bolt. The door started to open, and Pugh put his foot on the step only to be struck from behind as somebody barrelled into his back.

It threw him forward into the door, which bounced inward with tremendous force, impacting massively on the guy behind it. There was a crump of splintering wood and a garbled grunt from Turk, and Pugh – who was too stunned to know what was happening – was grabbed by the back collar of his anorak, a gloved hand slapped across his mouth, and forced inside.

The immediate interior was a narrow space at the foot of a steep, dank stairway. A single grimy fanlight only weakly illuminated its wet brick walls and the stool to one side. Turk lay sprawled backward on the foot of the stairs, the lower half of his face spattered crimson from a smashed nose. Pugh, meanwhile, had his legs kicked from under him, pitching him down onto his knees, as two burly bodies crammed into the tiny space behind him, moving with catlike stealth. The door closed with a thud, but its top bolt was shoved back into place as quickly and quietly as possible.

Blinking with shock and pain, Turk groped for the Colt Python he kept in the armpit holster under his tan leather jacket. But before he could reach it, the muzzle of what looked like a sub-machine gun was jammed against his chin. His hand froze.

Pugh cowered where he knelt, a crumpled adult foetus, only glancing up slowly and fearfully. The two intruders, who hadn’t yet said a word, let alone shouted out a threat or warning, both carried automatic weapons with shoulder straps. Pugh had no clue what make or model they were, but they looked terrifying, especially as they had big magazines attached to their undersides.

The intruders wore zipped-up black leather jackets, black leather gloves and bright red woollen ski-masks with only narrow slots for the eyes. They were about average height and size, though one was slightly taller than the other. This taller one kept his gun under Turk’s jaw. It was firm in his left hand, as he put the index finger of his right to the place where his lips should be, and said: ‘Shhhh.’

Turk watched him balefully, but said nothing. Pugh, of course – a much smaller and older man than Turk, with a reputation even at home for being a weakling and failure – whimpered aloud, which earned him a vicious side-kick. The taller gunman leaned even closer to Turk, forced the muzzle into his Adam’s apple, and pressing it in hard, dragged a glottal gurgle out of him. With his right hand, he rummaged around under Turk’s jacket until he found the grip of the Colt Python and drew it out, slipping it into his own pocket.

He straightened up and backed off, but only for half a foot or so, the sub-machine gun trained squarely on his captive’s battered face. ‘Get up,’ he said quietly.

Turk did as he was told. At full height, he stood several inches above even the taller of the two gunmen, but that scarcely mattered. He now fancied he recognised the weapon under his nose as a SIG-Sauer MPX. At this range, its 9mm slugs would cut him in half like a buzz saw.

‘Arms out where I can see them,’ the taller gunman said. ‘Then turn around.’

Turk complied, spreading his empty hands and shuffling round in a semicircle.

‘Upstairs,’ the gunman instructed. ‘Make a sound out of the ordinary … anything I think is meant to be warning, and you’re on your way to Allah sooner than you ever imagined possible.’

Slowly, with heavy but careful footsteps, Turk ascended the stairs, the gunman close behind, the muzzle of the SIG jammed into his spine.

The second, shorter gunman nudged Pugh with his foot to indicate that he should go too.

‘Please,’ Pugh whined. ‘I’m not even supposed to be here …’

A strong hand snatched Pugh by the collar and hauled him to his feet. Pugh headed up the stairs at a petrified stumble, the second gunman treading stealthily at his rear.

There was a corridor at the top, all loose boards and rotted, hanging wallpaper. Only one door led off it, down at its far end. The occupant of the room beyond, Roy ‘the Shank’ Shankhill, a hefty porcine individual with pinkish features, slit-eyes, a mat of lank, gingery hair, and as always, wearing a patterned house-robe over his stained shirt and scruffily-knotted tie, sat behind a broad, leather-topped desk, which, aside from the free-standing electric fire in one corner and the small, steel safe in another, was the only furnishing in an otherwise empty shell of a room.

Shankhill thought he’d heard a bump downstairs – he even put on his glasses, which normally hung on his chest from a chain, and squinted across the room at the half-open door. But no other sound had followed, and he’d soon written it off as Turk knocking over his stool or something. It might even be Malcolm Pugh arriving for his appointment – though frankly Shankhill would believe that when he saw it. It wouldn’t be the first time the inveterate gambler had failed to show when he was due to make a repayment. Even if it was Pugh, it wouldn’t be the whole whack. It was never the whole whack – and it wouldn’t even suit Shankhill if it was. He could hardly have his debtors paying him back before they’d accrued some real interest. It wasn’t like he needed full and immediate repayment anyway, as the heaps of used banknotes on his desk, which he was currently sorting into orderly piles, would attest – along with the chunky gold rings on all his fingers, the chains around his neck and the various bracelets adorning his wrists, not to mention his diamond-studded Rolex.

Then the door to his office slammed open, hitting the wall with such force that plasterwork flew, and Shankhill – a juggernaut of a bloke in physical terms – almost leapt from his seat.

Turk came wheeling in as though pushed, the lower half of his face a mask of glutinous blood. A balding, runty short-arse of a bloke – Malcolm Pugh, Shankhill realised – tottered in alongside him. The pair had been kicked through the door with such energy that both now fell onto all fours. Their two abductors came in behind them, also side by side, sub-machine guns levelled.

Shankill went rigid with disbelief, regarding the intruders through his lenses with a blank, fishlike stare, his podgy, sweaty hands hovering over the piles of money. Then he turned sharply – a Winchester pump was propped against the wall, perhaps only a yard away.

‘Uh-uh!’ the taller gunman said, cocking his weapon.

Shankhill scrutinised them intently, eyes almost popping behind his thick glasses.

Their guns hung from leather shoulder straps, making them immediately accessible. They’d spaced out so they were about two yards apart, making a more difficult target of themselves and yet at the same time easily able to cover the whole room. Their stance was solid, unflinching; they wielded their weapons with the look of expertise.

Professionals, then. Resistance would be extremely ill-advised.

The slightly shorter of the two stood on the left; he now circled around the kneeling figures of Turk and Pugh, before heading around Shankhill’s desk, where he took possession of the shotgun. He backed away, cradling it under his right arm while balancing the SIG in the left, in effect, covering the three hostages with both weapons. The taller one, meanwhile, let his SIG hang from its strap, while he took a rolled-up black canvas bag from his coat pocket, shook it open, came forward and commenced sweeping the money off the table into it.

This took no more than twenty seconds. The kneeling captives could do nothing, fresh blood still trickling down the front of Turk’s shirt, Pugh hunched forward, eyes screwed shut, a pool of yellowish fluid spreading out around his sodden knees.

When the taller gunman had cleared the desk, he dug into a large holdall alongside it, lifting out several more bricks of banknotes and cramming them into his sack.

‘Do you know who I am?’ Shankhill couldn’t resist asking.

‘I couldn’t care less if you’re Donald Trump’s condom supplier,’ came a voice from behind the taller intruder’s scarlet ski-mask. ‘Open the fucking safe.’

Shankhill pursed his lips and gave a tight shake of his head.

The gunman’s eyes widened in the holes in his mask – not so much with anger, Shankhill felt, as with fascination. ‘Seriously?’ the guy asked.

‘Seriously,’ Shankhill replied in a stern but patient tone, like a teacher trying to impart a lesson. He’d decided that he was going to tough this thing out. ‘You’re on very fragile ice, boys, let me tell you. Time is not on your side, and if you actually do know who I am … you wouldn’t even be here. Now, I strongly suggest you don’t push your luck any more, and you get out while the getting out’s good. As it is, you’re going to be hunted for the rest of your life.’

The taller gunman regarded him with apparent deep interest. ‘The safe?’

Shankhill shook his head again, slowly and deliberately.

The gunman seemed to consider this, and then whipped around, grabbed Turk by the collar of his jacket and yanked him up to his feet, before pushing him hard towards the far corner of the room. ‘Turn around!’ he barked.

Still with his arms out, Turk shuffled around until he was facing them, eyes expanded to an amazing size in a face not just bloodied but now pale and damp with fear. Without warning, the taller gunman raised the SIG and, single-handed, fired a deafening burst at his legs.

Both limbs were visibly shattered as the shells ripped through them, hammering into the wall behind, spraying it with blood and bone and meat. Turk fell full-length onto his side, gagging in almost unimaginable pain. Malcolm Pugh screamed in terror, clapping his hands to his ears, fresh streams of piss seeping through the front of his trousers. Shankhill, who’d banked that his temporary tough talk might do the trick, could only goggle in horror. He too had half put his hands to his ears, and now, as the echoes died away and the dust cleared, could do no more than blink in rapid-fire shock at the sight of his fallen comrade.

‘He gets the next lot in the head,’ the taller gunman said. ‘After that, we start on the little fella.’

‘No … please!’ Pugh squawked.

‘Be quite a fucking mess for you to clean up given that you run an unlicensed money-lending business from these premises,’ the gunman added. ‘And you won’t even be able to call a friend when your own knees and elbows are shot through, will you? Because trust me, pal … we’ll get round to you too before we leave here.’

Shankill’s mouth sagged open as he gaped first at one, and then at the other.

This was serious. This was absolutely for real. Roy ‘the Shank’ Shankhill was being robbed inside his own office.

‘The safe!’ the taller one said again. ‘You fat, greasy-headed fuck!’

The money-lender held his position for another moment – just long enough for the various bits and pieces to finally fall together inside his stunned mind. Beaded with sweat, he stumbled away from his desk to the safe and squatted down, where he adjusted a dial, turning it back and forth to listen to the requisite number of clicks. When the door clunked open, Shankhill rose to his feet and backtracked away.

At the far side of the room, the wounded Turk gave a low, animalistic whine. The gunmen ignored him, the shorter one stepping in front of Shankhill so that he could cover him with the SIG while keeping the shotgun trained on the fallen henchman. The taller, meanwhile, hunkered down at the safe, and began lifting out rolls and rolls and rolls of banknotes, all of which he shovelled into his sack. After that, he helped himself to jewellery – bracelets, brooches, necklaces – quality stuff too, not of the bling variety that Shankill generally adorned himself with, but platinum and white gold, embedded with diamonds and other gems. When he’d finished, he straightened up and turned to face the Shank.

He offered an empty hand. ‘We’ll take your neck chains and your rings, while you’re at it. And the Rolex. Jesus … you wash your hair in chip-fat, or what?’

Shankhill scowled as he handed the valuables over. ‘I’ll find you,’ he said quietly.

‘Yeah?’ The taller gunman stepped backward. ‘Maybe my bootprint’ll give you a head start.’

Then he opened fire at Shankhill’s legs. A fusillade of lead shredded through muscle and bone, all but blowing the ungainly limbs away completely, hurling the overweight money-lender down onto the blood and urine-spattered floorboards.

To prove he was a man of his word, the taller bandit concluded by stamping on Shankhill’s pale, sweat-soggy face some two, three times. When he’d finished that, the two of them rounded on Malcolm Pugh, who wailed even more loudly than before.

‘Shut it or you die!’ The taller one stabbed a warning finger into Pugh’s face.

But the little gambler was wild-eyed and wet-mouthed with fear. ‘My inside pocket!’ he gibbered. ‘It’s in my inside pocket … all of it. Take what you want …’

‘We don’t want your money,’ the taller one said.

When Pugh filched a handful of twenties from under his jacket and waved it at them, the shorter one simply knocked it out of his grasp, sending it fluttering across the room, and then twisted his hands behind his back, causing him to shriek again, his time with agony, before binding them together with duct tape. He repeated the process with Pugh’s ankles.

‘It’s dead simple … Malcolm,’ the taller bandit advised him, when Pugh lay trussed in a corner. He’d read the first name on a credit card from Pugh’s wallet, though he now reinserted the card into the wallet, and replaced it in the captive’s pocket. ‘You’ve survived this. You even get to keep your own cash … you’ll be able to get yourself free in a few minutes. But it isn’t over. We know who you are. So, you go to the cozzers about this … you even call an ambulance for these two goons, and we’ll come back for you. And you won’t need me to tell you … it won’t just be your legs we shoot off.’

Pugh said nothing, closing his eyes against the stinging sweat dabbling his lashes.

When he finally risked opening them, the masked assailants had gone.

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