Read Online Cold in Hand by John Harvey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Harvey
Tags: Mystery
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closer; he's been doing a bit of dealing. Nothing major. Small-time. Bottom feeder, at best. Someone higher up the chain drops him seventy quid to make a delivery, you know the kind of thing."
Resnick nodded.
"What
is
interesting is the name he gave when he was trying to fob us off."
He manoeuvred the mouse, made a couple of clicks, and a new name appeared on the screen.
Ryan Gregan.
Various bits and pieces as a juvenile: theft, robbery, one instance of aggravated burglary. Arrested in Manchester when he was sixteen, along with a seventeen-year-old youth and a nineteen-year-old man, and charged with possession of a firearm with intent to cause fear of violence. The case against him was dropped for lack of evidence, the other youth and the man found guilty and sentenced to three years and five years, respectively.
"I've asked around," Michaelson said. "Gregan's been questioned about two gun-related incidents since.
"Could be coincidence," Resnick said.
"I don't know. Not exactly a name that rolls off the tongue."
"Unless he's someone you know well."
"Or have got reasons, maybe, for dropping him in the shite."
"Either way, it won't hurt to bring Gregan in for a little chat."
"Right, boss." Michaelson's crooked teeth showed when he smiled.
Seven
Ryan Gregan's father had been born in Belfast, grown up around the Shankill, did little with his life beyond petty thieving and coming down hard on anyone smaller and weaker, which included Ryan's mother and several of his brothers and sisters. When Ryan was twelve years old, his old man smacked him round the back of the head once too often, and Ryan, big for his age, hit him full in the face with a convenient piece of two-by-four which he'd set aside for just such an occasion.
His father never touched him again; never said a word to him either, civil or otherwise. When Ryan, over in England by then and living with an aunt in Salford, just outside Manchester, heard that his father had been kneecapped by the paramilitaries for dipping his hands into the wrong pockets once too often, he bought a large Bushmills to celebrate and followed it with another.
He went dutifully back over each Christmas and Easter to see his mother. In Manchester, he fell in with a gang selling crack cocaine on Moss Side, Ryan one of the youngest, but not letting anyone else push him around; as far as his aunt knew, he was going off to college every afternoon, training to be a
chef. When one of the Cheetham Hill gangs tried to take over a stretch of their territory, it didn't take much persuading for Ryan to step up and explain the ethics of the situation. Only instead of a primer on Aristotle or John Stuart Mill, Ryan made use of an obsolete Tokarev TT-33 pistol, a Russian copy that was the dead spit of a 1911 vintage U.S. Colt.
It did the trick. A few shots exchanged late one night, alongside Hulme Market Hall, Ryan discharging all eight rounds and making most of them count; no fatalities, a few flesh wounds, the moral victory theirs. Ryan liked the heft of the gun in his hand. He loved it. He learned everything about guns he could.
After that things got tasty, the feud with Cheetham Hill hotted up, and following a pitched battle running either side of the A57 motorway, a meeting to patch things up was called. Both sides went armed and the police were forewarned. Ryan and two others were arrested and when he was kicked free, he decided it was time to move on.
A few days after his seventeenth birthday, he followed a mate up to Glasgow, but, one way or another, he couldn't settle; too many reminders of home. He drifted for a spell after that, Newcastle, Birmingham, Sheffield and on down to Nottingham, nineteen now and shacking up in a squat in Sneinton, out near the railway line. Just till he could find something better, which turned out to be a two-room flat in Radford, right around the corner from the old Raleigh factory, long since flattened to the ground.
It was midway through the afternoon
Resnick nodded.
"What
is
interesting is the name he gave when he was trying to fob us off."
He manoeuvred the mouse, made a couple of clicks, and a new name appeared on the screen.
Ryan Gregan.
Various bits and pieces as a juvenile: theft, robbery, one instance of aggravated burglary. Arrested in Manchester when he was sixteen, along with a seventeen-year-old youth and a nineteen-year-old man, and charged with possession of a firearm with intent to cause fear of violence. The case against him was dropped for lack of evidence, the other youth and the man found guilty and sentenced to three years and five years, respectively.
"I've asked around," Michaelson said. "Gregan's been questioned about two gun-related incidents since.
"Could be coincidence," Resnick said.
"I don't know. Not exactly a name that rolls off the tongue."
"Unless he's someone you know well."
"Or have got reasons, maybe, for dropping him in the shite."
"Either way, it won't hurt to bring Gregan in for a little chat."
"Right, boss." Michaelson's crooked teeth showed when he smiled.
Seven
Ryan Gregan's father had been born in Belfast, grown up around the Shankill, did little with his life beyond petty thieving and coming down hard on anyone smaller and weaker, which included Ryan's mother and several of his brothers and sisters. When Ryan was twelve years old, his old man smacked him round the back of the head once too often, and Ryan, big for his age, hit him full in the face with a convenient piece of two-by-four which he'd set aside for just such an occasion.
His father never touched him again; never said a word to him either, civil or otherwise. When Ryan, over in England by then and living with an aunt in Salford, just outside Manchester, heard that his father had been kneecapped by the paramilitaries for dipping his hands into the wrong pockets once too often, he bought a large Bushmills to celebrate and followed it with another.
He went dutifully back over each Christmas and Easter to see his mother. In Manchester, he fell in with a gang selling crack cocaine on Moss Side, Ryan one of the youngest, but not letting anyone else push him around; as far as his aunt knew, he was going off to college every afternoon, training to be a
chef. When one of the Cheetham Hill gangs tried to take over a stretch of their territory, it didn't take much persuading for Ryan to step up and explain the ethics of the situation. Only instead of a primer on Aristotle or John Stuart Mill, Ryan made use of an obsolete Tokarev TT-33 pistol, a Russian copy that was the dead spit of a 1911 vintage U.S. Colt.
It did the trick. A few shots exchanged late one night, alongside Hulme Market Hall, Ryan discharging all eight rounds and making most of them count; no fatalities, a few flesh wounds, the moral victory theirs. Ryan liked the heft of the gun in his hand. He loved it. He learned everything about guns he could.
After that things got tasty, the feud with Cheetham Hill hotted up, and following a pitched battle running either side of the A57 motorway, a meeting to patch things up was called. Both sides went armed and the police were forewarned. Ryan and two others were arrested and when he was kicked free, he decided it was time to move on.
A few days after his seventeenth birthday, he followed a mate up to Glasgow, but, one way or another, he couldn't settle; too many reminders of home. He drifted for a spell after that, Newcastle, Birmingham, Sheffield and on down to Nottingham, nineteen now and shacking up in a squat in Sneinton, out near the railway line. Just till he could find something better, which turned out to be a two-room flat in Radford, right around the corner from the old Raleigh factory, long since flattened to the ground.
It was midway through the afternoon
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