loved a drink, and a cigarette too.
His phone rang. Garrett’s name flashed up. He reluctantly put the receiver to his ear. Garrett was the last person he felt like talking to, but he knew he had to answer the call. ‘Guess who I’ve been on the phone to,’ snapped the Chief Superintendent.
‘Forensics.’
‘Got it in one.’
‘Anna Young contacted me concerned about a silent phone call.’
Garrett huffed out an incredulous laugh. ‘You’re a brazen bastard, Jim.’
‘I’m just doing my job.’
‘Yes, well, how much longer you’ll be doing your job for remains to be seen.’
The line went dead. Jim’s gaze returned to the alcohol. ‘Can I get you something else?’ asked the woman behind the till. With a quick shake of his head, he paid and left.
4
For the second morning in a row Jim was woken by that certain kind of knock at his front door. Christ, what does Garrett want now? he wondered. ‘If he’s just going to give me another earful, he can fuck off,’ he muttered to himself, heading to the door. He glanced through the spyhole to make sure he was right about who was knocking. He wasn’t. On the other side of the door was a broad-shouldered old man wearing a grubby, frayed suit. A thick white beard covered much of his nut-brown, leathery face. Dour brown eyes peered out from beneath equally bushy eyebrows. In contrast, his hair was short and wispy. He had the appearance of someone who’d long since ceased caring what he looked like. Jim guessed him to be somewhere in his mid-seventies. Under one of his arms was tucked a cardboard folder of a type Jim recognised. The sight of the folder sparked Jim’s curiosity as much, if not more so, than the presence of its bearer. He opened the door and waited for the man to speak.
‘Jim Monahan?’ The voice had a gravelly Mancunian accent.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Lance Brennan.’ The man pulled out a battered leather wallet and flipped it open, displaying the silver star logo of the Greater Manchester Police and a detective inspector’s ID, which Jim noted had expired over twenty years ago. ‘I want to talk to you about Thomas Villiers and that list of names he’s on.’
His eyes pinching at the corners, Jim glanced over the ex-detective’s shoulder at the quiet Sunday morning street. ‘I’m alone,’ said Lance, and something about the way he said it suggested he was talking in the broader as well as the narrower context.
Jim’s gaze returned to Lance’s grizzled face. He looked genuine. Still, you never knew. Villiers and his scumbag pals would no doubt be looking for ways to discredit or disgrace their accusers. And there were plenty of hacks around who would stoop to dirty tricks to get a story. ‘Lift your arms.’
Lance did so. ‘I’m not wearing a wire.’
Jim patted him down and checked his pockets for recording devices. He was telling the truth. There was a lock-blade knife in one of his pockets. Jim eyed him narrowly. ‘What’s this for?’
‘Protection.’
‘From who?’
‘You know who.’
The two men stared at each other a moment. Jim got the feeling that Lance was checking him out as much as he was checking the ex-policeman out. ‘You’d better come in.’
‘What about my knife?’
‘I’ll hold onto it for now.’
Jim led Lance to the spartanly furnished living room. He gestured to the older man to sit on a faded floral patterned sofa – one of the few pieces of furniture he’d brought with him from the house. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘That’d be good, thanks. I’m parched. I’ve been travelling since six this morning.’
‘From Manchester?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Who gave you my address?’
Lance gave him a look as if to say, C’mon, you know I can’t tell you that. It was the response Jim had been looking for. No good cop – and as the cliché went, once a cop always a cop – ever revealed their sources. Somewhat reassured, he went into the kitchen, picked up a notebook from beside a
His phone rang. Garrett’s name flashed up. He reluctantly put the receiver to his ear. Garrett was the last person he felt like talking to, but he knew he had to answer the call. ‘Guess who I’ve been on the phone to,’ snapped the Chief Superintendent.
‘Forensics.’
‘Got it in one.’
‘Anna Young contacted me concerned about a silent phone call.’
Garrett huffed out an incredulous laugh. ‘You’re a brazen bastard, Jim.’
‘I’m just doing my job.’
‘Yes, well, how much longer you’ll be doing your job for remains to be seen.’
The line went dead. Jim’s gaze returned to the alcohol. ‘Can I get you something else?’ asked the woman behind the till. With a quick shake of his head, he paid and left.
4
For the second morning in a row Jim was woken by that certain kind of knock at his front door. Christ, what does Garrett want now? he wondered. ‘If he’s just going to give me another earful, he can fuck off,’ he muttered to himself, heading to the door. He glanced through the spyhole to make sure he was right about who was knocking. He wasn’t. On the other side of the door was a broad-shouldered old man wearing a grubby, frayed suit. A thick white beard covered much of his nut-brown, leathery face. Dour brown eyes peered out from beneath equally bushy eyebrows. In contrast, his hair was short and wispy. He had the appearance of someone who’d long since ceased caring what he looked like. Jim guessed him to be somewhere in his mid-seventies. Under one of his arms was tucked a cardboard folder of a type Jim recognised. The sight of the folder sparked Jim’s curiosity as much, if not more so, than the presence of its bearer. He opened the door and waited for the man to speak.
‘Jim Monahan?’ The voice had a gravelly Mancunian accent.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Lance Brennan.’ The man pulled out a battered leather wallet and flipped it open, displaying the silver star logo of the Greater Manchester Police and a detective inspector’s ID, which Jim noted had expired over twenty years ago. ‘I want to talk to you about Thomas Villiers and that list of names he’s on.’
His eyes pinching at the corners, Jim glanced over the ex-detective’s shoulder at the quiet Sunday morning street. ‘I’m alone,’ said Lance, and something about the way he said it suggested he was talking in the broader as well as the narrower context.
Jim’s gaze returned to Lance’s grizzled face. He looked genuine. Still, you never knew. Villiers and his scumbag pals would no doubt be looking for ways to discredit or disgrace their accusers. And there were plenty of hacks around who would stoop to dirty tricks to get a story. ‘Lift your arms.’
Lance did so. ‘I’m not wearing a wire.’
Jim patted him down and checked his pockets for recording devices. He was telling the truth. There was a lock-blade knife in one of his pockets. Jim eyed him narrowly. ‘What’s this for?’
‘Protection.’
‘From who?’
‘You know who.’
The two men stared at each other a moment. Jim got the feeling that Lance was checking him out as much as he was checking the ex-policeman out. ‘You’d better come in.’
‘What about my knife?’
‘I’ll hold onto it for now.’
Jim led Lance to the spartanly furnished living room. He gestured to the older man to sit on a faded floral patterned sofa – one of the few pieces of furniture he’d brought with him from the house. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘That’d be good, thanks. I’m parched. I’ve been travelling since six this morning.’
‘From Manchester?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Who gave you my address?’
Lance gave him a look as if to say, C’mon, you know I can’t tell you that. It was the response Jim had been looking for. No good cop – and as the cliché went, once a cop always a cop – ever revealed their sources. Somewhat reassured, he went into the kitchen, picked up a notebook from beside a
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