The Sister (46 page)

"Listen, Tel, I got some work for you if you're interested."

"Could be," Terry said, "I ain't doing much else. What is it?"

"It
's Tony, mate. He's nicked a hundred grand off me, and he's planning to heist me on something else as well."

Terry whistled. "A hundred K, how did he manage that?"

"He got in with a girl I was close to . . . found out she was holding it for me."

"What about the girl?"

"She's dead."

"Fuckin' hell, Dan - you
killed
her?" his eyes glazed over.

"No, it wasn't me; someone else did, maybe Tony. I've had to keep the old powder dry, box a bit clever, till I know what he's up to behind my back. It's fucking killing me." Lynch raised both clenched fists at the ceiling, his eyes blazed with suppressed rage. "I got a call this morning. He's planning to meet Billy Wharton tomorrow night, to hijack a consignment going to the Hammerson gang . . ."

"Tommy Hammerson? What's he playing at?"

"He wants to start a war, get me out of the way. I've been watching him all week to find out. Anyway, the caller confirmed it. Which brings me back to you . . ."

"Dan . . . I've only just got out."

"Yeah, I know. The thing is . . . that hundred grand . . . a fair bit was earmarked for you, but don't worry, I'll deal with it. Let's get him round for a little reunion get-together." He paused to think, and closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose hard, his mouth twisted at the self-inflicted pain, and then he looked straight at his old friend. "Tell you what, Terry, you phone him. Get him round here. Whatever happens, whether I get the dough back off him or not, at the end of it you'll still get your share, sound fair?"

"I don't know about all this, I've only just got out . . . how much are we talking, Danny," he asked.

"Twenty-five grand," Lynch said.

An hour later, Tony arrived with a bottle of champagne. "All right, Danny," he said, as Lynch let him in and led him through to the lounge as he had so many times before. Tony remained oblivious to the menacing undercurrent in the atmosphere.

"Terry! It's good to
see
you. How's life treating you on the outside?"

"Still finding my feet, like I said on the phone I only came out yesterday—"

Lynch interrupted, "How much money you got on you, mate?"

"Only about six hundred quid, why's that?"

"Where's the rest of it?"

"Eh?" he said, looking puzzled.
He walked right up to him so close that he could smell the cocaine on his breath. Lynch had only been on the stuff for a year or so, but he'd become increasingly unpredictable. His words came out all wrong. "Listen Danny . . ."

A one-two-three combination crashed him to the floor. Lynch had him by the hair, pulling hard at the back of his head, forcing him backwards onto his knees; his right fist balled, hovering inches from his face.

"Don't ever
'Listen Danny'
me again, you got that!"

Tony tasted blood in his mouth, his lips felt numb and swollen, his teeth loose and painful.

"Yeah Danny, I got that," he felt like a dog whose owner had just kicked it.

Lynch pushed him away. "Last chance; I ain't playing fucking games anymore. Where's the rest of it?"

His former right-hand man protested his innocence.

"How much money have you got in the bank?" A vein on Lynch's temple pulsed.

"What's this about?"

"What's this a-fucking 'bout? You know exactly what it's about; it's about what have you done with my money," he snarled. "What have you done with my money?" The vein grew into a throbbing cluster.

"Danny, what's going on?" His voice was desperate.

Lynch erupted into a frenzied attack. Before Terry could do anything, he stabbed Tony in the neck, behind the windpipe. A geyser of blood spurted across the room.

Tony's eyes bulged in disbelief. His hands floundered over the wound in a last desperate attempt to hold onto the blood oozing out between his fingers. His legs kicking and bucking involuntarily as if to escape the wound that was draining his life from him. Lynch stood impassive, covered in blood, watching.

In the bright sunlit room, with its crystal chandeliers and art on the walls, he inexplicably thought of the TV programme, 'Through the Keyhole.'
They'd never guess what sort of monster lived here.

Terry stood in a state of shock. He'd never seen his former boss quite so murderous before. Lynch was still holding the knife when he said, "Help me clean up this mess, and then I want you to deal with Billy Wharton."

Chapter 97

With Kennedy increasingly distracted, the strain of getting nowhere fell heavily onto Tanner's shoulders. Once he snapped out of whatever his problem was he'd be looking for a fall guy, and he knew who that would be. He couldn't remember the last time he'd worked a regular shift, and here he was again, working on a Saturday. Propping his elbow on the desk, he rested his head on the palm of his hand and closed his eyes. An irresistibly sleepy feeling wafted over him, and he floated away. The telephone had rung three or four times before it registered, he answered on instinct, without really knowing where he was.

"Tanner."

"Mr Quinn?"

It threw him for a second.
Archie Brooks.
"Oh yes . . . Quinn speaking. I was expecting a guy called Tanner…"

Brooks seemed hesitant. "What you was looking for: the fight. It's happening this weekend, and it's a big one, thousands will be there," he paused. "Newbury, Sunday morning; find a pub nearby. Wait in the car park. I'll phone you the exact location, half an hour beforehand."

Tanner suddenly felt nervous. In such a huge crowd someone, he'd arrested before would be bound to recognise him. They'd lynch him before anyone could bail him out. He smiled at the field day his reporter friend would have with that story.
Cop On Unauthorised Surveillance Beaten To Death By Bare-knuckle Crowd!

She'd love it.

The DCI shook his head in disbelief, "I don't believe it. With everything else we've got happening, this comes up now," he sighed. "And yes, you are the only one who can do it, Tanner, but I need you back here straight after. The arms shipment is due to be shifted tomorrow. We're just waiting for Wharton to confirm arrangements."

"He's talking to us?"

"No, we have his phone tapped . . ."

"Whatever happens tomorrow, sir, I'll be back by evening. I have a feeling they won't try to shift the consignment until nightfall."

"You're probably right. Make sure you listen out for your phone in all the excitement tomorrow, I might need you beforehand."

"Okay, will do," he said as he stopped by the door. "Sir, have there been any developments with the Gasman?"

"I've just had the results back, and they confirm that the same man raped Melissa Lake
and
Natasha Stone, but there's bad news. The DNA isn't on the National Database. We've hit a brick wall."

"He's getting careless though, sir, he thinks he's cleverer than us. I think we'll catch him sooner than he thinks."

"I wish I shared your confidence."

Kennedy's phone rang. His eyes met with Tanner's and flicked in the direction of the door. The DCI wanted privacy.

He closed the door behind him.

Chapter 98

The following morning, Archie Brooks called to say he'd arrived in Newbury.

"You know what today is, boy? I'll tell you - It's April Fools day. Fools and their money, ready for parting - What do you
say
, Mr Quinn?"

They met in a pub car park at 11 a.m. Brooks was already outside, waiting. "Fuckin' signals no good in there and my phone is shite." Brooks explained, showing him the mobile phone in his hand.

"Thousands will be there today, the betting will be astronomical. There'll be millions placed on the fight."

'Quinn' made notes on a hand held recording device.

"You got one of them mobiles with a camera on you? Leave it in the car. I'll send you a few photographs once I've seen your book so far. I might not like it - you know what I mean?" He took a swig of his beer and wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand. "There's a lot of excitement today, because for the main fight . . . we got 'The Boiler man' settling a score with the Flynns. He fell out with the grandfather over a caravan Shaw's father lived in. He says Shaw burnt it down. It's taken him all this time to catch up with him. The grandfather, he's in no fit state to fight, so he's sending his son to do the job for him. The Boiler man's got no kin, or he could have passed it on himself. Anyways, the fight is on. The boy is thirty-five, and he's no mug; Shaw is sixty-odd," he sipped and wiped at his white foam moustache again, "and there's going to be big money changing hands on that one, I'm tellin' you. I'll be having a flutter on it for sure."

"Will they stop it if the old man gets in trouble?"
Brooks spurted his beer back into his glass. "Are you trying to have a fuckin' laugh wit me?" He looked with distaste at the foamy head growing on the beer. "I'm betting on the Boiler man. Jesus the man's got more fight in him than an angry Pit bull, always will have, it will never leave him. They say madness took him over as soon as he was old enough to understand, cursing his father and his mother too, though he loved her dearly - God rest her soul - because they passed on the hare's curse to him. He got it double."

"Hare's curse . . . what is that?"

"What would you call it? A cleft palasy
[sic]
?"

"Palate - I think you mean palate," Quinn corrected.

"Palate?" Brooks said it slowly. "Yes, both of them had it. When he was growing up all the kids bullied him for it . . . made a fighter out of him, and oh, that temper! Right now, I hear he's madder than hell, because he's lost all his cash money on bad bets - he won't lose." He tilted his beer back, trying without success, to drink without dipping his nose in the foam.

While Brooks concentrated on his beer, Tanner was thinking. If Shaw had had an operation on a harelip, he must have had it done with the NHS - and if he did, he had to be traceable.

Brooks took a call and after a short conversation, said, "Come on, we're going. Leave your car here."

On the way, Brooks enlightened him with more talk of legends, based on real facts and folklore. Tanner recorded it all with his permission. Occasionally Brooks told him to turn the tape off while he let him in on things he didn't want quoted. "So he crossed the street, knocking on his door. When he opened it, he let him have both barrels. We don't tolerate kiddie fiddlers, you see . . ."

Brooks had a tendency to switch between subjects and now he was back on Shaw. "I always thought he was smarter than he was lettin' on. Behind his back, people said he was a divvy, but no one would say that to his face!"

"What about women, I bet he had them flocking round . . ."

"Aye he did that, but he never seemed interested. Struck me as odd; ugly boy like that turning them down. One or two of the boys thought he might have been a homo; you know what I mean, getting his kicks outside the camp. No one really knew much about him see, him always away from home and all."

"Shaw must have made a fortune. Did you say he lost it?"

"Aye, he did that. Although he invested in two, three properties, so I hear. Lucky he did. Had a taste for the gee-gees, you see . . . only one man wins there." Taking a cigarette out, he offered him one.

"No, thanks," he said.

"Well, you won't mind if I do." He lit it without waiting for a reply then said, "Got any money on you, Mr Quinn? If you have, put it all on Shaw. I heard he's got a hundred grand to put on himself."

"I thought you just said he was broke?"

"Are you trying to catch me out, Mr Quinn? I'm talking about cash money. Might be he sold some property. I don't know. I'm not fuckin' his keeper."

He decided not to question Brooks' last statement.

After driving miles through the countryside down ever increasingly narrow lanes, they eventually stopped. Caught in the convergence of pick up trucks, four-wheel drives, BMW's, Mercedes, and horse drawn racing traps, they queued for ten minutes to get off the road. Although he had dressed down for the occasion, he stuck out like a sore thumb. They ranked among the roughest men he'd ever encountered. Peering into the car, they eyed him with open hostility and suspicion as Brooks' passed through a field gate and parked. Tanner felt he'd intruded into an alien world, a world that he'd never glimpsed before.

"If we can't get close enough to the fight, I'll get us a copy film of it. Meanwhile, soak up the atmosphere . . . enjoy it," he grinned, wickedly.

Now he was on his own, no car, no phone, no back-up. The air was charged with excitement and filled with menace, edgy like something bad was about to happen. He couldn't escape the feeling that if something did, it would involve him. Tanner functioned on autopilot, watching himself from a safe distance.

"Stick close to me, boy," Brooks told him as they moved among the masses of people. Brooks pushed him near to the front. Mounting restlessness added to Tanner's anxiety, and he couldn't settle, although the mob seemed oblivious to him. Someone was talking about Shaw.

"Just like the old man, just like him. I thought he'd disappeared for good, just like the old man. The mother though, now she was a lovely woman . . ."

"Aye, she was that. He fell out with his dad you know . . ."

"Yeah, I heard. Burned him out of the home when the mother died, didn't he?"

"Yeah, took her maiden name after that . . ."

"I never knew that," the other man said. "What was she? A . . ." Tanner's ears pricked up. A sudden roar in the crowd drowned the name out, as the fighters appeared. He caught his first glimpse of Shaw. He wore a short and spiky straw-coloured beard and moustache, the gaps between the clumps of coarse hair reminded him of stubble in the fields after harvest. Fearsome looking, Shaw had his head completely shaved, revealing scars that criss-crossed his scalp. From where he stood, Tanner couldn't be sure that it was the same man in the E-Fit.

Chapter 99

In the field, the smell of trampled grass, cigarettes and old leather hung in the air, the level of noise already intimidating rose to a crescendo as the fighters appeared. Shaw limbered up slowly; the younger man Flynn fired off a series of rapid combinations. The throng roared its approval. Shaw pushed out a lazy left and then doubled it, crossing over with a slow right hand. Brooks was right; money was changing hands left, right and centre. Quinn watched with interest. Shaw still had all the moves, and he clearly kept himself in shape. What struck him most of all was the sense of calm he projected, in contrast to the younger fighter.

Shaw stood ready. He reflected on how he'd created this opportunity for himself. He only had to show his face in front of the Flynns, he knew they'd call him out, knowing he'd have no choice but to fight. Like many a boxer before him, he believed he could go on winning forever.

Fighting was in his blood.
You'll still be picking fights in the graveyard,
his granny used to say to the old man.
Hmmph . . . The old man.
The fighting kept him out of a lot of trouble. It channelled his propensity for violence and acted as a penance for his wicked ways. Every blow he took a punishment, a point scored for those he'd done wrong to. Apart from settling the score, he hated the Flynns with a vengeance. The younger boys had taken the piss out of him when he was growing up, because of his stutter. He guessed he always knew he would get a big payday out of it in the future. It was a long time coming, but it was here now.

The stewards struggled to keep the masses back as they surged forward, expecting blood. With the fight moments away, Shaw fired himself up, shuffling and jabbing at the air in a state of adrenaline-fuelled, heightened awareness; a high-octane burst would be on him as soon as the bell went.

His opponent, at only half his age, looked powerful. He was impossibly broad with short arms. They touched fists. 'Short arms' came out swinging. Fists hooking, left first and then right, his short black hair, already wet from the pre-fight warm up, shed beads of sweat with each jerky movement.

Faster than the older man had expected, he took a step back and measured him. Flynn's eyes were little black stones that betrayed no emotion. He reminded Shaw of a shark.

So far he'd kept out of range, skipping away, leaning back, arms loose but up in front of him. Shaw didn't like to waste energy. A lazy jab brought Flynn in fast underneath, both fists tearing through the air, knowing at any second he would connect, and then it would be goodnight Vienna for the Boiler man, who himself slipped a punch, ducked under, half twisting, leaning over from the waist, he whipped a wicked left hook into the ribs just below where Flynn's elbow had been. Wincing, he faltered and drove a shot through the middle into empty air as Shaw circled left, switched to southpaw, jabbing with his right. Flynn deflected, ducked under and caught another vicious left in exactly the same spot. The crowd exhaled as one.
Ooooh!

Tanner pushed forward. Brooks pulled him back.

Flynn, more cautious this time, couldn't read Shaw, who seemed to be looking off at a point in the distance, unconcerned. He took his chance. Flynn jabbed, doubling it up. Shaw parried the punches with his gloves and then quick as a flash, a left, again downstairs, and a crunching right, down over the top contorted Flynn's face. He was out before he touched the ground.

Tanner had hoped to pick up a towel or something that Shaw had used. Maybe even get in close for an autograph, a photo with his arm around him, anything that could yield some DNA material. Shaw took his T-shirt off to wipe his face.
That's it - throw it to the crowd!
He willed him to do it, but he tucked it into his belt, and as he did, Tanner caught a glimpse of the buckle. Suddenly they – the crowd surged forward, sweeping the undercover policeman almost off his feet, almost into touching distance.

In the pandemonium that followed, he and Brooks became separated, and he feared for his life. With the stewards overrun, fighting broke out all around them. In the melee, Shaw floored two or three would be attackers. Somebody fired a shotgun. Everything stopped. A loud voice boomed. "That's enough! Go home boys."

The stewards took up positions once more. The crowd began to disperse.

When Brooks found him, he laughed. "You're as white as a sheet! You okay, Quinn?"

Tanner nodded, but he was thinking about the belt buckle. It looked similar to the sketches drawn by Kennedy and Doherty. It
had
to be him.

A couple of hours later, as Brooks drove him back, they discussed the fight they'd seen.

"That was crazy, I've never seen a man of that age move like it," Tanner said. "Tell me Archie, where did he get the nickname 'The Boilerman' from, was he a ship's stoker or something like that?"

"You know; he could fight
before
he went away, but he came back as a highly trained man. That fight just now, you wouldn't know, but this was over something that happened years ago. 'The Boilerman' came from his mother, her name was Boyle, see. Anyways, when his mother died he fell out with the father and he burnt him out, ran him off the site. Changed his name too, he did, to his mother's maiden name. What was I saying? Oh yeah, after the fire both the old man and young Boyle went missing . . . that's how it started."

"Archie, hang on a minute, I can't keep up . . . you said he was highly trained and called himself Boyle?"

"Yeah, that's right. Joined the Foreign Legion, he did." Before Tanner could ask any more questions, Brooks said, "Did you put any money on him? You should have. I waited till the last minute and after all that shaping up by the boy rattlin' his sabres - I got me some good odds."

"I got a good story out of it. That's enough for me. So how long was he in the Foreign Legion, what did he do after that?"

"Mr Quinn, is this a story about the great gipsy champions or
The Boilerman?
You see, I don't hear you asking me too many questions about any of those fighters, now."

"I've just seen a fighter in his late sixties beat the favourite, a man half his age and I was impressed. I think a man like that warrant's a few words about his background, maybe even warrants a whole book about him, wouldn't you say?"