I Love My Smith and Wesson (14 page)

“It's a gangster story,” said Billy wearily. “Violence is part of that world.”

“It's the guns, really,” pointed out Larry. “You need to get rid of the guns.”

“I can't do that,” said Billy. “It'd ruin everything.”

“Well, you definitely need to do
something,
” said Tim, “because I start filming this in ten days' time, and I can't film the script as written. It won't hold, I fear.”

“Hold what?” said Billy.

“Hold the attention of a television audience,” said Artemesia primly.

“Would it help if we put you up at the Malmaison for a week?” suggested Larry pleasantly. “Nice suite, no interruptions, order whatever you like on room service. You can send the new scenes to us as and when they're written.”

Billy sulked.

“Oh, go on,” urged Larry, who wanted the meeting to end so he could go to lunch. “Who needs guns? We can still show the gangsters pushing people around.”

“Bonehead in particular needs to be more sympathetic,” added Artemesia. “If he just shoots people and buries them in a charnel house, how can you expect the viewers, especially female viewers, to care about him? Why would Johnny care about him?”

“Whereas if he juggles oranges,” said Larry, “people will know that he's basically nice. Because who ever heard of a nasty juggler?”

“You know, I rather like that idea,” said Tim. “Bonehead could have a day job as a conjurer—and what does a conjurer do? Like a hit man, he
makes people disappear.
”

“Clever!” enthused Artemesia.

“Of course, we'd have to change his name,” admitted Larry. “‘Bonehead' doesn't sound right for a stage magician.”

Silence fell as they all mused on this problem. “How about ‘Marvo'?” said Larry. “‘Marvo the Magnificent.'”

They all turned to look at Billy as if the incandescent brilliance of their ramblings was beyond question.

“I've given everything you've said very serious consideration,” said Billy, “and you can all go and fuck yourselves.”

*   *   *

In his youth Dad Cheeseman was a locksmith. It was said of him that he could open any door or safe in the city. Now he runs a gym and a snooker hall on the outskirts of the city. Walk down Market Street in a straight line from Piccadilly, past St. Anne's Square and Deansgate. Just as you're wondering how an atomic bomb could have gone off in Manchester without you ever hearing about it, you come to an old redbrick Methodist church on a corner. The church stands alone in a desert of shit and rubble. This is Cheeseman's place. The windows haven't seen glass for some years. There are metal grilles over the window frames and boards under the grilles. The only hint that the building isn't condemned comes from a peeling orange Day-Glo sign above the door. The sign reads:
POOL ALL DAY, FULLY LICENCED
.

The snooker hall is upstairs. The lower floor is a shabby gym where amateur boxers train at weekends. The gym reeks of feet and armpits.

Dad was once a boxer himself but started losing his hair at an early age. He took to wearing a wig. No matter how much adhesive he used, the wig kept falling off during bouts. Not wanting his fans to see him bald, Dad retired early. People liked and respected Dad, so had learned not to comment on the toupee or to ask why the toupee was bright orange when the hair at the back and sides of his head was iron gray.

On the day Rawhead came to call, Dad was sat on a stool, smoking and chatting to the bored mother of five who served behind the bar. A couple of kids skiving off school were the only customers in the otherwise deserted hall. When Rawhead sat down on a stool next to Dad, the old man gave him a brief glance and flinched slightly. Then he remembered to smile, but it was too late. Rawhead had already seen fear in his eyes. “Steve,” said Dad. “How are you?”

The old man had known Rawhead since he was a boy. But in his time, Dad had met many crazed and vicious men. Some of them turned the stomach; some of them—the truly dangerous ones—chilled the blood. Steve fell into the latter category. Dad knew in his heart that Steve was a killer. Steve knew that he knew. It was not a matter either man cared to discuss.

“It's been too long,” said Rawhead gently.

“What've you been doing with yourself?”

“I took a sabbatical,” said Rawhead.

“That's a big word,” said Dad, spinning round on the stool. “What the fucking hell does it mean?”

Rawhead didn't answer. He was looking at the purple and brown bruise around Dad's left eye.

“Fancy a drink?”

“Thanks. Mineral water'd be fine.”

Dad mumbled to the woman behind the bar, who went to the cooler and came back with a bottle of fizzy water and a glass. “Your health,” said Rawhead.

“What can I do for you, Steven?”

“Malcolm Priest Junior needs doormen for his club. Five quid an hour and all the drunks they can beat up. I need strong, honest guys with no extra additives. I'm definitely looking for the additive-free variety.”

“A few names spring to mind.”

Rawhead threw a notepad and pen onto the counter. “Write down their names and numbers on there.”

Dad picked up the pen, holding it like it was a giant banana. He stuck his tongue out as he wrote.

“What happened to your face, Dad?”

“Oh, that.” Dad finished writing and took a pull of his cigarette. “You know what this place is like. We get some right fucking Tonys in here.”

“I thought the Priesthood were supposed to protect you. Thought that was why you paid them.”

“Yeah. So did I. But if you're with Little Malc now, I'd better watch what I say.”

“I'm not
with
anyone,” said Rawhead. “Say what you like to me. It'll go no further.”

Dad thought about it as he squashed his cigarette stub into an ashtray.

“OK,” he said. “Here's the story. When Chef took over, a lot of people said, ‘Great, now the city's a safer place.' Bullshit. Say what you like about Malcolm Priest Senior, but when he was around, no one pissed on your carpet. You paid for protection, that's what you fucking got. Plus it didn't cost the earth.”

“Yeah?”

“Then Chef's in charge. He puts the fucking subs up, didn't he? Two hundred a month. Doesn't sound much, but it's practically two and a half thou a year. That's a nice holiday, presents for the grandkids, the car's annual service and MOT. Worse thing is, when I got fucking bopped, Chef does fuck all about it.”

“Who was it?”

“Those two bastards who rule Salford. The Medinas.”

Rawhead grimaced.

“I see you've heard of them? They came in here before Christmas. Said that Chef said I was to give 'em hospitality, free drinks all fucking night. It's the first I've fucking heard of it, but I give 'em a couple of pints to shut 'em up and phone Chef. One of his monkeys picks up the phone, listens to what I have to say, then goes off to ask the boss. Then he comes back and says Chef says I've not to worry, just run a tab, and he'll settle up with me later. Two days pass. No fucking check.

“The next Wednesday, they're back again with a couple of ugly girlfriends. Do they pay for a single drink? Do they fuck. All this gracious hospitality comes out of my fucking pocket.

“In the end, I get tired of this; I phone up Chef. This time I get him. I say I've got a drinks bill for six hundred quid here, and when's he going to settle it? He says not to worry; he'll see to it right away. Next Wednesday, in they come again. The older one, Keith, says ‘I hear you've been telling tales, but we're prepared to overlook it if you keep on being nice to us.' I said, ‘Sorry, lads, I'll serve you, but only if you pay for your drinks.'

“So Chris points a gun at me while Keith smacks me in the face. In the old days I'd have fought back, but I'm fucked if I'm going to get shot for six hundred notes.

“So what do they do? They get me down, sadden me big-time.

“I end up having to go to hospital … bruised ribs, stitches in me mouth where they knocked me fucking dentures into me gums. To top it all, I lose half the hearing in my left fucking ear. When I'm back in the club, in comes one of Chef's boys. Big hefty lad, thinks he's a cut above. They call him the Philosopher. In for the monthly sub, would you believe? I said, ‘You expect money for protection. Where the fuck were you when I was getting smacked around?'

“This guy thinks it's a real fucking joke. Know what he says to me? ‘Just because you're covered for fire damage, it don't mean the insurance man has to stand in your house while it fucking burns down.'”

“I take it you haven't seen your money yet?” said Rawhead.

Dad scowled. “There's no fucking chance of that. I suppose I could take it out of Chef's monthly subs. But somehow I don't think he'd like that.”

Rawhead sipped his drink and thought for a moment. He turned his face to Dad, and his eyes glittered coldly. Dad knew he'd seen those eyes before. Deep in a dream, many years ago. A bad dream that had soaked his chest with sweat.

Dad shivered.

Rawhead gazed at him and through him. “What would you say if I told you I could get your money for you?”

Dad didn't say a word.

Eight

Follow a shaddow, it still flies you;

Seeme to flye it, it will pursue:

So court a mistris, shee denyes you;

Let her alone, shee will court you.

—“THAT WOMEN ARE BUT MENS SHADDOWES,” BEN JONSON (1572–1637)

In the hall of the school at Dale Brow, Prestbury, Detective Superintendent Harrop made an announcement to the press. Because she knew the TV cameras would be there, her hair had been recently cut and colored. Talking to journalists was part of her job, despite her innate loathing for them. Her face remained impassive while the cameras rolled.

“PC Mather and PC Broadhurst were two fine officers, cut down in their prime. They will be sorely missed, both by their families and by their fellow officers.

“A postmortem examination has revealed the vital information that two separate attackers were involved. We are still trying to establish a motive for what happened, and it is vital for anyone who may have seen anything unusual in Prestbury on Friday evening to come forward.

“We are following a number of lines of inquiry, and one of those is that the officers may have intercepted a robbery, but it is too soon to say.

“Did you see or have you heard of anyone who was bloodstained on that Friday night, especially in the Macclesfield area? Did you see anybody acting in any way suspicious in the Old Prestbury road area on that evening?

“Anyone who may be able to help is urged to contact the incident desk directly. Do not—I repeat:
do not
—attempt to confront any suspicious persons directly. It is believed that the men responsible for these crimes are highly dangerous and would have no compunction about killing again.”

*   *   *

After the broadcast, Harrop and Hughes drove to a pub for lunch. Harrop ordered a chicken sandwich. Hughes had cod and chips. While they were eating, Hughes opened his briefcase and took out a novel with a gaudy cover. The title was
Complicated Monsters
.

“What's this?” said Harrop.

“A book by William Dye. I thought it might interest you.”

“Oh.” She seemed disappointed. “So that little cunt actually gets stuff published, then?”

“Yeah. I've flicked through it. There's a scene that might interest you.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“It's about zombies. And there's this scene near the end where the zombies eat someone alive.”

“Charming.”

“Yeah. But the point is, the guy they eat is a
police officer
. They roast him over a slow fire and cut off the choice bits of meat while he's screaming and begging for mercy.”

“Do you mind? I'm trying to eat.”

“All I'm saying is, you've already pointed out that Dye didn't seem too upset when we told him about the murders. The murders of two innocent bobbies. On top of that, we now find he's written a novel in which a police officer is sadistically murdered. So maybe he's got a grudge against the service?”

“Pardon?”

“A grudge against the police service.”

“Sorry, Hughes. For a mad fucking moment I thought you called the police force a service.”

“Sorry.”

“I'm not interested in being a service. I joined the police so I could push people around. Why did you join?”

“Er, so I could help my fellow citizens and be a useful member of the community.”

“Bollocks.”

“I haven't finished telling you about this book. The most sickening thing is the way it's written. As if it's all a bloody big joke. Every time they cut a slice off him, the bobby says, ‘I must caution you…' Anyone who finds that funny has got to be warped.”

“Is it selling?”

“I shouldn't think so. I mean, there's only one review, and that's from the
Poynton Post
: ‘A lot better than I expected.'”

Harrop laughed, spraying white wine over the table.

“Exactly,” sneered Hughes. “The
Poynton Post
is a bloody
free
paper.”

“This is all very interesting, but it's got fuck all to do with the inquiry.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know,” said Harrop. “He doesn't look like a murderer. He just looks like a prat. He's got no form. No MO. I bet he doesn't do anything with his life apart from write his wanky books.”

Detective Sergeant Hughes was not convinced.

*   *   *

Little Malc called a lunchtime meeting, just for the door staff. They met on the dance floor, suspicious and resentful. Dressed, as instructed, in sports gear. The cleaners had finished early. There was no one about.