It was half past two on Friday afternoon when SG4 Tina Boyd stopped outside the Lively Lounge Club and Casino, a turd-coloured slab of a building straight out of the 1960s school of bland architecture, which sat at the Colindale end of the Edgware Road, about three miles and a thousand years as the crow flies from the leafy Hampstead suburb where Pat Phelan now lived. Looking at it made her feel mildly pleased that gambling wasn't one of her vices. It wasn't that she wasn't interested. She just didn't dare place a bet, even on something like the Grand National, because she knew if she got a bit of beginner's luck and started winning, she'd probably never stop. Tina had an addictive personality. It was part of her genetic make-up. All through her early and mid-teens she'd resisted the peer pressure to start smoking, then at seventeen she'd tried her first cigarette at a party and she'd been putting away twenty a day ever since, with every attempt to stop ending in rapid failure.
She wondered if Phelan was the same. Because he definitely had a gambling problem, and the Lively Lounge Club and Casino was where he sank the lion's share of the money he spent on his betting. And he spent a lot. Tina's team had got hold of copies of the previous year's statements for the five credit cards and one debit card held in his name, and during that period his outgoings amounted to a grand total of £87,288.36 – and this from a man with no actual income that they could find, other than a £1,500-a-month standing order paid into his personal bank account from Andrea's own account, which was held at a separate bank. There'd been a number of further payments into his account over the course of the year, more than twenty-five grand's worth in all, but they were sporadic which meant they almost certainly represented winnings. Even with his wife's £160,000-a-year salary it was an unsustainable amount, and already Phelan's credit limit was maxed out on every one of the credit cards, while he was currently overdrawn at the bank by more than six thousand.
It wasn't that someone getting himself into this situation was all that uncommon. As Big Barry had pointed out earlier that morning, people got themselves into serious debt the whole time. What was interesting about Pat Phelan's finances from a SOCA point of view was that his spending had tailed off dramatically in the last two months, by more than 90 per cent, and in the same period there'd been no deposits of winnings in his bank account. Either he'd turned over a new leaf or, in Tina's opinion far more likely, he was funding his habit from a different source. Since the financial statements all pointed to the Lively Lounge as the venue of choice for his gambling, Tina had decided that it was as good a place as any to start digging into Phelan's background. She could have left it to one of the more junior members of the team but, like a lot of detectives, she liked to get out and about; and if she was entirely honest with herself, she wasn't much of a delegator, preferring to rely on her own ability to get things done.
The needs of the compulsive gambler tend to be of the twenty-four-hour variety, and the club was open. Tina went through the tinted double doors and into the darkened lobby. A blonde girl was at the reception desk talking to an older woman with hair extensions and far too much make-up. The girl smiled politely as Tina approached, wishing her a good afternoon in a Polish accent. Her colleague, meanwhile, said nothing but gave her a more suspicious look, clocking immediately that she was police, even though Tina wasn't wearing a uniform and always made a conscious effort never to give off that aura. Some people simply have a nose for spotting coppers, and they're usually the ones who have the most to fear from them.
Tina smiled at the girl. 'Good afternoon, my name's Tina Boyd from the Serious and Organized Crime Agency.' She held up her warrant card. 'I'd like to speak to the owner, please.'
'I'll deal with this, Barbara,' said the older woman in a deep voice that was midway between a bear and Demi Moore. 'The owners aren't here.
They're not based in this country.' Her expression seemed to add, so what the hell are you going to do about that? 'Is there anything I can help with?'
'That depends. Are you the most senior person in the building at the moment?'
There was a moment's hesitation that told Tina the answer was no.
'Well, Mr McMahon's here, but-'
'And what's his position?'
'He's the manager, but I think he's-'
'Well, I'll see him then, thank you.'
'He's busy, Miss whatever-your-name-was,' the woman growled.
Tina wasn't deterred. 'That makes two of us. Can you take me to him, please?'
'I'll call up and see if he's available.'
She picked up a phone behind the desk, scowling at Tina, who stared back at her impassively, amazed why some people always had to put up a token resistance to the police before they acquiesced, even though the end result was inevitable.
The woman hung up. 'OK, he can see you now.'
Tina followed her through the main gambling area, a big, windowless place with all the charm of an aircraft hangar. Only a handful of the gaming tables were in use, the clientele mainly quiet Chinese men wearing inscrutable expressions as they placed their bets. None of them looked up as Tina and her guide passed by in silence.
Mr McMahon's office was at the far end of the building, up a flight of stairs and along a short corridor. The woman knocked on his door and moved out of the way for Tina to go in, giving her a last glare of defiance as she did so.
'The Serious and Organized Crime Agency,' said the man standing behind the desk as Tina shut the door behind her. 'I've not had any dealings with them. Malcolm McMahon,' he said, putting out a hand. 'Pleased to meet you, Miss…'
'Boyd. Tina Boyd.'
They shook hands, and Tina took the seat on her side of the desk.
Malcolm McMahon was a big man who looked like he enjoyed a drink. He was good-looking in a brutish sort of way, with slicked-back grey hair fashioned into a widow's peak as sharp as an arrowhead, and a straight one-inch scar edging away from his top lip. He was dressed in a badly ironed shirt and unfashionable striped tie, while his casino clothes – black suit and dress shirt – were hanging up on one wall, next to a bank of eight small screens that showed the gaming area from various angles.
'I hear you SOCA people aren't even police any more,' he said with a smile. 'You're special agents or something. So, what do I call you?'
'Miss Boyd'll do fine.'
He nodded slowly, accepting this. 'Well, Miss Boyd, we run a tight ship here, and we don't tolerate anything illegal, so I don't know how we came to the attention of SOCA. Do you mind if I check your ID again? Just to make sure you are who you say you are. It's amazing how many charlatans there are these days.'
'Sure.'
Tina produced the warrant card from the back pocket of her jeans and handed it to him, noticing the nicotine stains on his thick, stubby fingers as he took it. He examined it carefully before thanking her and handing it back.
'It's about one of your customers.'
'I don't like talking about our customers, Miss Boyd. They value their privacy, and so do we.'
'This is a very serious case, Mr McMahon. If you want me to get official and bring officers down here to interview all your staff, I can. But I'm also prepared to talk off the record, and I can guarantee that anything you tell me will be treated in the strictest confidence.'
'So, you want me to grass up one of my paying punters?' he asked evenly.
Now it was her turn to smile. 'No, I want you to help him. His name's Patrick Phelan, and I know he spends a lot of money in your establishment, and has done so for a long time.' McMahon didn't say anything, so she continued. 'Mr Phelan's gone missing, and we're extremely concerned about his welfare.'
'I don't see how I can help.'
'But you know him?'
McMahon sighed and sat back in his seat. 'Yeah, I know him. He's been coming here for a while. Nice bloke, friendly enough. Not the sort to piss people off.'
'When was the last time you saw him?'
He drummed his fingers on the desk. 'Last week some time. I can't remember for sure, but I definitely haven't seen him this week, and I don't think he's been in. I could check for you.'
'No, it's fine. Who does he usually come in with?'
'Various people. The occasional girl, sometimes with a couple of mates. Sometimes alone.' He shrugged. 'I didn't really know any of them.'
Tina reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a pack of Silk Cut. 'Do you mind if I smoke?' She knew from the way McMahon wasn't settling that he was itching for a cigarette, and from the stale smell in the room it was obvious he usually puffed away in here.
He grinned, and leaned down behind the desk. When his hand re-emerged, it was holding a huge half-full ashtray.
'Didn't realize you were a smoker,' he said. 'Now that it's against the law to have a fag in your own office, I thought I'd best be careful when you came in.'
'That's one law I'm happy to break,' she said, offering him a cigarette.
He took it, and she lit for both of them. A rapport had been struck based on their shared identity as social outcasts, just as Tina had hoped. It was amazing what you could do with a rapport.
'According to his bank statements, Mr Phelan was a big spender, and it didn't look like he was very successful.'
'He wasn't. He'd have a few drinks and he'd start getting reckless. Sometimes it worked – you know, who dares wins and all that – but most of the time it didn't.'
Tina took a drag on her cigarette. 'The thing is, the statements also show that his spending plummeted in the last couple of months, but it sounds like he was still coming here.' She paused. 'Any idea where he might have been getting his money from?'
'We've got credit lines we can extend to valued customers. Pat's a valued customer.'
'But you weren't extending credit to him for two months solid, were you?'
He shook his head. 'No, we weren't. We stopped a few weeks back. He still owes us more than three grand. He asked the other week for more time to pay. He told me he had what he called an alternative means of income. I wasn't happy. I like Pat, but this is business.'
Tina kept her interest in check. 'Did he give you any idea what this alternative means of income was?'
'Nah. He just promised me it was kosher.'
'Was he borrowing money from any other sources, as far as you know?'
This time, McMahon's silence didn't sit naturally. He looked evasive.
'Remember, Mr McMahon, this talk's purely off the record. If you know anything, I can guarantee it won't get back to you.'
McMahon continued to sit there smoking. Tina didn't push things. She waited.
'Look,' he said at last, 'I like Pat. He's a nice bloke. I wouldn't want to think anything bad's happened to him. But if it has, I'd want whoever's involved to suffer. You know what I mean?'
'Sure.'
'This is definitely, definitely off the record, right?'
Tina nodded, realizing something significant was coming.
'Pat doesn't just owe us. He also owes someone you really don't want to be in hock to. Man by the name of Leon Daroyce.'
'I don't know him,' she said, making no attempt to write the name down. Producing a notebook might give this talk an official air and spook him, and she didn't want that. She'd remember the name easy enough.
'He's a loan shark, and a big player round these parts,' McMahon continued. 'I think a few of our punters have used his services, but you've got to be pretty desperate. The rates he charges are high and, like I said, he really ain't a nice bloke.'
'Have you got any idea how much Phelan owes him?'
He shook his head. 'Pat never told me about Daroyce. I just heard rumours. It was one of the reasons I cut the credit lines to him. I was worried we wouldn't get paid.'
Tina was going to have to find out as much as she could about Leon Daroyce and how much Phelan was in the can to him. If Daroyce was such a brutal operator – and with a man like McMahon, clearly no stranger to violence himself, saying it then she was inclined to believe he must be – it was also possible that Pat Phelan had gone to extraordinary lengths to get the money to pay him. Maybe even resorting to the kidnap of his stepdaughter.
'I think that's everything, Mr McMahon,' she said, standing up. 'Thanks for your time, and for being so candid with me.'
He stubbed out his cigarette. 'I'm trusting you, Miss Boyd. If word gets out that I pointed you in Leon Daroyce's direction, things ain't going to look good for me.'
'I keep my word.'
'Yeah,' he said, watching her carefully. 'You look like you do.' He lit another cigarette, blew out some smoke. 'A word of advice. Be careful. Leon Daroyce tends to take things personal.'
Tina opened the door, gave him a cool smile. 'Don't worry about me, Mr McMahon, I'm always careful.'
There was one reason above any other why Tina Boyd was always careful. She attracted trouble. It hadn't always been like that. She'd had a happy middle-class upbringing in the country, the product of two parents who appeared to love each other, and certainly loved her. She'd gone to private school, then to university, studied English and Psychology, did her time on the well-worn backpacking trail. And then, while all her friends took up their office jobs, she'd joined the police. It hadn't been on a whim – well, not entirely anyway. She'd never fancied office work, and she'd always had an inquisitive mind. She was interested in what made people tick. Maybe she should have been a psychiatrist, but somehow she thought she'd learn more about the human condition as a cop. And she had, too, although she wasn't at all sure that it had been a positive development.
For the first few years of her police career things had been remarkably trouble-free. She'd spent two years in uniform – and was one of the few officers in her station who was never assaulted once – before joining Islington CID as a detective constable. As a graduate, she was on the fast track. A senior position looked inevitable, and sooner rather than later.
But then things had started to go wrong. First, she was taken hostage by a suspect she'd been investigating and was hit in the crossfire when he was shot dead by armed CO19 officers. The wound she suffered was comparatively light, and she was back at work within six weeks, to much fanfare and an immediate promotion to detective sergeant. They'd even put her on the cover of one of the issues of Police Review shortly afterwards. It should have made her happy, but she knew she didn't deserve the praise. She'd made a mistake which had got her into the position of being shot in the first place, and it looked like she was being rewarded for that. If she was honest with herself – something that she was constantly – then this was the part of the whole incident that had scarred her the most. Tina was a perfectionist, and when it came down to it she'd been found wanting.
Barely six months later, trouble came calling again, except this time it was with a vengeance. A detective she'd been working with closely was murdered while on a case they were both involved in, followed only weeks later by the apparent suicide of her long-term lover, also a police officer, which turned out to be a murder indirectly related to the same case. Suddenly, from being the next big thing, she'd become tainted by association, the kind of cop everyone wants to avoid in case something should happen to them. Someone had even nicknamed her the Black Widow, and the name had stuck.
She never saw the people who'd killed the two men so close to her brought to justice. It was possible that not all of them had been. This knowledge had scarred her too, and she'd resigned from the force, hit the rails, and become very depressed. She might never have recovered – at one point, things had genuinely felt that bad – but then she'd met Mike Bolt, who was then working for the National Crime Squad, and he must have seen something in her because he persuaded her to join his team, and to move across with them when the NCS became SOCA.
She appreciated what he'd done for her, and she worked hard at her job to demonstrate this. Sometimes she thought Bolt was attracted to her, occasionally even that this was the reason he'd hired her in the first place, and consequently she tended to keep her distance from him in the workplace. He was a good-looking guy, there was no question about that. Tall, broad-shouldered, with blond hair only just beginning to fleck with grey, and piercing blue eyes that were so striking she'd thought at first (wrongly) that he wore contact lenses. She almost certainly would have gone for him at one time, but things were different for her now. She'd had her fingers burned far too badly, and the experience had made her more cautious. She'd become a loner, someone who kept herself to herself both inside and outside a work environment, and she knew that some of the team resented her for it, putting her manner down to a brusqueness that wasn't there.
She'd been a fun girl once. Had got drunk, got laid, travelled the world. Smoked dope so strong in northern Thailand she'd hallucinated. Swum, awestruck, with dolphins on the Great Barrier Reef. Had a real life. She didn't really have one any more, and there were times – more often than she'd like – when she was filled with an angry regret over the path she'd chosen, and its bitter consequences, wondering how things might have turned out if she'd taken the office job.
But today wasn't one of those times. She was actually feeling good as she walked along Colindale Avenue in the direction of the Underground, the autumn sun warming the back of her neck. She was on her way back to the Glasshouse and had already called ahead and told Bolt about Pat Phelan's alleged debt problems, as well as asking him to check out anything they had on Leon Daroyce.
Bolt had seemed pleased with the lead – which he should have been, because it provided them with a motive for the kidnap – but he'd also sounded under strain, which wasn't like him. Mike Bolt was generally calm and level-headed, the type of guy who was able to withstand pressure. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed working with him. She felt she could trust his leadership.
'Hey lady, how you doin'?'
The words, delivered in a deep baritone with a faux American twang, snapped her straight out of her thoughts. She turned to see a silver Merc pull up beside her. The man addressing her through the open window was a well-built, smooth headed black man in his thirties, wearing shades and an expensive-looking suit.
'I'm not buying, I'm not available, and I'm not interested. So piss off.' She looked away and kept walking, but the car kept pace with her.
Tina didn't take kindly to being accosted in the street by strangers. It happened now and again. This was London, after all. She tended to ignore them, and usually they went away, but it didn't look like this guy was going to. She was a hundred metres from the Tube station now, the irony of the fact that she was only spitting distance from Hendon Police College not lost on her. God knows why this guy was picking on her, but if he decided to jump out of the car and cut up rough, then he'd get a lot more than he bargained for.
She heard the guy chuckle. 'You got some spirit, lady. I like that. A friend of mine would like to speak to you. I hear you might want to speak to him too.'
She stopped, turned his way, saw a white guy with a tight T-shirt and big biceps beyond him in the driver's seat.
'Is that right?' she said. 'And who's your friend?'
'His name's Leon, but to you he's Mr Daroyce.'
Tina cursed to herself. How the hell had he found out about her this fast? Then she thought of that brassy bitch who'd taken her up to McMahon's office, and it came to her. She must have been listening at the door. And there she'd been, saying how careful she always was. Not careful enough, darling.
'Thanks for the offer, but I have a rule never to get into cars with strangers.'
'Does it still count if we know you, Tina Boyd?' The man gave her a predatory smile as he made a great show of emphasizing the pronunciation of those last two words.
The use of her name made Tina feel naked and exposed. 'No, it doesn't,' she answered, beginning to turn away.
'If you don't come now, we might have to come and find you, Tina Boyd.' His voice had hardened now, laced with threat.
She turned back. 'What does your friend want?'
'He just wants to talk.' He shrugged his powerful shoulders. 'That's it. Nothing more. I think he might have some information for you.'
He leaned behind him and opened the back door of the Mercedes for her.
Tina made a quick calculation. If they knew her name, they knew she was a SOCA agent. That meant it was unlikely they were going to risk hurting her. Especially when their car, and possibly even their faces, would already have been picked up somewhere on CCTV. And when it came down to it, there was no reason for them to hurt her anyway. She didn't owe Daroyce money, had in fact never met him, which meant the guy in front of her was almost certainly telling the truth.
Those were the pros. There was only one con, but it was a big one. What if she was wrong?
It was a big decision, but in the end – although she'd never admit it to herself – part of the reason Tina Boyd attracted trouble was that she was always prepared to put herself in situations where encountering it was inevitable. And this was one of them. Taking a long look round so that the people walking up and down the street might remember her face if it came to it, she got inside the Merc and shut the door.
'Let's go then,' she said, lighting a cigarette.
They drove through back streets heading west in the direction of Queensbury. Tina tried to make conversation, knowing how important it was to create a rapport with the black guy, who was clearly the senior of the two. But now she was in the car, both men were worryingly reticent. The white guy said nothing at all, his friend either answering her questions with an uninterested yes and no or ignoring them altogether.
The journey didn't last long, ten minutes at most, before they pulled into a dingy dead-end road lined with brand-new low-rise council flats on one side and a pair of grim-looking tower blocks on the other. The car pulled into a parking space in front of the first of the blocks, next to an overflowing bright orange wheelie bin that seemed to be attracting the flies. A gang of half a dozen kids on mountain bikes were messing about by a rusty climbing frame over to one side.
'Nice place,' said Tina, wrinkling her nose against the smell from the bin as she got out of the car.
'Mr Daroyce likes to stay close to his roots,' answered the black guy as they walked over to the front entrance.
Tina noticed the kids give him respectful looks as he passed, before passing more hostile eyes over her. Jesus, she thought. What is it about me? I might as well be wearing a flashing blue light on my head.
They went up to the tenth floor in a graffiti strewn lift with black smoke stains running down two sides as if someone had tried to set it alight, travelling in silence with only the creaking of the cables for company. Tina was getting more and more nervous. She didn't much like going alone to isolated places with the kind of men your mother warned you about, particularly when she was unarmed and out of contact with her colleagues. She thought about trying to leave but had a strong feeling that they wouldn't let her.
As they emerged from the lift into a dingy corridor only partly illuminated by noisy overhead strip lighting, dark shadows flickering at the edges, she was reminded of something that had happened during her backpacking days. She'd been caught in a sudden storm while travelling by fishing boat between islands in southern Indonesia. Huge dark waves had reared up and crashed over the deck, sending the tiny boat spinning and lurching. The fishermen had looked terrified, their expressions terrifying Tina even more as she clung desperately to her seat, genuinely believing she was going to die. Then the friend she was travelling with leaned over and, with a grim smile on his face, had shouted above the noise, 'It's not much consolation now, but you're going to love telling this story one day!' And she had, too. They'd made it across, the storm had passed, and life had moved on. The moral being, things are never as bad as they seem.
She told herself she'd be out of there soon enough, life would move on, and she'd have a good laugh about it over a long gin and tonic, curled up on her sofa.
The flat they wanted was at the end of the corridor. She knew which one it was going to be straight away, because it looked like Fort Knox. The doorway was covered with an iron security grille, the door behind it reinforced with a series of home-cut steel plates. No fewer than five separate locks ran up one side, and attached to the doorframe was a tiny CCTV camera, its lens pointing out at head height through one of the gaps in the grille.
The black guy produced a set of keys and let them in, a process that took the best part of a minute. The interior was cloyingly warm and smelled of dope as they made their way through a narrow hallway and into a dimly lit backroom which was furnished with just a table and two chairs facing each other on either side.
Sitting in one of the chairs, with his legs crossed and his back to them, was a short, well-built black man in a peach-coloured suit and fedora of the same colour. The fedora was set at a jaunty angle and had two small peacock feathers jutting from the rim, giving the man the overall appearance of a 1970s New York pimp. He didn't turn round as the black guy moved out of the way and Tina stepped inside, just motioned with a casual wave of a hand for her to take the vacant seat.
'I hear you been asking questions about Patrick Phelan,' said the man from beneath the fedora as she sat down opposite him. 'You a cop, yeah?'
His voice was softer than she'd been expecting, the accent local but with just a hint of something more exotic. As he lifted his head she could see that he was young, probably no more than late twenties, with a round boyish face and dark intelligent eyes. He was definitely not what she'd been expecting, and now that the two men who'd brought her here had disappeared into another room, she felt herself relax a little.
'Yes,' she answered, 'I'm a cop.' She wasn't technically, she was an agent, but it was never worth explaining it like that since no one ever seemed to understand the difference. 'I work for the Serious and Organized Crime Agency. You must be Leon Daroyce.'
He touched a finger to his hat and half-smiled. 'That's me.'
'And yes, I have been asking questions about Patrick Phelan,' Tina continued. 'We're looking for him.'
Daroyce nodded slowly. 'So am I,' he said softly, hardly moving his lips as he spoke, so that his words came out almost as a hiss.
He leaned forward in his seat and crossed his hands on the table. They were small and surprisingly dainty considering his build, dwarfed by the gold sovereign rings on most of his fingers. He exhaled slowly through pursed lips and fixed her with a gaze that was almost hypnotic.
'Let me tell you something, Miss Boyd,' he hissed. 'I'm an entrepreneur, a small businessman. I lend money like a bank, except unlike a bank I don't ask hundreds of questions. I don't make my customers fill out a pile of forms. You know what someone once said? A banker's a man who lends you his umbrella when the sun's shining, then asks for it back as soon as it starts raining.'
'Mark Twain.'
He shrugged, uninterested. 'Well, I'm not like that. I don't turn people away. All I ask is you pay me back the money you've borrowed, and the interest on it. That's it. I'm providing a service. And I provided a service to Pat Phelan. Except he seems to have welshed on the deal. He owes me thirty-five thousand pounds, Miss Boyd. And I need to get that money back.'
'I don't see how I can help.'
'Because you're looking for him. What is it that you people want to speak to him about?'
'We think he's involved in a fraud case,' she lied. If Daroyce and his friends were involved in the kidnapping then they'd know she wasn't telling the truth, but she was beginning to think that they couldn't be. Otherwise, why on earth would they have brought her here?
'That sounds like Phelan. The guy's a snake. Is he likely to get bail?'
'I don't know.'
'Listen, Miss Boyd, perhaps you and me can help each other. I need to get my money back from Pat Phelan, because if I let something like this go, then it's going to look very bad on me and my business. Do you understand what I'm saying?'
'I think so, yes.'
'Now, if you hear where he is, all you need to do is give me a call, let me and my people get there first, and I'll pay you ten grand in cash.' He reached inside his peach suit and produced a huge wad of used notes, putting it down on the table in front of her. 'Not bad for five minutes' work, is it?'
She looked at the money, wondered who'd suffered for him to get it, then back at Daroyce. 'I'll see what I can do.'
'No,' he said quietly, 'that's not good enough. I want you to say you'll do it.'
His tone was cold now.
Tina made another quick calculation. She had no intention of helping Daroyce, and she certainly couldn't take his money. However, it seemed prudent to say yes, just so she could get out of there.
'OK, I'll do it. If we locate him, of course. Have you got a number I can get you on?'
His half-smile returned. 'Sure.' He took a card from his pocket and handed it to her. It was blank except for a handwritten mobile number.
She put it in her pocket.
'I still don't understand why you need me, though. It looks like you've got eyes and ears all over the place. You certainly found out about me easily enough.'
'I've looked everywhere for Phelan, but he seems to have done a better job at disappearing than he ever did at gambling. He was supposed to give me a fifteen grand down payment last Sunday. He didn't turn up; neither did it. He asked for a few more days. I told him he had twenty-four hours. But he didn't come through again. So, I've been hunting for him. I know where he lives, but his car hasn't been there, and from what I hear, neither has he. But,' he added, regarding her almost playfully, 'I've got a little clue that you might be able to use.'
'What's that?' Tina sat forward, interested.
'The thing is, Miss Boyd, can I trust you?' Tina met his gaze, held it firmly. 'Yes, you can trust me. If we find him, I'll let you know. What you do after that is your concern.'
Daroyce nodded, seeming to accept this. 'Phelan's got a girlfriend. Good-looking chick. A little bit old for my tastes, but she carries it well.'
'Are you sure it's not his wife?'
He shook his head. 'No, I know what his wife looks like. It's not her. She's been here, too. The girlfriend. She came with him to deliver a five grand down payment on the debt a couple of weeks ago. I don't know who she is, or where she lives, but they were definitely close, and I had the feeling that, you know, the five grand was her money.'
'Can you describe her?'
'I can do better than that. I can show you a picture.'
He leaned down behind the table and picked up an envelope which he handed her. There was a single photograph inside, a still from the security camera outside Daroyce's door. It showed the faces of a man and a woman, both of whom looked nervous. The man's face was in the foreground, and Tina recognized him as Pat Phelan. The picture quality wasn't fantastic and the woman's face appeared slightly grainy, but even so there was no mistaking who it was, since Tina had seen her picture on the website of Feminine Touch Health and Beauty Spas only hours before.
It was Isobel Wheeler. Andrea Devern's business partner.
'Do you know her?'
'No, but I should be able to find out.'
Tina was a good liar. She knew how to wear a poker face.
'Good.'
Leon Daroyce smiled properly now, and Tina had to fight to maintain her poker face as she saw his teeth for the first time. There was enough gold in there to stock a small jewellery shop, but it wasn't that which grabbed her attention. It was the fact that every single one of them was filed to a razor-sharp point. Daroyce's mouth was a lethal weapon, those jaws easily capable of murder.
Seeing her reaction, he chuckled – a strange, high-pitched little sound that made her skin crawl. 'You like them, baby? The girls always get a little frightened at first, but when they see what I can do with them, they always come back for more.' He waggled his tongue at her, running it along the points of his fangs.
Tina needed to get out of there. The room suddenly felt hot and claustrophobic. She picked up the envelope, slipped the photo back inside, and stood up.
'Let me get on with things, then.'
'Haven't you forgotten something?' He motioned towards the wad of money.
'I can't take it now. I haven't done anything yet.'
'But you're going to, though. Aren't you?'
'If we find him, yes.'
'You look thirsty,' he said, changing the subject. 'Do you want a drink?'
Tina took a sharp breath. 'Thanks, but I need to get going.'
'Sit down there for a couple of seconds. I want to show you something. Go on,' he said, waving towards the seat, 'it won't take long.'
Reluctantly, she did as requested.
'What is it?'
'Power,' he whispered.
'Sorry?'
He mouthed the word again, then turned towards the door. 'Woman, bring me water!' he called out, and a few seconds later a skinny mixed-race girl, no more than eighteen, with unkempt hair, hurried into the room. She was dressed in a dirty white T-shirt and a black thong, and Tina noticed that there were bruises on her bare legs. Avoiding their eyes, the girl put a small bottle of Evian on the table in front of Daroyce and quickly turned to go, but his hand whipped out like a flailing cord and grabbed her wrist in a tight, visibly painful grip. The girl looked scared, but didn't say anything.
'You know what power is, Miss Boyd?' asked Daroyce, tightening his grip on the girl's wrist, making her wince. 'Power is when you're respected; when you're feared; when people will do anything you tell them. Let me show you what I mean.' He looked up at the girl with gleaming eyes. 'You're mine, aren't you, woman?'
'Yes,' she whispered.
'You're hurting her, Mr Daroyce. Why don't you let go of her arm?'
He ignored her, pulling the girl towards him.
'Now, get on your knees.'
The girl knelt down.
'You don't have to do this,' said Tina firmly, horrified by what might be about to take place. 'I believe you.'
Daroyce backhanded the girl across the face. Hard. The slap rebounded around the room. Tina flinched as the girl's head snapped sideways under the blow before quickly righting itself. She didn't cry out or make a sound. Instead, she remained kneeling, staring straight ahead, her jaw quivering as it tightened against the pain. The fear had gone from her eyes now, replaced by the submissiveness of the defeated.
Tina stood up and addressed the girl. 'I'm a police officer,' she said, pulling out her warrant card and showing it to her. 'You can leave with me now. You don't have to stay here.' She didn't add that the girl could also press charges if she wanted to; they could talk about that later, when they were in a safer location.
The girl said nothing, continued to stare straight ahead.
'Come on,' said Tina, putting out a hand. 'You can come with me now.'
Daroyce chuckled. 'Tell her to fuck off, woman.'
This time the girl looked at Tina. There was a red mark covering the entire left side of her face, several small cuts on the cheek where Daroyce's rings had made contact.
'Fuck off,' she said, without feeling or passion.
'Please. I can take you home.'
But Tina knew it was no use. Even the girl's eyes were blank.
Daroyce's smile grew wider, the teeth showing, as he saw Tina's frustration. Then it disappeared altogether. 'Get out, woman!' he snapped, and immediately the girl got to her feet and hurried out of the door.
Tina shoved the warrant card back in her pocket. 'I'm leaving, and I want to take her with me.'
'You don't get it, do you, Miss Boyd? She won't go with you. Not in a thousand years. Because she's mine.'
'Slavery was outlawed in this country two hundred years ago, Daroyce. Maybe you missed the bicentennial celebrations.'
'She can leave if she wants to, Boyd. But she won't. Because she owes me, and she's paying her debt.'
'I don't care about-'
'Enough!' His hand slammed down on the table, silencing her. 'The reason I showed you that is so you know I don't fuck about.'
'You're a bully.'
He wagged a finger at her. 'No, I'm no bully. Bullies only pick on the weak. I'm prepared to take on everyone. And I'm also a man of my word, so when people break theirs, I take great offence. And I make them suffer. That little whore fucked me about once, and now she's paying for her stupidity. Just like Pat Phelan will pay for it when I get hold of him.' He stood up, and even though at full height he was still shorter than Tina, he radiated the kind of cruel, low menace that would have intimidated men twice his height. 'Now you've made me a promise as well,' he said quietly, making a point of showing his teeth as he spoke. 'So, if you find the whereabouts of Phelan, I want to hear about it. Otherwise, Miss Boyd, my people will come for you too. Do you understand?'
Again, Tina held his gaze, but she was finding it hard to keep her nerve. She was scared, and he knew it.
'I understand,' she answered.
'Good. Would you like my men to drop you off where they picked you up?'
She shook her head. 'No, it's OK. I'll walk.'
He moved aside to let her pass, and she caught a subtle waft of expensive and very nice cologne that almost made her pause to take in more of it, until she thought about what he'd just done.
'Watch yourself out there,' he whispered. 'The streets round here can be very, very dangerous.'
She ignored him and kept walking, out into the narrow hallway. The big black guy in the shades materialized from a room ahead of her, unlocking the front door for her in silence. She couldn't see the girl anywhere, but if she was honest with herself, she wasn't looking too hard, so eager was she just to get out of there.
There were all kinds of things Tina could have taken from the conversation she'd just had: the large amount of cash Pat Phelan owed Daroyce; the way he'd recently asked Daroyce for just a few more days to pay the money; the fact that he was having an affair with his wife's business partner… But she couldn't seem to concentrate on any of them as she walked rapidly through the back streets, going in no particular direction, haunted by the face of an anonymous girl who got down on her knees and waited to be beaten by a thug – a man who'd just threatened to turn on Tina as well if she didn't do what she was told.
She felt the pressure building inside her head. She was a tough person. She'd had to be to put up with what life had thrown at her these past few years, but occasionally her strength wavered, and it was wavering now.
She needed a drink. Badly.
There was a pub up ahead, a spit-and-sawdust type of place with a chalkboard outside advertising football games on Sky, and a couple of potbellied builders standing by the door smoking. The door was open. It seemed to welcome her.
She knew she shouldn't do it. Knew what one drink meant. But it was hard. So damn hard. She felt a desperate need to put a glass to her lips, to soften the blows that had rained down on her this afternoon – no, shit, that had rained down on her over the last four years.
You never drink on duty, she told herself. Never. You work hard, you do well. They might not all like you, but they respect you. If you weaken now, you're finished.
A picture of her dead lover walked uninvited into her mind's eye. John Gallan. He'd been a good man, a nicer, better person than she could ever be. He'd loved her; he'd said so many times and she'd believed him. John wasn't the sort to lie. Part of her had loved him back, too. Thought that maybe it could come to something. And then he died.
And then he fucking died.
She walked inside the pub, ignoring the slimy look she got from the jaundiced old codger sitting at the bar, and ordered a double gin, no ice, ignoring the voice inside her head that screamed for her not to do it. The decision had been made.
She drank it down in one.
'Bad day?' asked the barman, a gangly teenager with a haystack's worth of red hair.
'Fucking fantastic,' she said, and ordered another.
She put a tenner on the bar and drank the gin slower this time, savouring the fiery taste as the alcohol slipped down her throat. The kick was instantaneous, and she felt the familiar lightheadedness come on, knowing that if she had another, that would be it. There'd be no going back. The work day would be written off. The leads she'd gained, leads that could help save a teenage girl from death, wouldn't emerge until she'd sobered up. Tina wasn't the sort who could work drunk. She became clumsy and lethargic. Her colleagues would notice it straight away, and her guilty little secret, the one she'd carried for so long, would suddenly be out there for all to see. And she couldn't have that. Tina had her pride. She suffered, but she suffered alone. She didn't want pity, she didn't want help, and right now, she really didn't want to be off this case.
Fuck Leon Daroyce. He wasn't going to beat her. She finished the drink and banged the glass on the bar harder than she'd planned before picking up her change and heading back out into the sunlight.
It was time to get back to work.