those one-level pre-fab constructs typical of the 1970s. In a district where tower blocks marched every skyline, it looked more like a shoebox than a building. It was difficult to imagine that any civic architect could seriously have designed something like this without intending it as a joke, yet hostelries of this sort had sprung up all over Britain as part of a grand plan to regenerate the inner cities. Those few that remained, like this one, now stood as monuments to soulless functionalism and intellectual arrogance. It was clear what the locals thought of it. It only had a few windows, all high up and letterbox shaped, and filled with reinforced glass, but even so, many were cracked or broken. Its pebble-dashed walls were daubed with various substances: mud, chewing gum, dog shit.
Heck was unsure what to do next. Obviously, he had to take Lauren back to the station, but what if she really called the Yard and tried to reach Laycock? In addition, Salford station was a good fifteen minutes’ drive from here, now through rush-hour traffic. Driving there and back again would use up valuable time, and might make his Fiat noticeable to anyone round here who happened to be keeping an eye out for unusual comings and goings.
‘Can I trust you to stay in the car?’ he asked, though it tightened his chest just thinking about the risks this entailed.
She shrugged. ‘If that’s what it takes for you to keep me in the loop, sure.’
‘This doesn’t mean you’re part of the enquiry.’
She shrugged again. He eyed her, looking for signs of deceit, but she seemed a lot more relaxed than she had done earlier. He could always produce his cuffs and fix her to the steering wheel, but that really would draw attention to them. Instead, he got out and sauntered towards the pub, glancing up at the licensee’s name as he approached.
Francis James Ogburn
It sounded a tad well-heeled for this neighbourhood. Heck glanced back at the car. Lauren waggled her fingers at him through the windscreen. Swearing under his breath, he turned and went inside.
The Dog & Butcher was a dingy, shadow-filled den. Grey light filtered through its grimy windows, showing a stained carpet, Formica table-tops, and, dotted here and there, punters – some in groups, some alone – all of whom looked either tired, miserable or menacing, or a combination of the three. Though it was cloudy outside, it was hot and therefore humid indoors. Flies buzzing back and forth added to the squalid atmosphere.
Heck approached the bar. The man behind it was bare-chested under a faded denim waistcoat, and broad as an ox. He was bullet-headed, with a boxer’s battered face; his brawny arms and shoulders bore myriad tattoos.
‘Yeah?’ he asked, mopping the counter top.
‘Pint of bitter please,’ Heck said.
The man moved to the pumps. Heck glanced around. Having studied O’Hoorigan’s photograph until he’d memorised it, it was evident the guy wasn’t in here. But there were actually two bar counters. Beyond the one he was standing at now, another one opened into a second room, where various men and boys were gathered around a couple of pool tables. The toilet passage probably connected with it.
‘I’ll not be a sec,’ Heck said. ‘Paying a visit.’
The barman nodded indifferently.
Heck went down the passage, but didn’t bother with the toilets. He stuck his head into the pool room. There was no sign of O’Hoorigan in there either, so he returned to the first bar, where his pint was now waiting for him.
‘Two quid, mate,’ the barman said.
‘You Mr Ogburn?’
The barman regarded him suspiciously. ‘Yeah, why?’
Heck handed him the requisite coins. ‘No reason. Always like to know who the landlord is.’
Ogburn didn’t reply.
‘I don’t suppose Ron’s been in?’ Heck asked.
‘Who’s Ron?’
‘You know … Ron O’Hoorigan? He’s a mate of mine.’
Ogburn turned his back. Ostensibly, he was arranging notes in the till. But Heck suspected there was more to it than this. The guy didn’t want to look round for fear that his facial language would reveal a deception.
‘So … has he been in?’ Heck persisted.
‘Don’t know who you’re talking about.’
‘Come on … Ronnie O’Hoorigan. This is his local.’
When Ogburn finally did glance around, his eyes met Heck’s and locked. ‘I don’t know anyone called O’Hoorigan. You got that?’
‘Easy pal, it was only a question.’
‘I’m not your pal. Why don’t you drink up and get off, eh? I’ll be closing soon.’
‘Normally close around tea-time, do you?’
‘I close when I want.’
‘Maybe this’ll help.’ Heck filched the photograph from his pocket and held it up, along with a twenty-pound note.
The landlord didn’t even look at the proffered gift. In fact, he raised his voice so that now the entire pub could hear. ‘What’s your fucking game, eh?’
‘I just want to speak to him.’ Heck pocketed the money. ‘So why don’t you tell me where he is, then we’ll have no problems?’
He’d shifted into tough-assed mode. It wasn’t what he’d wanted, but collecting information in a place like this wasn’t possible if you went at it nervously. All other conversation in the room had ceased. Ogburn was about to say something else when the door to the toilet passage burst open and a man came in, zipping up the fly on his green canvas trousers.
It was Ron O’Hoorigan.
He was taller than Heck had expected, but also leaner. He came to a standstill when he saw everyone looking; his eyes flirted to the photograph in Heck’s hand. Whether or not he spotted his own image there was unclear. Perhaps his reaction came through force of habit. Either way, he bolted for the outside door. Heck gave immediate chase, only for someone to stick a foot out and send him flying. He crashed over a table, winding himself. When he clambered back to his feet, several of the punters had got up and were confronting him.
The one immediately in his face, the one who’d tripped him, might have been sixty; he had grey hair, a grey beard and a moustache, but he had a bull neck and a massive body. To his right there was a younger guy, his hair carroty red and spiked up; he had a scar across his top lip, which gave him a permanent sneer. To his left, there was a biker type – long, ratty, black hair hung down over motorbike leathers; he was pock-marked and broken-toothed. Chair legs scraped as other men got to their feet. Heck sensed Ogburn lifting a hatch so that he could come out from around the bar.
Clearly, there’d be no time for explanations.
Close to Heck’s right hand, an empty Newcastle Brown bottle sat on a table-top. It seemed an obvious move to snatch it up. The forehead of the burly sixty-year-old with the grey beard was its obvious destination.
The
