got another deal for you,’ the man said.
Lazenby stayed in his seat. ‘I can do twenty per cent, but that’s got to be it. That’s as far down as I’ll go.’
‘Let’s stop talking figures, and focus on responsibilities.’
Lazenby shrugged.
‘Because, I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.’ The man took another sip of G&T – in ludicrously genteel fashion; he even raised his little finger. ‘You see … I don’t have any product for you to sell. That’s not my line at all.’
‘So why are we having this conversation?’
‘We’re having this conversation because, like I say, I think you seem like a decent, straight-to-the-point kind of fella, and in addition, you’ve got this ingenuity thing going on. You’re someone who deserves a bit of a heads-up.’
‘To what?’
‘Well, not to how much you’re going to earn.’ The guy treated Lazenby to that steely gaze again, now coupled with a wire-thin smile. ‘But to how much it’s going to cost you.’
‘Ahhh …’ It was several moments before Lazenby was able to work enough saliva into his mouth to reply properly. ‘You’re a tax collector, is that it?’
‘No.’ Though the man’s smile broadened, it still didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I’m the tax collector.’
‘You’re Frank McCracken.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Don’t they call you “the Shakedown”?’
To a degree, Lazenby was honoured, and not a little proud of himself, to have attracted the personal attention, not just of a senior lieutenant in the Crew, but the lieutenant whose main purpose it was to get the syndicate its cut from all those criminal enterprises in the Northwest of England that weren’t actually their own. But he couldn’t deny that he was unnerved too; his hands now shook, their palms moist. The approach had been gentlemanly enough, but Lazenby wasn’t deceived. He’d heard some bone-chilling tales.
‘So, let me see,’ he said, biting down on his fear – this was only going to end one way, so the best he could do now was try to affect some kind of damage limitation. ‘I’ve got to source my own product, pay the advance on it, arrange importation, storage, security, distribution, delivery … with no input from you whatsoever, and you still get paid? Is that correct?’
The man who had to be Frank McCracken sat back. ‘You make it sound like you don’t win.’
‘It depends how much.’
McCracken made a show of thinking this through – for about two seconds. ‘I reckon sixty/forty’s a fair split, to be honest.’
‘Sixty/forty?’ It could have been worse, Lazenby supposed.
‘In our favour, of course.’
‘In your favour …?’
‘You sound doubtful, which I suppose is understandable.’ McCracken thought it through, again. ‘So, let’s make it seventy/thirty. Until we get to know each other better. Oh, and we’ll take our first payment from the two hundred-thou you’ve pulled in so far this year.’
‘This … this …’ Lazenby struggled to suppress his helpless rage. ‘This always the way you do business?’
‘Not at all. We’d normally be having this conversation out back. But out of respect for your status, I thought we’d do it differently today.’
‘And I suppose if I say “no”, those gloves will come off, will they?’
McCracken shrugged. ‘No rush for that. But anything can happen.’
‘I could’ve been a good friend to you.’
‘You still will be, I’m sure.’
‘You reckon?’
‘You live off Mulberry Crescent, don’t you? Nice part of Crowley, that.’
Lazenby didn’t suppose he should be surprised that they knew where he lived. He said nothing, however, neither confirming nor denying it.
‘Not as nice as Carrwood in Altrincham, mind you,’ the gangster added. ‘Or Bromley Cross in Bolton, or Worsley in Salford, or Ellesmere Park, or Hale, or Timperley …’
Neither, Lazenby supposed, should he be surprised that they knew his main sales areas.
‘Nice places,’ McCracken mused. ‘Tree-lined streets, green lawns at the front of every house, couple of cars on each drive.’ Suddenly, there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘Be a real shame if things changed. You know, if the yobbos turned up … and the crackheads, and the gangbangers, and the boy-racers. Looking to party every night up and down those quiet streets. The residents would call the fuzz of course. Probably again and again. I mean, they’re not used to that kind of disorderly conduct. But is that really what you want, Joe?’
‘And let me guess … if I pay my taxes, none of that happens?’
McCracken finished his drink and stood up. ‘There are no guarantees in this line of work. But if I was you, I’d hedge my bets. I mean, you may be a refined kind of guy, you may live in a detached house and mix with culturally correct people, but I reckon you’re a gambler too. I’m sure you know a safe option when you see one.’
He edged around the table, to leave.
‘I’ll think about it,’ Lazenby said.
‘No, you won’t.’ McCracken backed towards the cocktail lounge door, still smiling. ‘You’re not that stupid.’
Detective Inspector Stan Beardmore was a short, squat chap in his mid-fifties. He had snow-white hair, which he always kept close-cut, and was habitually clean-shaven and well-groomed, though this tended to clash with his shabby tweed jackets; he had a brown one and a green one, and he alternated them on a weekly basis – even though both had seen better days, with frayed cuffs and leather-patched elbows. He was a good boss, though. Lucy had quickly come to realise that his affable nature masked a sharp mind and years of experience. On top of that, rather than being a stickler for paperwork or procedure, he was trusting of his detectives and encouraged independence of thought.
On this occasion, however, he seemed a tad dubious.
He sat behind his desk in his own office, an annex to the DO, and leafed through the pile of print-outs that Lucy had handed him. For the most part, these were selected extracts from the policy file of the Major Investigation Team down at West Midlands CID, mainly crime-scene reports and glossies, witness statements (for what they were worth, which wasn’t much), several e-fits, and a detailed psychological profile, as prepared by a forensic
