which you’ve been rightly recognised.’
‘Sir, it’s only a little thing I’m asking.’
‘Lucy …’ Slater sounded flabbergasted. ‘Ian Dyke’s a bad lad. He’s been spreading the Low Riders’ poison all over Crowley, and probably well beyond it, for years …’
‘You’ve just told me he’s a cog in a machine. Is it really going to advance the cause if you throw everything but the kitchen sink at him just because you can’t collar the rest of them?’
There was another pregnant silence.
‘Okay,’ he eventually replied. ‘I’ll tell you what I can do. And this is purely on the basis of our friendship, which is on thin ice at present, my girl.’
‘I understand that, sir … I’m very sorry.’
‘Yeah, you sound it.’ He paused, as if maybe about to reconsider. ‘If Dyke changes his plea to guilty … and he might as well because he hasn’t got a leg to stand on, I will personally write to the judge and point out that the accused has been helpful and cooperative throughout the case, has demonstrated genuine remorse and is seriously trying to get his life together. Now, you don’t need me to tell you it won’t necessarily save his neck, but it might mean that the judge will go a little easier on him … and, like I say, he’s got to change his plea first, and that hasn’t come from me, by the way … it needs to come from his legal team. So, the first thing Dyke needs to do is get onto his brief. Make sure he understands that, Lucy … the first move must come from him.’
‘Okay, sir. I’ll pass that on.’ Lucy knew this was the best deal they were going to get. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘I don’t know what you’re into with the Low Riders, love … but I advise you to be wary of them. They’re not just some run-of-the-mill motorcycle club. They’re a heavy crew and they’re regularly involved in crime.’
‘I know that, sir.’
‘And that president of theirs, Kyle Armstrong – he’s the worst of them.’
‘I know that too, sir. Thanks.’
Slater harrumphed. ‘See you round, Lucy. Take care.’
Owing to Crowley’s status as a one-time coal and textiles hotspot, its warehouse and factory district was almost in the town centre, primarily because that was where the main rail-yard was, but it was also only a stone’s throw from the main shopping area.
As such, as recently as the 1970s, Crowley’s ‘inner ring’ had been crammed with working mills and factories, their forest of tall chimneys pumping smoke into the air above the Greater Manchester township day and night. It had certainly given the place some character back in the day, and it did so now – to a degree – a succession of immense industrial structures towering over the red-brick terraced neighbourhoods which for so many decades had supplied their workforces.
Of course, in the twenty-first century such buildings were an anachronism. Some, rather ambitiously, had been renovated into blocks of ‘desirable apartments’ (many of which were still for sale), while others had become visitor centres. Of the rest, most had been boarded over and left. To some this was a blight on the environment, but others saw it as an opportunity. For example, it was in Rudyard Row, a weed-filled backstreet snaking its way between several of the most decrepit of these empty Edwardian monoliths, where Roy ‘the Shank’ Shankhill ran his ‘business’.
Rudyard Row wasn’t an alley you’d stumble into by accident, because you had to work your way through a warren of similarly-squalid passages just to reach it, and so most folk, even locals, didn’t know it was there. In addition, there was next to no reason to go there. Some of the former workshops that lined it on either side were still used, but most of them were soulless facades of brick, with plank-covered windows.
It looked as dismal as ever on that dull, damp day in mid-October, when Malcolm Pugh showed up there. This was nowhere near his first visit, and highly likely it would not be his last, but he was no less nervous for that.
He’d come into town from Bullwood by bus. It was late-morning, rush hour long over, and so he’d travelled on the top deck alone, mulling endlessly over his plethora of problems. As he walked warily down Rudyard Row, he felt even more alone, but now he was frightened too.
In many ways, it was a good thing he was doing here today. He expected it to curry favour, but you could never be absolutely certain what the outcome might be when dealing with the Shank. He glanced left and right before knocking on the door to No. 38, the two numerals hanging rusty and limp amid strips of peeling paintwork.
What he neglected to do was look directly behind him, so he didn’t see the door to the derelict building opposite swing silently open on recently oiled hinges.
Initially there was no sound from inside Shankhill’s premises. Pugh was about to knock again when he heard what sounded like a rustle of newspaper on the other side of the door. He knew what that would be: Turk, that great slab of meat and bone that Shankhill called a minder, getting irritably up from his stool, rolling up whichever of the daily rags he’d been reading – probably something with lots of tits, bums and suspenders – shoving it into his jacket pocket, and …
‘Yeah, who is it?’ came Turk’s voice through the wood.
It was a curious accent. Pugh couldn’t place it. He’d always assumed from the guy’s nickname, and because of his swarthy complexion and short tangle of oily black hair, that he’d originated in the Middle East somewhere. Not that it was important. All that really mattered where Turk was concerned was that he was six-foot four at least, and that he worked out daily, and/or did lots of steroids, which had built him a herculean physique. Reputedly, he liked nothing better than to imprint his many sovereign rings on the bodies and faces of those his employer took issue with.
‘It’s Malcom Pugh. I need to see Roy.’
A snicker of laughter sounded on the other side. ‘You never get tired of it, do you?’
‘I’m not here for a loan … I want to pay him back.’
‘Yeah?’ Turk sounded amused, as though this had to be a scam and he wasn’t buying it.
‘Seriously. Come on, Turk … Roy’s expecting me.’
There were two resounding clanks as, first, a top bolt was drawn back, and then a lower bolt. The door started to open, and Pugh put his foot on the step only to be struck from behind as somebody barrelled into his back.
It threw him forward into the door, which bounced inward with tremendous force, impacting massively on the guy behind it. There was a crump of splintering wood and a garbled grunt from Turk, and Pugh – who was too stunned to know what was happening – was grabbed by the back collar of his anorak, a gloved hand slapped across his mouth, and forced inside.
The immediate interior was a narrow space at the foot of a steep, dank stairway. A single grimy fanlight only weakly illuminated its wet brick walls and the stool to one side. Turk lay sprawled backward on the foot of the stairs, the lower half of his face spattered crimson from a smashed
