to his pocket and fisted his badge. ‘See you in a bit.’
Pete ambled the thirty yards along to the pub. While he waited, he had seen several groups of people enter and only a few leave, but he was still surprised at how packed the place was. The noise hit him before he even opened the door, swelling out through the closed windows. The place was rammed. It was worse than the bar up by the cathedral. There was no music, just the sound of raised voices. He could barely push his way in. He eased between two young men with pint glasses in their hands who were chatting across the doorway and moved slowly through the crowd to the bar, barely able to hear himself think. How anyone could carry on a conversation in here, he had no idea – apart from yelling like a parade-ground sergeant major.
And he’d thought the other place was noisy!
Finally reaching the bar, he found that it was a Theakston’s pub – rare, this far south. He managed to get the attention of one of the barmen and signalled for a half of Old Peculiar. Glass in hand, he turned to survey the heaving throng around him. Taller than most, it did not take long to see a still spot near the far end of the bar. Then the man at it centre straightened up.
‘Damn, you are a big bugger, aren’t you,’ Pete muttered as the top half of Millic’s head went from view between the dark beams of the ceiling. He took a swig of his drink – cool and smooth – and stepped away from the bar to make his way towards his target. After some careful navigation, he eased in beside the big man, who was now leaning his elbows on the bar, a pint glass two-thirds full in front of him, his ugly face set in a scowl.
‘Zivan,’ Pete yelled, slapping him on the back with one hand as he set his glass on the bar with the other. ‘How you doing, buddy?’
Zivan turned to look at him from under large brows. ‘I know you?’ His voice was deep and heavily accented.
‘No, but I’ve heard of you.’ Pete eased in closer to the big man’s right side – too close for him to be able to draw his knife – and surreptitiously showed him his badge. ‘I’m not here to cause you any trouble. I’m told you might know a bloke I’m looking for – again, just for information on another party.’
Zivan’s face had closed down at the sight of Pete’s badge. ‘Why the fuck should I help you?’
‘Call it customer relations. The bloke I’m after is killing off your customer base. And that of the man I’m told you can point me towards. So I’m doing you a favour and you’d be doing him one.’
Pete could see the cogs turning in the big man’s brain. It was almost painful to watch, but he reached his conclusion in the end. He picked up his glass and drained it in one long swallow, then locked his dark eyes on Pete’s. ‘Fuck you, pig,’ he said flatly and swung the empty glass at Pete’s head. Pete ducked. The glass went over his shoulder. He heard it smash behind him and someone yelled out.
Pete stamped hard on Zivan’s left foot, ducking his head in close to the bigger man’s chest. Zivan howled, hunching over in pain, his chin coming down on the top of Pete’s head. Pete pushed back against the tightly packed crowd to make room and swung his foot around to heel Zivan in the back of the leg, aiming to drop him to one knee, but he didn’t have the space to make the move count. Zivan’s huge hand clamped around his throat and lifted him bodily off the ground, slamming the top of his head against one of the dark-painted ceiling beams.
Pain lanced through Pete’s skull, lights sparking in his vision. Then Zivan released him. His feet hit the floor, knees sagging under him as Zivan swung a punch. It caught Pete in the shoulder, knocking him back into the press of people behind him. Zivan turned, pushing through the press of people towards the back door as Pete shook his head, trying to clear it. Pete was pushed forcibly from behind. He saw Zivan wading through the crowd like a bear up to his chest in water, leaving a seething mass of angered patrons in his wake. There was no way Pete was going to get through there after him. He turned the other way. He lifted his radio from his pocket and keyed the mike, hoping the others could hear him over the noise. ‘Ben, he’s coming your way,’ he yelled. ‘Dick, go and help him.’
Pete wove his way as quickly as he could through the tightly packed patrons and out into the cool and the sudden, blissful quiet. But he didn’t have time to pause and enjoy the contrast. He turned fast to the alley at the side of the pub and ran down it, hearing Dick’s footsteps ahead of him. Rounding the far corner, he saw Feeney helping Ben Myers up off the ground. Ben looked up sheepishly.
‘Sorry, boss. I nearly had him, but Christ! I’ve never come across a bloke as big as that. He legged it off up the alley, there.’ He nodded towards the narrow path that led through the small residential area and up towards the churchyard.
Pete cursed inside, but waved the confession away. ‘You OK?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, just . . . ego, more than anything, I suppose.’
‘OK. Too late to go after him now. I’ll go back in and have a word with the landlord. Maybe he can help. You two get off home.’
‘You sure?’ Dick asked.
Pete nodded and Dick shrugged. ‘OK. ’Night, boss.’
‘Sorry,’ Ben said again.
Pete pushed through the back door of the pub and went quickly up the short corridor past the toilets and the door to what he guessed was the upstairs accommodation. Back in the heaving bar, he eased his way through the tightly packed crowd. This time, he took more notice of the three men behind the bar. He quickly spotted the one he needed. He was older than the others by a good twenty years. Could probably give Pete ten, he guessed. His black T-shirt was stretched over a considerable beer gut, his thinning dark hair long and tied back in a ponytail.
Pete reached the bar right in front of him, pushing through between a guy in his mid-twenties, in a shirt and tie, and a young lad in denims. He slapped his fist down on the bar, wrapped around his police badge, and leaned in to shout. ‘I need a word, mate. Now.’
The man’s too-small eyes rose to meet Pete’s. He shrugged, waving at the crowded room around them.
‘Here or Heavitree Road.’
The man frowned sharply. ‘Upstairs.’ He turned towards the far end of the bar. Pete followed as best he could. As he eased through the tightly packed crowd, he thought, I bet the Health and Safety bods would have a field day in here with access points and so on.
The landlord waited for him near the rear door, then led the way wordlessly into the corridor and through the black-painted door marked ‘Private’.
The narrow, uneven wooden stairs led up to a corridor with several doors, only one of which was open, right at the top of the stairs. Pete saw a kitchen with a small table in the middle. The fat man led the way in and pulled out a chair.
‘So, what’s this about?’
Pete sat across from him. ‘Zivan Millic.’
The man frowned.
‘Big bugger I chased out of here a few minutes ago. Looks like a cross between a Neanderthal and a brown bear.’
The man grunted. ‘Didn’t know his name. What about him?’
‘I’ve got a witness telling me he deals drugs in here. Not that I’m interested in that, particularly. I’m also told he could tell me about a man I’m looking for as a witness
