period between each attack, which means that he’s going crazier by the minute. For all we know, he could have done two or three more by tomorrow morning. We’ve got to catch him tonight, and Alan Devlin is the best lead we’ve had thus far. Just remember … for all that he’s a hoodlum from way back, Devlin is a witness, not a suspect. We’re more likely to get his help if we go in as friends.’
There were nods of understanding. Mouths were set firm as it dawned on the Taskforce members just how high the stakes now were. Every man and woman present knew their job, but it was vital that no one made an error.
‘One thing, sir, if you don’t mind,’ Heck spoke up. ‘I strongly recommend that we take anything Alan Devlin tells us with a pinch of salt.’
‘Any particular reason?’ Grinton asked.
Heck waved Devlin’s sheet. ‘He hasn’t been convicted of any crime since he was a juvenile, but he wasn’t shy about getting his hands dirty back in the day – he was Jimmy Hood’s right-hand man when they were terrorising housing estates around Hucknall. Now his son Wayne is halfway to repeating that pattern here in St Ann’s. Try as I may, I can’t view Alan Devlin as an upstanding citizen.’
‘You think he’d cover for a killer?’ Jowitt said doubtfully.
Heck shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir. Assuming Hood is the killer – and from what we know, I think he probably is – I find it odd that Devlin, who knows him better than anyone, hasn’t already come to the same conclusion and got in touch with us voluntarily.’
‘Maybe he’s scared?’ someone suggested.
Heck tried not to look as sceptical about that as he felt. ‘Hood’s a thug, but he’s in breach of licence conditions that strictly prohibit him from returning to Nottingham. That means he’s keeping his head down and moving from place to place. He’s only got one change of clothes, he’s on his own, he’s cold, damp, and dining on scraps in bus stations. Does he really pose much of a threat to a bloke like Devlin, who’s got form for violence himself, has a grown-up hooligan for a son and, though he’s not officially a player anymore, is probably well respected on his home patch and can call a few faces if he needs help?’
The team pondered, taking this on board.
‘We’ll see what happens,’ Grinton said, zipping his anorak. ‘If Devlin plays it dumb, we’ll let him know that Hood’s mugshot is appearing on the ten o’clock news tonight, and all it’s going to take is a couple of local residents to recognise him as someone they’ve seen hanging around Devlin’s address. The Lady Killer is going down for the rest of this century, ladies and gents. Devlin may still have a rep to think of, but he won’t want a piece of that action. Odds are he’ll start talking.’
They drove to the address in question in five unmarked vehicles; one of them Heck’s maroon Peugeot 308, and one a plain-clothes APC. They did it discreetly and without fanfare. St Ann’s wasn’t an out-of-control neighbourhood, but it wasn’t the sort of place where excessive police activity would go unnoticed, and mobs could form quickly if word got out that ‘one of the boys’ was in trouble. In physical terms, it was a rabbit warren of crumbling council blocks, networked with dingy footways, which at night were a mugger’s paradise. To heighten its atmosphere of menace, a winter gloom had descended, filling the narrow passages with cloying vapour.
Arriving at 41 Lakeside View, they found a boxy, redbrick structure, accessible by a short cement ramp with a rusty wrought-iron railing, and a single corridor running through from one side to the other, to which various apartment doors – 41a, 41b, 41c and 41d – connected.
Heck, Grinton and Jowitt regarded it from a short distance away. Only the arched entry was visible in the evening murk, illuminated at its apex by a single dull lamp; the rest of the building was a gaunt outline. A clutch of detectives and armour-clad uniforms were waiting a few yards behind them, while the troop carrier with its complement of reinforcements was about fifty yards further back, parked in the nearest cul-de-sac. Everyone observed a strict silence.
Grinton finally turned round, keeping his voice low. ‘Okay … listen up. Roberts, Atherton … you’re staying with us. The rest of you … round the other side. Any ground-floor windows, any fire doors, block ’em off. Grab anyone who tries to come out.’
There were nods of understanding as the group, minus two uniforms, shuffled away into the mist. Grinton checked his watch to give them five minutes to get in place, then glanced at Heck and Jowitt and nodded. They detached themselves from the alley mouth, ascended the ramp, and entered the brick passage, which was poorly lit by two faltering bulbs and defaced end to end with obscene, spray-painted slogans. The same graffiti covered three of its four doors. The only one that hadn’t been vandalised was 41c – the home of Alan Devlin.
There was no bell, so Grinton rapped on the door with his fist. Several seconds passed before there was a fumbling on the other side. The door opened as far as its short safety chain would allow. The face beyond was aged in its mid-thirties, but pudgy and pockmarked, one eyebrow bisected by an old scar. It unmistakably belonged to one-time hardman Alan Devlin, though these days he was squat and pot-bellied, with a shaved head. He’d answered the door in a grubby T-shirt and purple Y-fronts, but even through the narrow gap they spotted neck-chains and cheap, tacky rings on nicotine-yellow fingers. He didn’t look hostile so much as puzzled, probably because the first thing he saw was Grinton’s eye patch. He put on a pair of thick-lensed, steel-rimmed glasses, so that he could scrutinise it less myopically.
‘Alan Devlin?’ the chief superintendent asked.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
Grinton introduced himself, displaying his warrant card. ‘This is Detective Inspector Jowitt and this is Detective Sergeant Heckenburg.’
‘Suppose I’m honoured,’ Devlin grunted, looking anything but.
‘Can we come in?’ Grinton said.
‘What’s it about?’
‘You don’t know?’ Jowitt asked him.
Devlin threw him an ironic glance. ‘Yeah … I just wondered if you did.’
Heck observed the householder with interest. Though clearly irritated that his evening had been disturbed, his relaxed body language suggested that he wasn’t overly concerned. Either Devlin had nothing to hide or he was a competent performer. The latter was easily possible, as he’d had plenty of opportunity to hone such a talent while still a youth.
‘Jimmy Hood,’ Grinton explained. ‘That name ring a bell?’
Devlin continued to regard them indifferently, but for several seconds longer than was perhaps normal. Then he removed the safety chain and opened the door.
Heck glanced at the two uniforms behind them. ‘Wait out here, eh? No sense crowding him in his own pad.’ They nodded and remained in the outer passage, while the three detectives entered a dimly lit hall strewn with litter and cluttered with piles of musty, unwashed clothes. An internal door stood open on a lamp-lit room from which the sound of a television emanated. There was a strong, noxious odour of chips and ketchup.
Devlin faced them square-on, adjusting his bottle-lens specs. ‘Suppose you want to know where he is?’
‘Not only that,’ Grinton said, ‘we want to know where he’s been.’
There was a sudden thunder of feet from
