No Place to Hide

Westley shot him a sour look.

‘I’m not interested in shutting off your supply, Darren. I just need some information, that’s all. And they’re the likeliest source.’

‘You’ll be lucky. Bloody foreigners, ain’t they. Barely speak the bloody language, never mind having a conversation with the likes of you.’

Pete turned him into the end of an alleyway that led through to Cathedral Square. ‘You let me worry about that. All I need to know is where to find them.’

‘I only know one,’ Westley said dubiously. His sullen expression reminded Pete of his son, Tommy. The last few months before he disappeared, he’d often worn an expression just like that. Pete’s gut twisted. If only he’d spent more time with the boy, taken him out, played with him, even just watched him doing his own thing – the swimming, for instance – maybe things would have been different. He wouldn’t be gone. He wouldn’t have got tangled up with Malcolm Burton. He’d be . . . at home. Happy. Safe.

They reached their destination and Pete stopped, held out a hand. ‘Here we go.’ He nodded at the door to the small bar near the far end of the alley.

Darren frowned at him. ‘Seriously?’

Pete shrugged and held the door open, nodding for him to enter. One day, hopefully, he’d get to do the same for Tommy. If he could find him. If he could get him to come home.

When he found him, he corrected himself, as the noise hit them like a train. There was no if about it. There couldn’t be. He was going to bring his son home. Somehow.

The cacophony of raised voices, all trying to be heard over each other, was almost solid, a physical force pushing them back as they as they pressed into the small, crowded room, heading for the bar along the right side.

Pete kept one hand on Westley’s shoulder, letting him lead the way. There was no way they were getting through this lot side by side. At the bar, they squeezed in and he raised an eyebrow and jerked his head at the shelves behind.

Darren leaned in close to be heard. ‘Vodka,’ he shouted. ‘Straight.’

Pete nodded and waited to catch the eye of one of the three young guys in black shirts and trousers behind the bar. Raising one hand to cup Darren’s ear, he shouted into it. ‘Don’t worry. Like I said, I don’t want to arrest the bloke. Just ask him some questions. He’ll be back on the street in a couple of hours, tops.’

He caught the eye of the nearest barman and waved him over. ‘Vodka and a Murphy’s red,’ he called.

Westley was still looking at him sceptically. He leaned close again. ‘I need information and I’m pretty sure you can’t give it me,’ Pete told him. ‘Unless you’ve heard of somebody bumping off the undesirables of the city?’

‘What?’

‘Pimps, pushers, prostitutes. Druggies.’

‘Getting killed? Are you . . . ?’

‘Serious? Yeah. And I’m looking for a lead on who’s doing it. Your guy might know someone who’s supplied them with certain items. That’s what I’m after. A link in the chain.’

The barman put their drinks on the bar and Pete slapped a note down beside them. Nodded for the guy to keep the change, not that he guessed there would be much. Then he turned back to Darren, nodded to the drink and picked up his own.

Darren looked from Pete down to the shot glass and back again. Pete could see the decision being made in his eyes. ‘OK.’ He picked up the glass and downed the contents in one. Slapped it down on the bar. ‘The Firkin Angel. Big bloke. Shaved head, chin like an anvil and a nose like a bloody toucan. Same sort of colouring at the moment, too, especially round the eyes. Don’t fancy meeting the bloke that did it to him. Must be some kind of bad bastard. Or dead.’

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_5fee4789-9b48-590a-8da3-ca1b79f2c2a3)

Ten minutes later, Darren Westley was on his way back to the pool hall and Pete was enjoying the cool and the quiet of Cathedral Square, his phone to his ear.

‘Dick?’ he said. ‘I need you and Ben down the Firkin Angel ASAP. A Zivan Millic hangs out there, who I need a word with. Apparently, he’s big and he’s hard but he’s recently come up against someone harder. Anyway, I don’t want him running off when I approach him, so I need the exits covered, OK?’

‘You sure, boss? Sounds a bit dodgy.’

‘It’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m going to arrest him, is it?’

‘Yeah, but, he don’t know that, does he?’

‘Just bring your truncheons and keep your eyes open and your reflexes sharp.’

‘OK. Twenty minutes?’

‘Don’t be late.’

‘You are going to wait for us, right?’

Pete imagined the frown that would be creasing Dick’s brow as he asked the question. He laughed. ‘Just get there as soon as you can, Gramps.’

‘Will do.’ Feeney broke the connection and Pete put his phone away and sauntered back through to Fore Street, turning downhill.

The Firkin Angel was on a side street just up from the bottom of the hill, where Fore Street met the inner ring road. Pete leaned on the wall of the old ruins opposite while he waited. There were fewer people coming and going at this end of the street but he concentrated on his smartphone, hoping to blend in. Using the time to look up Zivan Millic on the Police National Database, he quickly found a picture of the guy and his arrest record. It did not make pleasant reading, especially as he was about to confront him. At six foot five, he looked like something out of a horror movie and his record did nothing to assuage the impression. A Polish national, he had been arrested several times over the seven years since he arrived in the UK, on a number of charges including possession with intent, GBH, assault with a deadly weapon and carrying a concealed weapon. His tool of choice appeared to be a knife and Pete was acutely aware that he was not wearing a stab-vest.

Still, if the opportunity to talk to the guy was going to present itself, he didn’t want to waste it, then have him get wind that the police were looking for him and do a disappearing act. They didn’t have time to play hide-and-seek with a possible secondary witness. They needed results – and fast.

Dick Feeney and Ben Myers arrived in a little over ten minutes. They were the opposite extremes of Pete’s team – the Grey Man and the spike-haired boy. The oldest and the youngest, experienced and keen, dour and bright. When they pulled up in an unmarked Volvo, it appeared that Dick had been looking Millic up on the PND too. He was carrying a stab-vest and an overcoat.

‘You’ll need these.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ Pete said with a grin. But he accepted them. He strapped on the stab-vest and slipped the oversized coat over it. ‘So, Ben, I need you to go round the back. Dick, you cover the front here, in case he does a runner. I’m going to make it plain that I just want to talk to him, but you never know and we don’t want to lose him.’

‘Right, boss.’

‘I’ll give you a couple of minutes to get into position, Ben, then I’ll go in. You’ve both got your radios on, right?’

‘Yep,’ said Dick. ‘On and checked.’

‘Right, off you go, Ben.’

Pete took out his own radio and keyed it to make sure it was working before transferring it to a pocket of the coat he was now wearing. ‘OK. We’re all set. I want this to go nice and smooth, if possible. No fuss, no trouble. But, we’ll have to see how Zivan reacts, won’t we? He’s not known for his subtlety.’

Dick lifted his collapsible baton from his pocket. ‘It’s a shame we’re not allowed the old side-bar truncheons any more. But, if he comes my way, I’ll be ready.’

‘Remember, he’s a possible witness, not a perp tonight.’

‘Right, boss.’

Pete held his gaze for a moment.

‘What?’

‘You cause extra paperwork, you do it.’

‘You want me to stop him, don’t you?’