Shadows. Paul Finch

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.’

       Chapter 7

      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 psychologist.

      ‘So, West Mids were happy to share?’ Beardmore flipped pages but only really skimmed what they contained.

      ‘Think they’re keen to wrap this thing up,’ Lucy replied. ‘Any help GMP can give them and all that.’

      ‘And what exactly do we know about this Creep fella?’

      ‘According to the notes, he’s a biggish bloke. About six-one, six-two, heavy build. The psyche profile makes him a young-to-middle aged male, most likely white, probably out of work or in low-paid employment.’

      ‘No kidding.’ Beardmore turned one of the e-fits around; it depicted a pale moonlike face under a heavy hood, with tiny, narrow eyes, a near non-existent nose and a jack-o’-lantern grin which split the visage from ear to ear. ‘Thought they’d be queuing up to recruit this fella.’

      ‘I spoke to a DS Broadhurst, who’s Document Reader in the West Mids MIR,’ Lucy replied. ‘He says they reckon this Creep business is a bit contrived. The manic grin, the sword … it’s his theory that they could be looking for someone a bit more stable than that suggests.’

      ‘Someone who’s capable of putting an act on?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘And if that’s the case, why do we assume he’s going to reoffend while he’s on his holidays up here?’

      Lucy paused before responding. She’d been through all the November Division crime reports taken that last week, and though there was the usual quota of assaults and street robberies, none were like-for-like with the attacks in the West Midlands. As such, with no actual crime for Crowley CID to investigate, she was now proposing that they put some spotters on the street at night in anticipation; maybe even use decoys. If the Creep’s past form