The Blood Red Line Read online

  ‘Been working out of town?’ asked Kirsty.

  ‘You know what it's like, have to earn a crust, I go where the work is,’ he replied turning back to face the girl. ‘Give us two pints of lager will you please, Kirsty, take one for yourself.’

  Kirsty held a glass under the pump. ‘Thanks, I’ll just have a half. How long are you going to be around?’

  ‘A while I should think.’ Warren gave her his warmest smile. Again, he looked around the bar where he used to be a regular.

  ‘Alright?’ asked a face he recognised.

  ‘Not bad, pal. You keeping okay?’ Warren couldn’t remember the old bloke’s name for love nor money.

  ‘Aye.’ End of conversation.

  There were other faces he recognised, he nodded and received acknowledging nods back. He thought back to the first time he walked into the Eagle, every head in the place turned and eyed him with suspicion.

  ‘So, are we going to see a bit more of you then?’ asked Kirsty, returning the smile and passing the drinks across the bar top.

  Warren placed a ten-pound note on the bar top. ‘I’ll have to see what I can do,’ he collected his change, put it in his pocket and picked up the drinks. ‘See you in a bit.’

  Jimbo had found them a table with seats facing the door. Old habits die hard. Warren had taught him well.

  Drinks in hand, Warren walked across the room and set them down on the table. ‘So, mate, what do reckon?’ He said, as he sat down and picked up his pint of lager.

  ‘To what?’ asked Jimbo as he sat back in his chair.

  ‘The job you div, the team, everything?’ Warren’s eyes constantly scanned around the pub, as well as nodding acquaintances. He’d made one or two enemies during his last stay in the area, one being Jimbo’s cousin, William Boland - AKA, Billybob. Billybob, with a trimming knife in his hand, had lain in wait for Warren, a decision he was to regret and resulted in him occupying a bed in the Orthopaedic ward in Hull Royal Infirmaries having his leg rebuilt.

  ‘Like I said, I’ve been getting on with Bill, he seems a decent enough bloke for a copper, and Trish, well, she’s cool as well as hot. A good laugh when you get to know her, and from what I’ve seen she seems good at her job.’

  ‘And you’re happy with the way things are?’

  ‘What’s with the all the questions, Greg?’

  Warren was serious. ‘Look at what happened last time you got mixed up with me? We got into one or two awkward scrapes if my memory serves me correctly - and it does.’

  ‘But we had a bloody good time doing it, didn’t we?’ Both men laughed. ‘So, how do you think we should play this? I reckon we should pair up.’

  ‘There is one difference, Jimbo, this time I won’t be running the show.’

  ‘Yeah, but once we’re out of the office, it’ll be just you and me like old times, the “A” team - right?’

  ‘If you say so, Jimbo, if you say so,’ replied Warren, eyeing the girl behind the bar as he spoke.

  ‘So, what do you think to Bill’s plan?’

  ‘As good as any I suppose, like he said, bringing Ray Cole back from the dead is the best option. I’ll try and worm my way back in with that fat twat, Conway. I take it he’s still working out of the flats on Ice House Road?’

  ‘Not heard any different, but not for much longer there’s talk of knocking them down.’ Jimbo inclined his head towards Warren’s glass. ‘Want another?’ He finished what was left in his glass, stood up and went to the bar without waiting for an answer.

  Warren was pleased the way things had worked out, it could have been a lot worse, he could have been working security in some supermarket or another, and it was good to be working with the lad again. Although he did have reservations about being thrown back into the fray as his alter ego, Ray Cole, thug and killer. He’d hoped Cole had been dead and buried once and for all. Getting reacquainted with Conway wasn’t something he was looking forward to.

  ‘That bird behind the bar was asking about you.’ Jimbo said, when he returned. Warren turned his head and smiled. ‘C’mon man … you didn’t … you never … you did, didn’t you?’

  ‘Jimbo, if all that mumbo jumbo coming out of your mouth means did I sleep with her? That’s for me to know and you to keep guessing.’ He hadn’t of course, but Warren reckoned if he’d played his cards right the opportunity had been there and maybe it still was. But he was going to keep the lad guessing. ‘Now be serious will you, how do you feel about going on the streets, meeting up with your old cronies?’

  ‘I’m cool, it’s not as if I don’t know my way around. Been there, done that. Get rid of the glad rags for a while,’ he said, as he brushed away imaginary crumbs from his Ben Sherman shirt. ‘I’ll dig out my old street clobber and put a few piercings back in, more like the old me, look the part.’

  ‘Sure you’re definitely okay with it?’

  ‘I am, Greg, I am.’ Warren needed to hear this said away from the nick.

  ‘It’s a good job I kept this,’ he said, holding up a second mobile. Warren had a second phone, the undercover mobile he’d used while assuming the persona of Ray Cole. ‘Down to me then,’ he said reluctantly, holding up the phone. ‘Suppose I’d better give Conway a bell, pave the way. I don’t just want to turn up unannounced on the paranoid twat’s doorstep and get my head caved in with a cricket bat.’ He turned his head and smiled at the girl behind the bar - again, much to Jimbo’s amusement.

  ‘Give over, old man.’

  ‘In for a penny …’ Warren scrolled through the contacts, stopped at Conway’s number and hesitated for a second or two before pressing the dial button. The call was answered almost immediately.

  ‘Who the fuck is this?’ Warren’s number wasn’t recognised.

  ‘Is that any way to speak to an old friend?’ Warren said in a West Yorkshire accent, when taking on the role of Cole he had perfected the dialect and found it easy to adopt on a whim.

  Silence for a second or two. ‘Cole - that you?’

  Warren sat back in his seat. ‘None other, pal. Listen, I’m in the area, can we meet?’

  ‘You’ve got some bleedin nerve, I thought I’d seen the back of you,’ Conway almost spat down the phone. ‘The cops still looking for you?’

  ‘I heard they gave up, bigger fish to catch and all that. Can we meet or what?’

  ‘Na, I had enough of you last time, bye.’ He hung up. Warren laughed and put the mobile down on the table.

  ‘Well, what’s he have to say?’ Jimbo asked, leaning over the sodden table top.

  ‘Can’t say that he was pleased to hear from me, the cheeky sod hung up.’

  ‘Got you sussed alright.’

  Warren gave a grin, picked up his phone and dialled again.

  Conway picked up the call right away and didn’t bother with small talk. ‘Be at the flat tomorrow - one time offer, 10 o’clock, don’t be late.’ End of conversation.

  ‘Nice speaking to you too,’ Warren said into the dead mobile, then put it down on the table between the beer spills.

  ‘Well?’ Jimbo asked, as he picked up his pint of lager and sipped through the frothy head.

  ‘Meeting him at the flat tomorrow.’

  ‘Rather you than me. You are going tooled up?’

  ‘I’ll have a word, see how we’re fixed legally regarding firearms, but I can’t see it’s something Bill would want authorised.’

  ‘Greg, there’s no way you can go in there without insurance, you know what a mad fucker he can be when he wants.’ He leaned in closer across the table and spoke in low voice. ‘I’ve still got the Glock.’ The concern was genuine. ‘Just let me know - okay?’ The Glock had been acquired during their run-in with a senior member of Gemmell Stratergies.

  ‘Bloody hell, Jimbo, you have been listening to all the shit that’s been going around today? Now you’re offering me an illegal firearm!’

  ‘Just trying to look after your welfare, that’s all.’

  ‘Thanks for the concern, pal
. But I reckon he’ll think I’m carrying, that should be enough insurance.’ He hoped. ‘Are you still living in the same flat?’

  ‘You must be joking, with the money you gave me, I’ve got myself a proper place now, a one bed roomed flat in Hessle, bought it cash on the nose.’

  ‘Good for you, the other place was a bloody dump!’

  ‘You never thought that when you were dossing down on my settee.’

  ‘Thought it - but never said it. And the car well, enough…,’ Warren said smiling.

  Chapter 5

  Warren called in at the office briefly to keep the DI informed on his plans to meet Conway, after a quick catch up he was away to his meeting. Conway never conducted business from his home, always from a flat on Ice House Road, close to the city centre. Some 100 metres short of his destination, a high-rise block of flats, Warren pulled his Ford Escort into the kerb and killed the engine. He had that feeling of déjà vu as he sat staring through the windscreen. Nothing had changed, there was nothing in the area to change. The pub was still closed and boarded up, and the local shops still sported steel security shutters over the windows. Through the smeared glass of the windscreen he stared at the high rise. He thought back to his first visit to the flat, his first meeting with Conway posing as Raymond Cole - that was something he wouldn’t forget in a hurry. It was also the first time he met a young scally called James Boland, AKA Jimbo who was now a trusted friend and of all things, a Civilian Advisor to the police.

  He checked his watch, it was coming up to 9.50am, his meeting with Conway was scheduled for 10am. His hands were damp, sweaty, he held his arms out in front of him, he was sure he could detect a tremble, some hard man he was - if only Conway could see him now. He wiped the palms down his jeans. He shook his hand to try and rid them of the feeling, turned the ignition key, selected first gear and moved off. Two minutes later he turned into the parking area of the tower block. He climbed out of the vehicle and locked it. He kicked away a beer can as he picked his way through the debris scattered about the parking area. Looking up he could see the CCTV camera high on a single pole, on his last visits some old codger unaware of what it was, had grumbled on about the council and the flood light that didn’t work.

  True to expectations the entrance foyer of the flats was clear of the usual rubbish, empty fag packets and beer cans, undoubtedly down to Conway’s influence. Warren crossed the lobby. It looked as if the lift was working. He pressed the call button and watched the floor lights change as it journeyed down. Unlike the foyer, the lift left a lot to be desired. The stench of piss invaded his nostrils as the lift doors opened, he watched them close again and headed for the stairwell.

  After taking the stairs two at a time he stood in front of the door of number thirteen. A few angry people who Conway had crossed swords with had left their mark on the door over the years. He took a deep breath, clenched his right hand into a fist and banged on the steel plated door. Warren could sense someone checking him out through the door spy-hole. He heard the locks click and the bolts being drawn on the inside.

  The door opened. ‘You’ve got some fucking nerve coming back here.’ Warren flashed him a confident grin. ‘Pissed off without a bye or leave, and now you turn up out of bloody nowhere.’ Conway said, as he stood aside to allow Warren to pass.

  ‘But I left you a wealthy man.’

  ‘And that, Ray, is the only reason I agreed to see you.’

  He noticed Conway hadn’t got any thinner, porky as ever, but still sturdy with it. Warren was committed - he had no option other than to face it out. He smiled. ‘You know me, Pat, don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone. How have you been keeping?’

  Fat maybe, but Conway looked as if he could still look after himself if the occasion arose. According to rumour Conway had been a half decent bare knuckle fighter in his time, Warren couldn’t see it himself - but you can’t always judge a book by its cover and he had no intention of finding out.

  Security conscious as ever, Conway re-locked the door, slid the bolts tight shut before following Warren into the living-room and sat down in his large leather easy chair. Warren, who stood in the centre of the room, took this as his cue to sit and flopped onto the sofa, not before moving a pile of boxing magazines onto the floor.

  ‘Put anyone in hospital lately?’ Conway asked sarcastically.

  ‘Not since I rearranged your man’s hands and face. Have you?’ Warren replied through a half smile. During his time working for Conway, the need to assert himself arose and he had needed to lay down some rules as to who was in charge. His authority was questioned by an employee of Conway’s, a local hard-case, Warren never did find out the name he had given to hospital staff - when they attempted to put his face and hands back together.

  ‘How is that employee of yours these days, still taking his food through a straw?’

  ‘Oh, he was eventually discharged from the infirmary. He’s lodging on Chanterlands Avenue now - in the Garden of Remembrance. You’re not the only one who had to lay down some ground rules. I had to send a message to anyone else who thought about grassing me up to the cops.’

  Jesus, thought Warren, and Bill wondered why he didn’t want to get involved.

  ‘No loss there, then,’ he said, feeling a twinge of guilt - but not too much, the bloke had been an arsehole, no mistake.

  Conway stood up and went through into the kitchen, returning with a couple of cans. ‘Beer?’ he asked as he passed over a can of strong export lager.

  Warren accepted the can from a knuckle damaged hand. Maybe he had been a scrapper? Warren thought as he accepted the tinny. ‘Cheers,’ he pulled back the tab and sipped from the can. He wasn’t having problems keeping up the pretence, he’d slipped back into the persona of Ray Cole with no problem - it was easier than he thought.

  ‘So, what brings your black arse back to my neck of the woods?’ Conway asked, as he put his can on the floor beside his chair and sat forward, elbows resting on his knees.

  ‘Can’t I just pay an old pal a visit?’ Although calling Conway a pal was a bit extreme.

  ‘Fuck off, Ray, I didn’t come down in the last shower! You don’t pay social calls. What are you after?’

  ‘You’re such a cynical old bastard - you know that?’

  ‘Look, if we’re just going to see who can piss the furthest you might as well sod off now, I’m a busy man.’ Conway had little patience.

  ‘Don’t get snappy. Information. I’m looking for some info that’s all, I’m not here to cause any bother.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased to hear that.’

  ‘A pal of mine up Newcastle way is in the arms market, the problem is we heard someone from around here is supplying unreliable goods, you know how the word spreads. It’s sort of tarnishing my friend’s good name and he wants it stopped.’

  ‘Suppose that’s where you come in?’

  ‘Yep, that’s where I come in, you could say I’m a sort of trouble shooter - it’s good that, ‘trouble shooter’,’ he laughed a little, not too much.

  Conway didn’t find the pun funny.

  ‘So, tell me what is it you want from me?’ He fished in his pocket and took out his cigars.

  ‘You’re top dog, around here. You must know someone or something that can help me.’

  ‘Come off it, Ray, why the fucking hell would I want to help you?’ Conway lit his cigar with his old-fashioned Zippo. The room filled with a blue fog. The smell always reminded Warren of Christmas time at his grandparent’s house.

  ‘Old time’s sake?’ He splayed his hands palm up.

  ‘Yeah, right. Old time’s sake? You’ll be swinging the lantern and playing a fucking violin in a minute. If I did have a mind to help - what would be in it for me?’

  ‘My gratitude, Pat, my eternal gratitude.’

  ‘Gratitude’s no fucking good to me, can’t spend fucking words. Now if there was to be a finder’s fee that would be a different kettle of fish altogether.’

  ‘You’re a hard ma
n to bargain with, I’ll give you that. I’m sure we can come to some amicable understanding.’

  ‘Has this got anything to do with that young fucking idiot who got his hand blown off, Scabies?’

  ‘Sort of, as it happens, he’s not the only one its happened to, what concerns us is that some of these crap pistols have made their way further north, what’s more it doesn’t look good for trade.’

  Warren never noticed the twitch in Conway’s face. ‘One of them things. Shit happens, you know that.’ The fat man blew smoke up to the ceiling.

  Warren was relieved; it looked as if Conway had swallowed his spiel. He sat back on the settee and relaxed a little.

  ‘Just like the old days, Pat, you and me having a beer and chewing the fat.’

  ‘Just get on with it, Ray.’

  ‘My colleague, in Newcastle, reckons things could escalate pretty quickly. The trouble as he sees it, is the number of independent operators getting into the game is getting a little bit out of hand. Not that he’s afraid of competition, he thrives on it. What he wants is these dodgy weapons stopped, once and for all - not doing the trade any good at all, not for anyone.’

  ‘Okay, so somewhere in the city we have amateurs converting guns, and you think I might know who.’

  ‘Come on, Pat, you run the city - if someone’s converting and selling imported firearms you’re bound to hear about it at some point, all I want is for you to put some feelers out. I need to know sooner, rather than later.’ Warren played on Conway’s vanity - it usually worked.

  ‘That’s as may be, but you know I do my best to keep out of other people’s business. As long as they keep out of mine and don’t get in the way, I leave them alone.’ Conway stood up and walked through to the kitchen and retrieved another two beers from the fridge. ‘Like I said, if I was to help, what’s in it for me?’ Conway asked, as he came back into the living room and sat down.

  ‘I’ll make sure you get well paid. Have I ever let you down?’