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“There’s also an inspector we need to deal with. Susan Whymark. Recent transfer and looking to make her mark, butter up the bosses, you know the sort of thing. Ambitious, by the sound of it. She’s got it into her head that there’s a problem with underage drinking at the Hope and Anchor.”
“Is there?”
“Perhaps. I’ll follow that up,” We’re both well aware that petty rubbish like this would be a major nuisance if it attracts the wrong attention and curtails the smooth running of the pub. “I’m going back there next week, and I’ll have surveillance in place before then.”
“Good.” Jack takes a drink of his coffee. “Christ, do you have to make this stuff so strong?” He sets the cup aside. “I’ll have a word with our tame superintendent, get him to redirect Inspector Whymark’s priorities.”
“Perhaps she could worry more about Timmy McRae and get him rounded up,” I suggest.
“Fair enough. I’ll mention it. Now could we—?”
Our conversation is interrupted by the drone of an approaching helicopter. Our eyes meet. The boss is here.
CHAPTER6
Jenna
It could have been worse.
Correction:It could have been a lot, lot worse. I could be dead now, or badly beaten. Raped. Probably would be, if Jack Morgan and Tony hadn’t showed up when they did.
I wipe away the cloud of condensation and peer into the bathroom mirror. My lip is healing, and the bruising on my cheek has faded. I’ll do. I can slap on a bit of makeup and no one will be any the wiser. I can get back behind the bar this evening without scaring the punters. Or attracting awkward questions.
I’m grateful for the intervention which might have saved my life, but now I have another problem. I need to raise seven thousand pounds by the end of the week to get the Savages off my back. Tony was nice enough about everything, all things considered, but his message was clear. Pay up or face the consequences. I’ve been around the underbelly of this world long enough to know what that means. People who get on the wrong side of Ethan Savage end up bleeding in dark alleys, or with bits of them missing.
I’m not sure just how far he’d go to make his point and I don’t care to find out. So, I’m left with little choice. I have to find that money.
I sigh. How did I even get into this mess? I should have known better. Ididknow better, but I dived in with both feet anyway. So now, here I am, in debt to a crime boss with a reputation for being a ruthless bastard. Of course he wants what’s owed to him. And of course he has to have it.
I told myself I was just ‘borrowing’ Ethan Savage’s money and would be able to give it back before he even knew he’d lent it to me. Things didn’t work out that way.
I drag a comb through my hair and arrange the neckline of my top. Not too raunchy, but low enough to please the regulars in the bar. They have expectations. A smile, a chat, and a glimpse of cleavage while they sink their pints and discuss business. My dad’s relying on me to look after his pub while he’s away.
I never disappoint, I pride myself on that. And now, I have even more obligations. Others who rely on me. I really hate letting people down.
I straighten and make my way downstairs.
“Jenna, love. I’ll have a pint of bitter when you’ve a moment.” Reggie Cropper is one of my regulars, usually through the door within moments of the bar opening. He can make a pint last a couple of hours if he has to, especially if it’s cold out and he’s short of money for the electricity meter. I have pointed out to him that he could put the money he spends in here into his meter and he’d be warm, but he doesn’t fancy that. His answer is always the same. ‘Eh, lass, I’m no’ that fond o’ me own company.’
So, a pint of bitter and a chat it is. I pull the pint and hand it to him, then leave him to pass the time of day with the young couple seated next to him while I move on to the next customer.
I’m kept busy, and so is my barmaid, Molly, but eventually, the busy lunchtime period gives way to the quieter mid-afternoon slot. My feet ache, but it’s been a good day so far. The takings are decent. I cross my fingers and hope that it remains so.
A few die-hards have settled in for the day, supping quietly and watching horse racing on the huge flatscreen television. Reggie is among them, and he raises his hand in a cheery wave as I do my rounds collecting glasses. I stack them in the dishwasher, then turn to Molly.
“It’s quiet enough just now. I need to slip out. You’ll be all right, won’t you? Just for an hour or so.”
“Sure. You get off, hinny.” Molly is seventy if she’s a day and has worked here for the last half century. Nothing fazes her.
“Thanks.” I nip into the back for my coat then scuttle out through the yard at the rear. An hour is pushing it; I need to get right across Glasgow and back, but if I hurry…
My car, a metallic-blue Clio which has seen better days, has an entirely different idea about hurrying than I do. Add to that the usual Glasgow traffic snarl-ups, and I chug up to the converted warehouse on the banks of the Clyde forty minutes later. I park and rush in through the main entrance. The place used to store imported fleeces destined for the weaving trade. The scent of lanolin still seeps from the brickwork. These days it is home to a variety of seedy businesses, for the most part those who prefer to trade in discreet corners out of the public gaze. I study the list of occupants beside the lift and select the fifth floor.
My business doesn’t take long. I emerge from the building just ten minutes later, a thick wad of fifty-pound notes stuffed in my handbag. Getting hold of cash is remarkably easy, if you don’t mind paying ridiculous interest rates and dodging the collection squad if, for some reason, you don’t pay up.
But I will pay it back. I have to.
* * *
