AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Six,” Yate parroted, his smile broad and knowing. “Quite a bit of luck you had there. And at such an opportune time. Extraordinary. I bet that put those CID boys out of joint. All that effort they went through to conceal the Browning. They finally have your balls in a vice, then you go and pull a stunt like that and the Chief Constable himself tells them to put it-”
“Yate!” Though he did not raise his voice above a whisper, Jake’s tone was sharper than a razor. “I have better things to do than listen to you crow all night. Now, are you going to tell me what’s so important that I had to come over here on Christmas Eve, or do I have to drag you down to lockup for the night for wasting my time?”
Yate smiled, knowing he’d won this round. “Terry’s planning a score.”
“The People’s King? You do surprise me,” Jake said in a tone dripping with sarcasm. “You’ll have to do better than that. He’s legit, remember?”
“Yes, but all jobs still require his seal of approval. This is still his town,” Yate pointed out. “There isn’t a major heist goin’ down in the borough that hasn’t received his nod of approval.”
“That may be, but that amounts to conspiracy, at best, and it’s bloody hard to get a conspiracy conviction without rock-solid evidence.” Jake eased back into the chair. “Everyone knows Terry’s in it up to his neck. Half the MET is working to drag him down off his podium and the other half is in his pocket. I know that whenever I arrive on the scene, Terry has his fingers in it, then flaunts his immunity by building a new wing to the children’s hospital on the proceeds. But so long as every villain I drag in keeps swearing he’s the mastermind, I can’t touch him. And no one is going to stand up in the Old Bailey, point to Terry Daley, and go ‘that’s him, your honour. That’s the geeza’. Nobody’s that stupid. Not after what happened to Stanton’s kid.”
“After his fall he was drawn to the block, and there his bowels withdrawn, and he was divided into four parts,” Yate recited. “Such a terrible way to die. And so young. They say Terrance himself gave Mad Dog the order.” Suddenly, Yate’s small, watery rat-like eyes were fixed on Jake. Then, his smile suddenly mocking, he went on. “To prove his loyalty, he butchered his own son before the boy could give evidence against Daley. Then murdered his wife for protecting him. Now he’s on the run. Tell me, did they ever find his daughter?”
An icy hand settled around Jake’s heart at the mention of the Stanton girl.
He’d heard the stories of Terrance Daley’s playroom. It was an underworld myth. A fabrication. Probably cooked up by Daley himself to add terror to his infamy. Even so, there were some things it didn’t bear thinking about.
“Such a sweet girl,” Yate pressed. “The boy I can almost understand, but to think a father might knowingly hand his own innocent child over to tha-”
“Harry, I’m beginning to lose my rag with you.” Emphasising Yate’s Christian name with deadly purpose, Jake had to force himself to stay calm. “The Flying Squad was formed to tackle commercial armed and unarmed robberies. Not chase leads on escaped convicts playing truant. Mad Dog Jack Stanton is a murderer, a thug, and an extortionist. He demands money with menace and makes bodies disappear. He doesn’t get tilled to the nines and wave water pistols at cashiers’ heads.” He pushed up from the chair, braced his hands on the desk’s leather top and leant forward to look the other man square in the eye. “If you have information on where he might be hiding, I suggest you dial 999. Otherwise, unless you give me something tangible, you’ll be drinking your Christmas dinner through a straw in intensive care.”
There were tricks to a good threat. It was all about the perceived capability of violence. A man with his gun out but shaking like a fairy was just as likely to piss his pants as carry it through and the world could see it. But the smallest gesture, the right look, transformed a man into a monster. And from him, a good threat was deadlier than any muscle-bound gorilla with a shooter.
Deflating like a punctured balloon under the younger man’s cold blue glare, Yate pulled open a desk drawer and pulled out a pocket voice recorder that he placed on the leather top. Easing back into his seat, Jake eyed the device suspiciously before nodding. “Go on…”
Moving so quickly, he almost fell out of his seat. Yate pawed the device like a monkey trying to open a fiddly banana, his fingers thumbing the recorder until he finally managed to find the Play button. Someone had obviously prepared it in advance because no sooner had he depressed the trigger than Terrance Daley’s old, scratchy voice, heavily flavoured by the East End, spoke, caught in the midst of giving some oration that would have given dear old Adolf a turn.
“Shut it off,” Jake said after about twenty minutes. “Is this genuine?”
“Oh yes,” Yate confirmed, taking a long draw on his cigar before placing it on the ashtray and stopping the recording. He had fully regained his composure. “Terrance booked my back room for a little Christmas function for a few colleagues. So, I arranged for a few of these to be placed here and there shortly after he arrived. Very good at that sort of thing, are my girls.”
“Well, that’s very interesting, Harry. I’m very impressed. In fact, I’m just fucking astounded. You got Terry on tape. Talking with a lot of people who may or may not be villains, discussing a heist any criminal in Greater London will probably be discussing tonight, or his plans to move a bookcase, repaint his bathroom, kitchen, or Saint Paul’s bloody fucking cathedral. I mean…” Jake’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is wrong with you? You fucking idiot. How could you be so fuckin’ stupid?”
Yate’s mouth gaped. “I-I don’t understand.”
“Oh, you don’t? Well, let me enlighten you, you tart. It’s shit, Yate. This. Is. Shit!” Jake pronounced the last three words with a deadly emphasis. “There are no names. No times, dates, not even a damn street address. He’s meticulous about avoiding saying anything that can link him to any crime, past or currently in the works. I can’t get a warrant based on this. I couldn’t even get planning permission. Will you wear a wire?”
“Me?” The older man visibly paled, horrified by the suggestion. “Good Lord, no. I’m not… I mean, I couldn’t. Daley would kill me. He’d throw me to his dogs.”
“You’re a lying, cheating pimp, Yate,” Jake growled. “Not only have you not given me probable cause, but by recording this and playing it for me, you’ve made it so that any case I try to start based on it will be thrown out for illegal tapping, invasion of privacy, and God knows what else his high-priced brief can dream up. He might even try to drag you up on charges. You want to take that chance? Because I assure you, Terrance will.”
Yate was suddenly so white he looked like he was about to be sick and his lip was practically trembling. “No.”
“That’s what I thought.” Rising out of his chair, Jake walked around the desk to stand in front of Yate and snatched the recorder from his chubby fingers. “You drag me over here again for this bullshit and I’ll hand this tape over to The People’s King myself.” He turned on his heel to leave.
“What? No… you can’t!”
“Watch me.”
The switch was concealed in the same drawer that Yate had stored the recorder. A panic button that, when triggered, activated the alarm in the office’s concealed side room. It only took a moment for Yate to trigger the switch and another for the door, disguised as a bookcase, to swing open.
They were dressed like twins in matching black suits and came sulking out like well-trained dogs. One going right. The other left. Circling.
The first minder was a monster of a man. An immense six-foot-five brute, more than twenty stone of muscle, with blond hair cropped short and a bushy tash under a nose that was squashed and crooked from numerous breaks.
The second was nearly as tall, but where his companion was all raw power, this one was lean and wiry, broad-chested but long-limbed and narrow-hipped, like a chimpanzee that had learned to walk upright. He had the face of a monkey to match with long dark hair, large round eyes, and a big toothy grin that Jake had the immediate urge to slap off his face.
“Well, look who it is, Pinky and Perky. What's the matter boys, CBeebies give you the axe?” Jake asked, stopping in the very centre of the room as both men came to a pause, one at his front and the other at his back. His mind raced, trying to put a name to a face, but he didn’t recognise either of them. Not from this manor. Now, why would the stupid fat bastard be getting out-of-town muscle?
