A Fistful of Knuckles (5 page)

‘I got me some cheesecake,’ Gene declared to his team as he lumbered by, slapping Stella’s arse so powerfully that the sound of it echoed round the office like a gunshot.

‘Call that a slap?!’ Stella yelled at him as he carried her away down the corridor. ‘Harder!
Harder, you fairy
!’

Gene booted open the door of the Lost & Found Room and disappeared inside. Sam paused, exchanging silent looks with his open-mouthed colleagues.

‘It’s like a caveman’s wedding,’ he said. ‘Back to work, everyone. Me and the guv have got it all under control. Everything’s fine.’

Nobody believed that any more than Sam himself did. Nervously, he turned and followed Gene into the Lost & Found room.

Her hands cuffed behind her back, Stella sat, panting and sweating, on a wooden chair, surrounded by abandoned bicycles, unclaimed briefcases, and all the rest of Manchester’s unwanted bric-a-brac that had found its way here over the years. Sam tried to keep his attention away from the way Stella was sitting; like a low-rent, fag-stained Sharon Stone, she had her legs open just that bit too far. Her blonde hair had tumbled over one eye. Her breasts rose and fell heavily beneath the zebra-patterned fabric of her top; she was Moll Flanders meets Bet Lynch on a bad day.

Gene fished out a packet of Embassy No.6’s from his jacket pocket.

‘You crumpled my fags, you fruitcake,’ he accused her, carefully removing a wonky fag from the packet. ‘That, toots, is crossing the bloody line.’

He lit up and drew on the nicotine like it was the elixir of life itself.

‘Right,’ said Sam at last. ‘Let’s all calm down. I don’t think any of us have got the energy for any more messing about.’

‘Speak for yourself, young ‘un,’ said Stella, her eyes fixed on Gene. Her lipstick was smeared across one cheek, her Dusty Springfield mascara was all over her face, and yet, dishevelled as she was, there was still a fierce fire burning in her eyes and in her blood. ‘You brought me here to pump me with questions. Well then – get pumping.’

Sam sighed and said calmly: ‘Stella, there’s no need for all this. All we want from you is information about-’

‘Not you, girly-bollocks,’ Stella interrupted, still staring at Gene. ‘
Him.
The
real
man. The guv’nor.’

Gene lounged against the wall, the fag smouldering in his gob, and silently narrowed his eyes at her.

‘You want to pump me?’ Stella glared. ‘Then pump me. Like only you know how.’

For several highly charged seconds, Gene fixed her with his stare. The air was thick with the mingled aromas of Gene’s
Brut
and Stella’s
Charlie.
Once again, Sam felt he was intruding on a private moment between these two – a ghastly, stomach-churning private moment he would rather not witness. It was like being in a seedy backstreet club. It was worse than the coroner with the whelks.

Gene exhausted his cigarette and heeled it into the floor. Then, very much taking his time, he began to pace slowly up and down behind Stella’s back.

‘Denzil Obi,’ he said, his voice low, his manner controlled. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me what you know about him.’

‘He were a nice enough lad,’ said Stella. ‘In his way.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He didn’t have a good start in life. Had to make his way as best he could.’

‘Bit of a Jack-the-lad, was he?’

Stella shrugged. Gene paced.

‘He had ambitions to become a boxer,’ Gene said. ‘What can you tell me about that?’

‘He weren’t a bad welterweight. Nifty. Bit of a rough diamond, but with work he could have gone places.’

‘It’s not the places he could have gone that interest me but the places he came from. The Black Widow had a seedy past, didn’t he. Illegal fights. Bare-knuckle bouts. He must have rubbed shoulders with some right horrible bastards.’

‘Most like,’ said Stella.

‘And pissed a few of ‘em off in the process.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Any ideas who?’

‘Nope.’

‘’Course you do.’

‘I’m legit, Mr DCI. I know nothing about the underworld.’

‘Pull the other one, luv, it lights up and plays Leo Sayer.’

‘I don’t associate with villains,’ protested Stella. ‘Not willingly, anyway. I’m straight.’

‘Straight?
Straight?!
’ Gene grasped her by the hair and twister he head round. ‘You’re as kinky as a bloody corkscrew, and in more ways than one. Names! I want bloody names! Denzil Obi got on the wrong side of someone – who was it? Give me a name!’

‘Make me.’

‘I said give me a name!

‘And I said
make me
!’

‘
Give me a name! Give me a name
!’ And now Gene began to punctuate his words with a series of slaps. ‘Give!’ –
Slap
! – ‘Me!’ –
Slap
! – ‘A’ –
Slap
! – ‘Blood!’
– Slap
! – ‘Ee name!’ –
Slap, slap
!

Sam’s instinct was to intervene, but he restrained himself. Nobody would thank him for stepping in, least of all Stella. What was going on between these two was something too murky, too unsavoury for Sam to get involved with. He was better off out of it. He didn’t want to be soiled.

Gene yanked Stella’s face closer to his own and hissed into it: ‘Big fellas getting handy – that’s what gets your juices bubbling, isn’t it. That’s why you run that seedy gym. Watching blokes beating eight buckets of shite out of each other turns you right on, don’t it!’

‘Oh yes!’ The words came out of her as a gasp.

‘And getting on the receiving end of it tweaks your dial even more!’

‘Oh
yes …
!’

‘You dirty randy kinky scrubber,’ Gene snarled, and he hauled her up from the chair. One of her white stilettos went skittering across the floor. He gripped her by the shoulders and shook her; Stella’s head lolled about wildly, her hair falling all over her face, her manacled hands clenching and flexing behind her back.

‘You want the rough stuff? Eh?’ he barked.

‘As rough as you can make it, Guv’nor.’

‘Careful what you wish for … you might just get it.’

Stella was panting hard, pushing her heaving breasts into Gene’s barrel chest: ‘You’re … You’re …’

‘Speak up, petal!’

‘You’re getting close to making me … making me …’ She was breathing so hard she could barely get the words out. ‘… Making me talk.’

Gene span her round and yanked her arms up awkwardly behind her. She let out a cry – a cry of ecstatic pain.

‘Talk!’ Gene ordered. ‘Talk, you pervy slag. Or would you rather I turn you over to my colleague DI Tyler?
He
won’t treat you tough like this. Oh no. He’ll be soft and gentle.
Very
gentle.’

‘No!’ Stella cried.

‘He won’t lay so much as a finger on you. He’ll be patient, keeping his temper, treating you like a
lady,
with
respect
.’

‘No, please!’

‘Hour after hour of it! Cups of tea. Polite questioning. Playing it by the book. Never losing his rag – not once. Being
nice
!’

‘
Please!
Don’t leave me alone with him!’

‘You don’t want the Tyler treatment? Then get talking!’

‘Denzil and Spider!’ Stella panted, struggling to speak through the delicious pain. ‘They grew up together. Spider used to stick up for Denzil when the other kids picked on him and called him a coon and all that. They got them tattoos done together, to show they were like … you know, blood brothers. They didn’t have no family, not really – just each other.’

‘Very touching,’ said Gene. ‘But this a murder enquiry, not
This Is Your Life.
I want to know who’d have a grudge against Denzil!’

‘Denzil and Spider got into the word of illegal bare knuckle fights when they were still just kids,’ Stella went on. ‘It was all they could do to survive. Between them, they went up against some right hard bastards … big-money fighters, real legends …’

‘Names! Names!’

‘Too many to mention!’

‘
Give me names
!’

‘Lenny Gorman, Bartley Shaw, Patsy O’Riordan out of Kilburn. I could name a dozen others. Big men … real men …
hard
men …’ Her eyes glittered at the thought. ‘Any one of them could have had a grudge against Denzil.’

‘Why? Why would they have a grudge against Denzil?’

‘It’s what the underworld’s like,’ said Stella. ‘Fights that get fixed, fellas making off with winnings what aren’t theirs, blokes paid to bust other bloke’s hands. It’s the way it is. Betrayal and revenge. Denzil and Spider got involved in some pretty scummy business to earn themselves a crust. They were no different from anyone else in that world. Or in
your
world, Mr DCI Gene beautiful beautiful Hunt!’

‘Knock off the flattery and stick to the facts!’ snorted Gene, rewarding her compliment with a cuff round the ear that sent one of her dangly earrings flying off to join her missing stiletto.

‘They had a past, that’s no secret,’ Stella went on. ‘But they were good lads at heart. They were just trying to survive in a world that didn’t give a stuff about ‘em. And now boxing’s changing, offering a chance for boys like them to go legit, turn pro. They saw a chance to have a
real
life, a proper life, all above board and legal. That’s why they wound up at my gym. I got ‘em training under Dermot. He was Denzil and Spider’s mentor. I told ‘em, I said
work hard, lads, do what Dermot tells you, and I’ll I see you meet all the right people, get real chances to make a go of it.
But it looks like Denzil’s past caught up with him.’

‘And if someone’s settling an old score with Denzil, then odds on that they’ll want to settle it with Spider too.’

‘Most like,’ said Stella. ‘If I knew who it was, I’d tell you. I’d let you rough me up some more first, but I’d tell you.’

‘Aye, I think you would at that,’ said Gene, nodding to himself. ‘One more thing before we adjourn for scones and tea. We found a bullet in Denzil’s gob, unfired, shoved down after he died. What’s that all about?’

‘A sign,’ said Stella. ‘No, not a sign … more like a rebuke.’

‘A rebuke?’

‘Them boxers in the underworld – they’re bastards, but like all bastards they’ve got a code of honour. The only weapons they fight with are their fists. Anyone using guns or knives or baseball bats, they’re seen as … as disrespectful. Cowards. Not real men.’

‘So,’ mused Gene, his eyes narrowing. ‘At some point in his sordid past, Denzil Obi – and probably Spider along with him – got paid to give some bloke a straightener. And they used a weapon to do it, maybe a gun. And the bloke they walloped has either got a very aggrieved relative, or else he didn’t snuff it and is now feeling perky enough to go looking for revenge.’

‘And he carried out that revenge with his bare hands,’ put in Sam at last. ‘Denzil was punched to death. No weapon.’

‘Just a bullet down his wind pipe as if to say
guns are for poofters
,’ said Gene. ‘Very poetic.’

‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ said Stella. ‘You’ll have to speak to Spider if you want more – but I don’t think he’ll talk to you.’

‘No. He didn’t
seem
very chatty,’ said Gene. ‘Where can we find him when he’s not at the gym?’

‘You’ll be able to slap his home address out of me, I promise you.’

‘Appreciated,’ said Gene, releasing her from his powerful grip. ‘Well, Angela, you’ve been very helpful in our enquiries. Thank you for your time and cooperation. You can put your shoe and earring back on now. I’ll leave one of my colleagues, Detective Sergeant Carling, to get that address from you. He’s the chap with the moustache, you might have glimpsed him on the way in here. You’ll like him. He’s pretty handy.’

‘But not a patch on you, I bet,’ said Stella, looking languidly up at him.

‘Few men are, luv. Few men are.’

And Gene, who was indeed some kind of a gentleman, offered her a post-interview cigarette.

Night was settling over Manchester, and the boys from CID had repaired to the fag-stained snug of the Railway Arms. After his session with Stella in the Lost & Found Room, Gene had worked up a majestic thirst; Ray, too, had earned himself a drink, having been obliged to slap Spider’s address out of her; and even Chris needed a stiff one, his innocent young eyes still goggling at the sights he had witnessed. Given all the giving and receiving of pleasure through violence going on in CID today, Sam half expected to hear the strains of
Blue Velvet
playing on the pub stereo – but no, it was just Steely Dan singing
Do It Again
.

‘It’s dem tursty coppers again!’ grinned Nelson from behind the bar. He turned up his West Indian accent to 10 for their benefit. ‘Is it de beer or de music or mah bee-
oo
tiful face dat keeps bringing you back in here?’

‘Beer, music, then face, Nelson, in that order,’ said Sam. ‘Don’t be offended.’

‘If you were four hot ladies sayin’ dat,
den
I’d be ahffended! What can I be gettin’ you boys?’

‘Four pints of best. God knows, we’ve earned them today.’

‘Makin’ dis city safer for de lahks of me – you surely
have
earned ‘em!’ Nelson beamed. He was really putting on his routine tonight. As he pulled the pints, he shot a glance at Gene: ‘Hey Mister DCI, you lookin’ lahk de cat what licked up
aaall
de cream!’

‘The guv’s in luv,’ smirked Ray. ‘He met the girl of his dreams today.’

‘There is a line, Raymond,’ intoned Gene. ‘I’d hate to see you cross it.’

‘She’s more your age than mine, Guv,’ Ray said, winking at Sam. ‘Hey Chris, if you don’t mind the guv’s leftovers maybe you’d like a go on her.’

‘Stella?! Give over, I’m no granny-sniffer!’ protested Chris.

‘She’d make a man of you.’

‘She’d make
mincemeat
of me!’ Chris cried. ‘I’m not into all that kinky stuff anyway.’

Ray sniggered. Gene looked sceptical. Chris got defensive.

‘I’m not!’ he insisted. ‘If you’re thinking of them magazines, I told you, I was looking after them for a mate.
You’re
the one who keeps bringing that plastic thing in, Ray!’