No Place to Hide

Pete found a parking space on the steep hill and pulled in. He walked down past the end of the dark alley that led past a cinema to the scruffy, blue edifice of Mamma Stone’s club. A couple of doors further on was the pool hall he was heading for.

The place was still fairly quiet, most of the guys around the tables. Just three stood at the bar, drinks in front of them. There was no sign of Darren Westley.

Back outside, he leaned on a lamp post just beyond the side street, took out his phone and pretended to play with it. A bus went past, barely fitting between the cars parked down one side and the narrow pavement on the other. A group of girls in short, sparkly dresses stepped past him and turned down towards the cinema and the nightclub beyond.

Pete wondered how on earth they managed to avoid hypothermia with more skin exposed than covered in temperatures that were set to drop near to freezing in the next few hours. Then he saw the distinctive mop of ginger hair weaving through the crowd towards him. He pushed away from the lamp post and put his phone away as he stepped past the girls and headed quickly down the hill.

He met Westley two doors beyond the pool hall. Put out an arm to wrap around the other man’s shoulder and turn him smoothly to one side.

‘Hello, Darren. Fancy meeting you here. Do you want to get a drink somewhere?’

‘That would screw my reputation, wouldn’t it – being seen with you? What do you want?’ Up close, Westley could be seen to be suffering. He looked ill. His always-pale skin was sallow and rough. There were dark rings under his blue eyes and his mop of hair hadn’t been washed in a few days. His jeans looked stained, too, as did the T-shirt Pete could see under his brown denim jacket.

‘Just a quick word. And I was thinking about somewhere you wouldn’t be recognised. Somewhere nice, for example. Like that little place along Cathedral Passage. Plenty of noise, so you won’t be overheard if you say something impolite.’ Pete pulled him around, arm still around his shoulders, and headed back up the hill. ‘Look on the bright side. You look like you could do with a little something. Booze is better than bugger all, right?’

‘Yeah, well . . . That’s down to your lot, innit – the bugger all.’

‘What, the supply’s dried up, has it?’

‘Almost. And the price has nearly doubled.’

‘Supply and demand. The beauty of capitalism. So, it has started up again, then?’ Pete guided them across the road and up past the bus stop.

‘Yeah, just two or three days ago. It was dead for a week or so before that.’

‘So, who’s out there now? Anyone I might know?’

Westley shot him a sour look.

‘I’m not interested in shutting off your supply, Darren. I just need some information, that’s all. And they’re the likeliest source.’

‘You’ll be lucky. Bloody foreigners, ain’t they. Barely speak the bloody language, never mind having a conversation with the likes of you.’

Pete turned him into the end of an alleyway that led through to Cathedral Square. ‘You let me worry about that. All I need to know is where to find them.’

‘I only know one,’ Westley said dubiously. His sullen expression reminded Pete of his son, Tommy. The last few months before he disappeared, he’d often worn an expression just like that. Pete’s gut twisted. If only he’d spent more time with the boy, taken him out, played with him, even just watched him doing his own thing – the swimming, for instance – maybe things would have been different. He wouldn’t be gone. He wouldn’t have got tangled up with Malcolm Burton. He’d be . . . at home. Happy. Safe.

They reached their destination and Pete stopped, held out a hand. ‘Here we go.’ He nodded at the door to the small bar near the far end of the alley.

Darren frowned at him. ‘Seriously?’

Pete shrugged and held the door open, nodding for him to enter. One day, hopefully, he’d get to do the same for Tommy. If he could find him. If he could get him to come home.

When he found him, he corrected himself, as the noise hit them like a train. There was no if about it. There couldn’t be. He was going to bring his son home. Somehow.

The cacophony of raised voices, all trying to be heard over each other, was almost solid, a physical force pushing them back as they as they pressed into the small, crowded room, heading for the bar along the right side.

Pete kept one hand on Westley’s shoulder, letting him lead the way. There was no way they were getting through this lot side by side. At the bar, they squeezed in and he raised an eyebrow and jerked his head at the shelves behind.

Darren leaned in close to be heard. ‘Vodka,’ he shouted. ‘Straight.’

Pete nodded and waited to catch the eye of one of the three young guys in black shirts and trousers behind the bar. Raising one hand to cup Darren’s ear, he shouted into it. ‘Don’t worry. Like I said, I don’t want to arrest the bloke. Just ask him some questions. He’ll be back on the street in a couple of hours, tops.’

He caught the eye of the nearest barman and waved him over. ‘Vodka and a Murphy’s red,’ he called.

Westley was still looking at him sceptically. He leaned close again. ‘I need information and I’m pretty sure you can’t give it me,’ Pete told him. ‘Unless you’ve heard of somebody bumping off the undesirables of the city?’

‘What?’

‘Pimps, pushers, prostitutes. Druggies.’

‘Getting killed? Are you . . . ?’

‘Serious? Yeah. And I’m looking for a lead on who’s doing it. Your guy might know someone who’s supplied them with certain items. That’s what I’m after. A link in the chain.’

The barman put their drinks on the bar and Pete slapped a note down beside them. Nodded for the guy to keep the change, not that he guessed there would be much. Then he turned back to Darren, nodded to the drink and picked up his own.

Darren looked from Pete down to the shot glass and back again. Pete could see the decision being made in his eyes. ‘OK.’ He picked up the glass and downed the contents in one. Slapped it down on the bar. ‘The Firkin Angel. Big bloke. Shaved head, chin like an anvil and a nose like a bloody toucan. Same sort of colouring at the moment, too, especially round the eyes. Don’t fancy meeting the bloke that did it to him. Must be some kind of bad bastard. Or dead.’

CHAPTER SIX

Ten minutes later, Darren Westley was on his way back to the pool hall and Pete was enjoying the cool and the quiet of Cathedral Square, his phone to his ear.

‘Dick?’ he said. ‘I need you and Ben down the Firkin Angel ASAP. A Zivan Millic hangs out there, who I need a word with. Apparently, he’s big and he’s hard but he’s recently come up against someone harder. Anyway, I don’t want him running off when I approach him, so I need the exits covered, OK?’

‘You sure, boss? Sounds a bit dodgy.’

‘It’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m going to arrest him, is it?’

‘Yeah, but, he don’t know that, does he?’

‘Just bring your truncheons and keep your eyes open and your reflexes sharp.’

‘OK. Twenty minutes?’

‘Don’t be late.’

‘You are going to wait for us, right?’

Pete imagined the frown that would be creasing Dick’s brow as he asked the question. He laughed. ‘Just get there as soon as you can, Gramps.’

‘Will do.’ Feeney broke the connection and Pete put his phone away and sauntered back through to Fore Street, turning downhill.

The Firkin Angel was on a side street just up from the bottom of the hill, where Fore Street met the inner ring road. Pete leaned on the wall of the old ruins opposite while he waited. There were fewer people coming and going at this end of the street but he concentrated on his smartphone, hoping to blend in. Using the time to look up Zivan Millic on the Police National Database, he quickly found a picture of the guy and his arrest record. It did not make pleasant reading, especially as he was about to confront him. At six foot five, he looked like something out of a horror movie and his record did nothing to assuage the impression. A Polish national, he had been arrested several times over the seven years since he arrived in the UK, on a number of charges including possession with intent, GBH, assault with a deadly weapon and carrying a concealed weapon. His tool of choice appeared to be a knife and Pete was acutely aware that he was not wearing a stab-vest.

Still, if the opportunity to talk to the guy was going to present itself, he didn’t want to waste it, then have him get wind that the police were looking for him and do a disappearing act. They didn’t have time to play hide-and-seek with a possible secondary witness. They needed results – and fast.

Dick Feeney and Ben Myers arrived in a little over ten minutes. They were the opposite extremes of Pete’s team – the Grey Man and the spike-haired boy. The oldest and the youngest, experienced and keen, dour and bright. When they pulled up in an unmarked Volvo, it appeared that Dick had been looking Millic up on the PND too. He was carrying a stab-vest and an overcoat.

‘You’ll need these.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ Pete said with a grin. But he accepted them. He strapped on the stab-vest and slipped the oversized coat over it. ‘So, Ben, I need you to go round the back. Dick, you cover the front here, in case he does a runner. I’m going to make it plain that I just want to talk to him, but you never know and we don’t want to lose him.’

‘Right, boss.’

‘I’ll give you a couple of minutes to get into position, Ben, then I’ll go in. You’ve both got your radios on, right?’

‘Yep,’ said Dick. ‘On and checked.’

‘Right, off you go, Ben.’

Pete took out his own radio and keyed it to make sure it was working before transferring it to a pocket of the coat he was now wearing. ‘OK. We’re all set. I want this to go nice and smooth, if possible. No fuss, no trouble. But, we’ll have to see how Zivan reacts, won’t we? He’s not known for his subtlety.’

Dick lifted his collapsible baton from his pocket. ‘It’s a shame we’re not allowed the old side-bar truncheons any more. But, if he comes my way, I’ll be ready.’

‘Remember, he’s a possible witness, not a perp tonight.’

‘Right, boss.’

Pete held his gaze for a moment.

‘What?’

‘You cause extra paperwork, you do it.’

‘You want me to stop him, don’t you?’

‘Yes. But not at the expense of a hospital visit, if at all possible. All right?’

‘Anybody would think I was slap-happy,’ Feeney complained.

Their radios crackled and Ben’s voice came through faintly. ‘In position.’

Pete lifted his radio from his coat pocket and keyed the mike. ‘OK. Stand by. Going in.’ He returned the radio to his pocket and fisted his badge. ‘See you in a bit.’

Pete ambled the thirty yards along to the pub. While he waited, he had seen several groups of people enter and only a few leave, but he was still surprised at how packed the place was. The noise hit him before he even opened the door, swelling out through the closed windows. The place was rammed. It was worse than the bar up by the cathedral. There was no music, just the sound of raised voices. He could barely push his way in. He eased between two young men with pint glasses in their hands who were chatting across the doorway and moved slowly through the crowd to the bar, barely able to hear himself think. How anyone could carry on a conversation in here, he had no idea – apart from yelling like a parade-ground sergeant major.

And he’d thought the other place was noisy!

Finally reaching the bar, he found that it was a Theakston’s pub – rare, this far south. He managed to get the attention of one of the barmen and signalled for a half of Old Peculiar. Glass in hand, he turned to survey the heaving throng around him. Taller than most, it did not take long to see a still spot near the far end of the bar. Then the man at it centre straightened up.

‘Damn, you are a big bugger, aren’t you,’ Pete muttered as the top half of Millic’s head went from view between the dark beams of the ceiling. He took a swig of his drink – cool and smooth – and stepped away from the bar to make his way towards his target. After some careful navigation, he eased in beside the big man, who was now leaning his elbows on the bar, a pint glass two-thirds full in front of him, his ugly face set in a scowl.

‘Zivan,’ Pete yelled, slapping him on the back with one hand as he set his glass on the bar with the other. ‘How you doing, buddy?’

Zivan turned to look at him from under large brows. ‘I know you?’ His voice was deep and heavily accented.

‘No, but I’ve heard of you.’ Pete eased in closer to the big man’s right side – too close for him to be able to draw his knife – and surreptitiously showed him his badge. ‘I’m not here to cause you any trouble. I’m told you might know a bloke I’m looking for – again, just for information on another party.’

Zivan’s face had closed down at the sight of Pete’s badge. ‘Why the fuck should I help you?’

‘Call it customer relations. The bloke I’m after is killing off your customer base. And that of the man I’m told you can point me towards. So I’m doing you a favour and you’d be doing him one.’

Pete could see the cogs turning in the big man’s brain. It was almost painful to watch, but he reached his conclusion in the end. He picked up his glass and drained it in one long swallow, then locked his dark eyes on Pete’s. ‘Fuck you, pig,’ he said flatly and swung the empty glass at Pete’s head. Pete ducked. The glass went over his shoulder. He heard it smash behind him and someone yelled out.

Pete stamped hard on Zivan’s left foot, ducking his head in close to the bigger man’s chest. Zivan howled, hunching over in pain, his chin coming down on the top of Pete’s head. Pete pushed back against the tightly packed crowd to make room and swung his foot around to heel Zivan in the back of the leg, aiming to drop him to one knee, but he didn’t have the space to make the move count. Zivan’s huge hand clamped around his throat and lifted him bodily off the ground, slamming the top of his head against one of the dark-painted ceiling beams.

Pain lanced through Pete’s skull, lights sparking in his vision. Then Zivan released him. His feet hit the floor, knees sagging under him as Zivan swung a punch. It caught Pete in the shoulder, knocking him back into the press of people behind him. Zivan turned, pushing through the press of people towards the back door as Pete shook his head, trying to clear it. Pete was pushed forcibly from behind. He saw Zivan wading through the crowd like a bear up to his chest in water, leaving a seething mass of angered patrons in his wake. There was no way Pete was going to get through there after him. He turned the other way. He lifted his radio from his pocket and keyed the mike, hoping the others could hear him over the noise. ‘Ben, he’s coming your way,’ he yelled. ‘Dick, go and help him.’

Pete wove his way as quickly as he could through the tightly packed patrons and out into the cool and the sudden, blissful quiet. But he didn’t have time to pause and enjoy the contrast. He turned fast to the alley at the side of the pub and ran down it, hearing Dick’s footsteps ahead of him. Rounding the far corner, he saw Feeney helping Ben Myers up off the ground. Ben looked up sheepishly.

‘Sorry, boss. I nearly had him, but Christ! I’ve never come across a bloke as big as that. He legged it off up the alley, there.’ He nodded towards the narrow path that led through the small residential area and up towards the churchyard.

Pete cursed inside, but waved the confession away. ‘You OK?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, just . . . ego, more than anything, I suppose.’

‘OK. Too late to go after him now. I’ll go back in and have a word with the landlord. Maybe he can help. You two get off home.’

‘You sure?’ Dick asked.

Pete nodded and Dick shrugged. ‘OK. ’Night, boss.’

‘Sorry,’ Ben said again.

Pete pushed through the back door of the pub and went quickly up the short corridor past the toilets and the door to what he guessed was the upstairs accommodation. Back in the heaving bar, he eased his way through the tightly packed crowd. This time, he took more notice of the three men behind the bar. He quickly spotted the one he needed. He was older than the others by a good twenty years. Could probably give Pete ten, he guessed. His black T-shirt was stretched over a considerable beer gut, his thinning dark hair long and tied back in a ponytail.

Pete reached the bar right in front of him, pushing through between a guy in his mid-twenties, in a shirt and tie, and a young lad in denims. He slapped his fist down on the bar, wrapped around his police badge, and leaned in to shout. ‘I need a word, mate. Now.’

The man’s too-small eyes rose to meet Pete’s. He shrugged, waving at the crowded room around them.

‘Here or Heavitree Road.’

The man frowned sharply. ‘Upstairs.’ He turned towards the far end of the bar. Pete followed as best he could. As he eased through the tightly packed crowd, he thought, I bet the Health and Safety bods would have a field day in here with access points and so on.

The landlord waited for him near the rear door, then led the way wordlessly into the corridor and through the black-painted door marked ‘Private’.

The narrow, uneven wooden stairs led up to a corridor with several doors, only one of which was open, right at the top of the stairs. Pete saw a kitchen with a small table in the middle. The fat man led the way in and pulled out a chair.

‘So, what’s this about?’

Pete sat across from him. ‘Zivan Millic.’

The man frowned.

‘Big bugger I chased out of here a few minutes ago. Looks like a cross between a Neanderthal and a brown bear.’

The man grunted. ‘Didn’t know his name. What about him?’

‘I’ve got a witness telling me he deals drugs in here. Not that I’m interested in that, particularly. I’m also told he could tell me about a man I’m looking for as a witness in a murder case. Bloke known as the Armenian.’

The landlord went very still. His bulbous bottom lip disappeared briefly into his mouth and bounced back out again. ‘Never heard of him. The other one, I see in here sometimes, but that’s all.’

‘I never suggested you had heard of him,’ Pete said evenly. ‘I just want to know how to find Millic. And don’t tell me you only know him by sight. You wouldn’t put your licence at risk for someone you don’t know, even if he is as big as a bloody Portaloo.’

‘Look, I’m just trying to stay out of trouble. These old places, they’re like tinderboxes. I don’t want no so-called accidents like the Dolphin last year.’

Pete remembered the old pub, up near the cathedral, which had been burned out in a massive fire one night, several months ago. ‘What do you know about that?’

‘Only what the landlord told me. Somebody like Millic – not him, somebody else – was dealing in there. He threw ’em out. Few nights later, up it goes. Coincidence? He don’t think so, and nor do I. So, yes – I know what he’s up to. And, no, I haven’t reported it.’

‘Well, the only way to stop people like him is to help us put them away.’

‘Yeah, right. There’s no way you’d catch all of them. And as soon as they found out who shopped their mates, what do you think would happen?’

‘Look, I told you. All I want Millic for, for now, is a link in a chain that could lead to a killer who might be one of their customers. How can that do any harm? You tell me what you know, I can go talk to him, job done.’

‘Yeah, and where do you think he’ll imagine you got the information, eh? After you just tried to take him in here?’ The landlord shook his head. ‘No way.’

‘Well, where else does he go then? He’s not in here every night, is he?’

‘I’ve heard you can find him in the Blue Boar sometimes, up by the library.’

‘OK then. Any idea which nights?’

‘He’s not usually in here on Saturdays or Mondays.’

‘Right.’ Pete stood up, clapped the man on the back. ‘Thank you. Oh, by the way, do you get any coppers in here that you know of?’

‘Eh?’ He shook his head. ‘That’d be a bloody good mix, wouldn’t it?’

Pete shrugged. ‘Stranger things have happened.’

‘I suppose. But, no, not that I’m aware of. Why?’

‘If you did, I could ask them instead of you, couldn’t I?’ And, more to the point, if there was a link between the Armenian and anyone on the force, it had to have started somewhere. Here was as good a place as any to start looking for it.

*

Pete was struggling to eat his fish and chips. His mouth felt dry, the food curdling in his stomach. The TV was on at the far end of the room – some mindless rubbish, the volume turned down so that they could talk, though nothing was being said. Finally, the heavy silence was too much. He looked up from his plate. Annie was concentrating on her food, hoovering it up with relish. Louise’s head was down. She had eaten some, but her heart was no more in it than his.

‘I got some news about Tommy today,’ he said.

Annie’s head snapped up. ‘Where is he? Is he OK?’

‘I don’t know where he is, love. What I do know is, he’s alive. One of Simon’s team spoke to a shop assistant who served him in the Co-op on the Dunsford Road. She said he bought plasters and bandages. Claimed he’d fallen out of a tree or something.’

‘So, why hasn’t he come home?’

‘He must have been with Burton all that time. Maybe he thinks he’ll be accused along with him.’

‘But, he won’t, will he? He’s only a kid himself. He couldn’t do all those things they’re saying were done to those girls.’

Pete frowned. ‘What are they saying?’ Annie was ten years old. He didn’t want her introduced to the subject of sex at all yet, never mind in this way. She was a bright kid, of course. She was aware of what went on in the world, but he didn’t want it brought to her doorstep, especially in this way. He wanted to leave it on the news – at a distance – for as long as possible.

‘They’re saying he killed two girls and raped that one you found. Rosie. But, Tommy’s only a kid. It’s crazy.’

‘Of course it is, love.’ Pete was not going to tell her about the evidence they had to the contrary and he hoped that Louise would not mention it either. He glanced across at her. She had stopped eating and was watching him, a strange light in her eyes. They had had a massive row about the forensic evidence against Tommy when it came to light. ‘But if Tommy was with Burton all that time – and Burton was a teacher, remember – there’s no telling what he could have convinced him of.’

‘So, you’ve got to un-convince him. Make him see that nobody believes he’s guilty, so he can come home,’ Annie insisted.

A swell of emotion swept over him, its intensity almost overpowering. He dropped his knife and fork, got up and stepped around the table. Taking Annie in his arms, he hugged her like he’d never let go. He felt her slender arms around his waist, smelt the shampoo in her hair as she laid her head against his chest. His grip tightened even further, eyes closing as emotion trembled in his chest. Then he felt her squirm in his grip. He opened his eyes. She was staring up at him. ‘God, I love you,’ he murmured.

Looking up at Louise, who was watching them now, he opened his arms and reached out to her, too. She hesitated.

Come on, he thought. Don’t just sit there. Please.

Finally, she left her seat and joined them on the other side of Annie. He drew her in, one arm around her waist, and sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without the pair of you.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Pete switched off the engine and checked the dashboard clock: 6.28 a.m. It was still fully dark, the street lights casting a yellow glow over the houses and parked cars on either side of the steep road. All was quiet. Peaceful.

He felt emotionally drained after last night. He didn’t know why. Was he not as ready as he’d thought to come back to work? The intensity of the Rosie Whitlock case had been difficult to deal with on top of everything else. And now this one, just days later . . . It was a lot to handle with the lack of anything concrete on Tommy’s situation, the difficulties that Louise was still facing and the guilt he couldn’t help feeling over how much he had come to rely on Annie over the past few months and especially since he’d come back to work.