Christmas was only a couple of hours away and to mark the
holiday, Seven had
been decked in blue and white. Projectors in the ceiling made it look as if
snowflakes were falling around the dancers who were writhing together through
the clouds of dry ice fog enveloping the floor.
The floor-to-ceiling windows of the manager’s office made up the
wall overlooking the dance floor. However, the view was lost on Jake. Are you down there?
The throngs were pressed so tight together, it was virtually
impossible to tell one person from the next, but he could imagine her down
there, writhing and gyrating to the beat against a faceless male, hot and
eager…
His fingers twitched at the thought and he had to force down the
impulse to reach for the sidearm hidden beneath his leather ¾ jacket. Though
the P226 was his weapon of choice, the lighter, smaller, standard-issue Glock
17 was the more practical choice when it came to these messenger-boy jobs. Not
only was it lighter and more easily concealed under a jacket, its all-polymer
design meant it was less likely to set off the basic security systems and metal
detectors found in civilian recreational areas.
Get a grip, man. It was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. A slip of a
girl, barely in her twenties. What had he expected? Marriage and happily ever
after? Those were nothing but fantasies when you joined the Squad. Hell, if she
hadn’t broken it off, he soon would have. For her sake if not his. She deserved
better.
“Well, well, well…”
Shit! Jake had his hand in his jacket, thumb flipping the catch of the
shoulder holster strap and his palm fastening round the textured grip of the
Glock in the moment it took his head to whip back.
“When Mr Margrave said he
was sending someone, I certainly wasn’t expecting it to be you of all people,
Jake Talbert.”
“I wasn’t his first
choice.” Jake agreed, letting his hand fall to his side. At five feet six and
shaped like a propped-up bag of suet in a black, hand-made, three-piece suit,
with a receding mop of hair more grey than black that curled at the sides and a
pudgy face, Henry Yate was not what anyone would consider threatening. “But
your message said it was urgent, and it’s Christmas Eve. The rest of the Flying
Squad have plans, so here I am.”
Yate moved around the desk to sit back in the padded swivel
chair with legs crossed and hands steepled in his lap. The pose was supposed to
appear relaxed but only made his hands look like a bustle of fat little
sausages. “I heard you weren’t about much these days. Word is, it’s been a busy
couple of weeks for you.”
“They’ve had their
moments.”
“I’ll say. Intimidating
witnesses. Assaulting suspects. Not to mention beating that poor bugger half to
death in a billiards hall. And in front of witnesses.” Pearly whites glinted as
he fixed Jake with a smile that would very likely curdle milk. “I heard you’re
out of control. Something about a bird blowing you out, giving you the Dear
John routine. So now you’re under investigation, chained to a desk. You know,
in these times of civil unrest, it’s a real comfort to know those brave boys in
blue take the time to remember their duty and professional integrity. If only
all law enforcement took such time to protect us law-abiding citizens from the
filth that walks our streets.”
“And here I thought you
drove everywhere nowadays?”
Yate’s smile dropped. “Touché.”
“Well, I wouldn’t let my
unpredictability and violent tendencies bother you,” Jake said, with forced
nonchalance as he walked around the desk to sit in the chair opposite the older
man. These games were all part of the routine. “I had a bad break. I needed to
vent, and that wanker in the hall decided to be a smart arse. So, we played a
game of doctor.” He shrugged, leaning back and folding his arms. “He lost.”
“Yes, those clips on
YouTube made that obvious. Shame they didn’t also show the firearm he allegedly
had concealed on his person.”
“You know, the enquiry’s
psychologist remarked on that too, but it’s hard to argue with evidence found
on the scene.”
“Unless it’s a plant.”
There was an adequate response to that, but Jake had to force
himself not to bite. Yate was little more than a two-bit snitch, a common rogue
with a number of dodgy businesses who made it his business to have all twenty
little sausage digits in every dirty, bent, and stolen pie in London, and an
ear to the ground in all the right and wrong places. He was the owner and
manager of Seven, but it
was a smokescreen, a bit of cloak and dagger, something to look good on the
self-assessment. Yate’s true business was information, and he didn’t
discriminate. It was no secret he sold to both the villains and the law of
London but, because he never went too far and always threw both sides a bone,
he was untouchable.
And the powers-that-be had decreed Jake must play this stupid
fat fucker’s little games.
Yate went on. “Of course, your recent recommendation for the
Saint George might have had something to do with that.”
Jake’s eyes narrowing. Now,
just how did you learn about that, you slimy bastard?
“D-notices aren’t what
they use to be.” Yate grinned, apparently reading his thoughts. “Out of
curiosity, you killed how many Jihadists? Ten?”
“Six,” Jake snarled.
“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 are 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. The, 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?”
A cold 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 menaces 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.”
The book sounds really great.
ReplyDelete“Well, I wouldn’t let my unpredictability and violent tendencies bother you,” That intrigued me!
ReplyDeleteThere is "dirtiest" and there is "dirtiest" :)) Am I curious about this dirtiest cop? Yes, I am!
ReplyDeleteI like the cover, synopsis and excerpt, this sounds like a must read for me. Thank you for posting about this book
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed the excerpt and Broken sounds like a great book for me and I can't wait to read it! Thanks for sharing it with me and have a holiday season!
ReplyDelete"Broken is a hard and gritty dark romance."
ReplyDeleteSounds good to me!
Sounds interesting :o
ReplyDeleteSounds interesting
ReplyDelete