it during the second car chase and read a book instead. It was all about organised crime in the north-east in the sixties and seventies and was full of infamous characters, most of them long dead. It told of beatings, protection rackets and wars over the control of slot machines in pubs and working men’s clubs. There were bent coppers, corrupt politicians, unsolved murders and links with London gangsters like the Kray twins. Helen felt as if she was immersing herself in the history of the criminal world she was now reporting on. Even with the noise of the idiotic action movie in the background she couldn’t put it down.
‘That’s a cheerful read,’ Peter told her at one point, between shootouts.
Later, they went to bed. ‘Do you mind if we don’t?’ she asked and he sighed as if this was the most unreasonable thing he had ever heard.
‘No,’ he said simply, which of course meant
yes
and she wondered if he was about to remind her of the cost of his rail ticket.
He couldn’t have been too bothered though, because he was asleep and snoring in minutes, leaving Helen wide awake and restless. Half an hour later she gave up on sleep, went into the living room and began to read her book once more.
The following morning Tom drove into the private underground car park, ignoring the warning signs about wheel clamping being the likeliest option, unless he was a legitimate client. The building housed a number of legal firms and nobody could possibly know who he was here to see.
He climbed the stairs to a second floor that opened out into a reception area with soft leather chairs in front of a handful of glass-walled offices. The reception desk of Stone, Nixon and Stone was manned by an unsmiling guardian who regarded him suspiciously as he advanced on her.
‘I’m here to see Mr Nixon,’ said Tom with what he hoped was an air of complete confidence.
The receptionist’s face darkened. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘I’ve phoned several times but nobody returned my calls so I thought I’d drop by.’
‘You’re the reporter,’ she said as if it made sense now, ‘Mr Cardey.’
‘Carney,’ he corrected her, ‘Tom Carney. I’m working on a story that features Stone, Nixon and Stone. Mr Nixon will want to know about it before it goes to press.’
‘I hardly think so,’ she said, ‘or he would have called you back. We don’t speak to journalists.’
‘Even ones who are about to put your firm on the front page of a newspaper read by four million people?’ He was bluffing but she looked a little less self-assured for a moment before quickly regaining her composure.
‘I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave,’ she told him icily.
There was a small heap of glossy brochures on the reception desk and Tom picked one up. ‘Background reading,’ he told her.
‘If you don’t leave this minute I will have to call the police.’
‘Okay,’ Tom said, irked by the woman’s sense of superiority, ‘see you on the front page then,’ and he glanced at her name badge, ‘Carol.’
Her face flushed at this and she hissed, ‘Get out.’
Tom gave her his best disarming smile then left.
‘I think you should know,’ the old man warned him, ‘that I called the police.’ He took a step back when Bradshaw turned to face him, as if to avoid an imaginary blow from the man standing on his neighbour’s driveway.
‘I am the bloody police,’ Bradshaw told the wiry old man behind the hedge that lay between them. He produced his warrant card and showed it to Tom Carney’s neighbour.
‘Oh,’ he flushed, ‘well, how was I supposed to know you weren’t a burglar?’
‘Do you know the owner of this house?’ asked Bradshaw.
‘Yes. Well, no, not really. I don’t know him but I’ve seen him about,’ the old man said.
‘Is he around, usually, I mean?’ asked the detective.
‘Most of the time. He’s doing the place up, always coming and going with one thing or another: planks of wood, pots
‘That’s a cheerful read,’ Peter told her at one point, between shootouts.
Later, they went to bed. ‘Do you mind if we don’t?’ she asked and he sighed as if this was the most unreasonable thing he had ever heard.
‘No,’ he said simply, which of course meant
yes
and she wondered if he was about to remind her of the cost of his rail ticket.
He couldn’t have been too bothered though, because he was asleep and snoring in minutes, leaving Helen wide awake and restless. Half an hour later she gave up on sleep, went into the living room and began to read her book once more.
The following morning Tom drove into the private underground car park, ignoring the warning signs about wheel clamping being the likeliest option, unless he was a legitimate client. The building housed a number of legal firms and nobody could possibly know who he was here to see.
He climbed the stairs to a second floor that opened out into a reception area with soft leather chairs in front of a handful of glass-walled offices. The reception desk of Stone, Nixon and Stone was manned by an unsmiling guardian who regarded him suspiciously as he advanced on her.
‘I’m here to see Mr Nixon,’ said Tom with what he hoped was an air of complete confidence.
The receptionist’s face darkened. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘I’ve phoned several times but nobody returned my calls so I thought I’d drop by.’
‘You’re the reporter,’ she said as if it made sense now, ‘Mr Cardey.’
‘Carney,’ he corrected her, ‘Tom Carney. I’m working on a story that features Stone, Nixon and Stone. Mr Nixon will want to know about it before it goes to press.’
‘I hardly think so,’ she said, ‘or he would have called you back. We don’t speak to journalists.’
‘Even ones who are about to put your firm on the front page of a newspaper read by four million people?’ He was bluffing but she looked a little less self-assured for a moment before quickly regaining her composure.
‘I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave,’ she told him icily.
There was a small heap of glossy brochures on the reception desk and Tom picked one up. ‘Background reading,’ he told her.
‘If you don’t leave this minute I will have to call the police.’
‘Okay,’ Tom said, irked by the woman’s sense of superiority, ‘see you on the front page then,’ and he glanced at her name badge, ‘Carol.’
Her face flushed at this and she hissed, ‘Get out.’
Tom gave her his best disarming smile then left.
‘I think you should know,’ the old man warned him, ‘that I called the police.’ He took a step back when Bradshaw turned to face him, as if to avoid an imaginary blow from the man standing on his neighbour’s driveway.
‘I am the bloody police,’ Bradshaw told the wiry old man behind the hedge that lay between them. He produced his warrant card and showed it to Tom Carney’s neighbour.
‘Oh,’ he flushed, ‘well, how was I supposed to know you weren’t a burglar?’
‘Do you know the owner of this house?’ asked Bradshaw.
‘Yes. Well, no, not really. I don’t know him but I’ve seen him about,’ the old man said.
‘Is he around, usually, I mean?’ asked the detective.
‘Most of the time. He’s doing the place up, always coming and going with one thing or another: planks of wood, pots
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