Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel by Quintin Jardine

had swung behind me, and nodded a greeting. It was five fifteen, the weekend had started, and it was busy; the customers were all regulars, for they stood in groups, drinking and talking. Every one of them was male. Tradition died hard in that part of the city. I made my way to the far corner of the bar, drawing the occasional look, but ignoring them all. ‘How’re you doing?’ I said.

    His name was Lennie Plenderleith, and his height was a matter of debate. He was either six feet seven, six feet eight, or six feet nine, by varying accounts, but one thing was not in dispute: he was built like a whole row of brick shithouses. He had been a gang leader in Newhaven in his youth, not that he had needed the gang. He’d picked up the usual string of convictions, until finally he had come to the attention of Manson. He’d gone to work for him and had been clear of arrests for almost ten years.

    That was not to say he had become a pacifist, no way. His boss was a very powerful figure within the city, but every so often someone made the mistake of crossing him. Soon afterwards, the transgressor would be admitted to the Royal Infirmary. We knew pretty much for certain that Lennie had driven the ambulance, figuratively, but none of the patients ever said a word about their misfortune.

    ‘Fine, thanks. What can I get you, Mr Skinner?’ he asked. His voice was quiet. People like him don’t need to be loud; their very presence commands attention.

    ‘I’ll just have a Coke, thanks, Lennie.’ I shoved a couple of pound coins across the bar as he filled a glass from a nozzle, but he pushed them back as he laid the glass in front of me.

    ‘Have you had the radio on this afternoon?’ I asked.

    He nodded. ‘I know what you’re talking about. Marlon Watson, yes?’

    ‘Got it in one.’

    ‘I need to talk to his boss, to eliminate him from our inquiries, so to speak. He doesn’t seem to be around.’

    ‘That’s self-evident. If he’d been around, nothing would have happened to Marlon.’

    ‘So they hadn’t fallen out?’

    Lennie managed to frown and smile at the same time. ‘No chance. Marlon wasn’t the sort of lad to fall out with people. Besides . . .’

    ‘Tony shags his mother?’

    The smile widened. ‘Among others,’ he said.

    ‘Do you know where he is, Lennie?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Are you going to tell me?’

    He shrugged. ‘Why not? He’s in the Gran Hotel, in Ibiza Town.’

    ‘Not on his own, I assume.’

    ‘No. He’s got a woman with him. They’re away for a week. I can’t give you a name, though, Mr Skinner.’

    ‘Not even if I insisted?’ I ventured; not that I planned to.

    ‘No, because I don’t know it.’

    ‘Marlon told his mother he was going to Newcastle.’

    ‘He flew from there. But Marlon didn’t even know that. He drove him to Newcastle Station on Sunday morning, and dropped him off. As I understand it, the bird went down on the train and met him there.’

    ‘I imagine Tony didn’t want Bella to know,’ I said.

    ‘Not just her,’ Lennie chuckled. ‘He didn’t want anybody to know. Look, he likes Bella . . .’

    I was sceptical. ‘She told me she works in his saunas. That’s hardly a sign of his affection.’

    ‘She might have let you think so, but she doesn’t in the way you mean. He uses her as a sort of inspector. She’ll drop in unannounced, to make sure that the places are being run okay. She takes no shit, and he likes her for it.’

    ‘How’s he going to take Marlon’s death?’ I asked the giant.

    ‘How do you think? Badly, very badly.’

    ‘In that case, Lennie,’ I told him, ‘no offence, but we’ll be watching you for a bit.’

    He shrugged again, massively, shoulder-rippling. ‘No offence taken, but you’ll be wasting your time.’

    I raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’

    ‘Yes. Work it out for yourself.’

    I let the comment lie. ‘We do need to talk to Tony,’ I repeated.

    He sighed. ‘I know; but you’ll need to wait