Death Call by T S O'Rourke Page B

simple when it came to his relationship with Victoria. She had always been the one who took the lead, and now she appeared to be leading herself and their children in another direction. A direction that was far from the original tack taken by the Grant family in the six years before they had split up.
     
    The first port of call for Grant and Carroll was a bookie shop on Upper Street, where Dan had arranged to meet his informant. While he wasn’t the best snout around, he had provided some good information in the past and Carroll knew when he could put the squeeze on him for more. Although Ted Rogers wasn’t exactly a mastermind criminal, he had enough stolen goods passing through his hands to make him interesting – should anyone care to take such an interest. Carroll saw to it that they didn’t. So what Ted got was peace of mind, and what Carroll got was information on more interesting individuals. It worked like a charm.
     
    Ted Rogers was a dead give-away. Even old ladies on the street could recognise a small-time crook when they saw one, and Ted was just such a character. He was a Cockney wide-boy, complete with fur-lined jacket and a few gold chains to top off his uniform. A uniform that didn’t suit a fifty-something year old man who always appeared to have the shakes.
     
    Carroll’s interest was drifting away from Ted Rogers and his information and on to the three-thirty at Newbury. There was a horse in the race that had come in for him before and, according to Carroll’s betting system, it was about time he came in again. It was a system that appeared to work – at least fifty percent of the time, anyway. Betty’s Boy was on the board at twelve to one, and was being ridden by an up-and-coming young Irish jockey called Declan Maguire. Carroll put a tenner on the nose and returned to his conversation with Ted.
     
    Ted had heard that Mike Taylor was usually to be found drinking in a pub called The Bulldog. It was there that he did most of his business. Televisions, video recorders, Hi-Fi systams, credit cards – Taylor could get anything you wanted, according to Ted.
     
    The three-thirty was under orders, and then off. Over six furlongs Betty’s Boy battled it out with Sloane Street Chique, ending with a photo-finish between them. Carroll stood motionless, staring up at the TV screen in the corner of the shop. Ted Rogers had disappeared by the time Carroll looked around for him.
     
    Grant had waited out in the car while his partner went into the bookies, and was now growing ever impatient – especially since he had seen Ted Rogers scurrying away from the bookie shop like a worried rabbit. Carroll’s mood on returning to the car told Grant everything he needed to know. Whatever nag he had bet on, it hadn’t come in....
     
    ‘The Bulldog – do you know where it is?’ Carroll asked, sounding more than a little agitated.
     
    ‘Roseberry Avenue?’
     
    ‘Yeah – that’s the one. Ted thinks we’ll find Taylor there – I reckon we’d best check the place out – what do you think?’ Carroll said wearily.
     
    ‘Let’s do it.’
     
    The Bulldog wasn’t the sort of place you’d want to bring your mother or, to be more precise, your daughter – especially if you were a foreigner. The sign outside was emblazoned with a Union Jack and a bulldog – the signs inside were a little more stark, a little more off-putting.
     
    Every eye in the place centred on the two detectives as they walked in. Of the fifty people in the bar, at least thirty were skinheads – most were pissed. Half four on a Thursday afternoon, and they were all smashed. Grant looked a little uneasy – especially when approached by several skinheads, who began making ape-like noises. Carroll flashed his badge.
     
    ‘All right, lads – get back in your cages....’
     
    ‘It’s bleedin’ Paddy the Pig and the talking gorilla....’ said a rather beefy-looking man at the bar.
     
    ‘Shut it, fatso, or I’ll have you down