No Place to Hide. Jack Slater
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