Black Daffodil (Trevor Joseph Detective series) by Katherine John Page B

premium to cover the cost of security, loss through theft and wear and tear on nerves.
    He opened his wallet and handed over seventy pounds. The man took it, counted out his change and finally opened the alcohol cabinet. He and his colleague bagged Chris’s purchases, added a large bottle of Coca-Cola and handed them over.
    Chris blinked as he walked outside. The sunshine was blinding after the interior of the shop.
    Sarah was crouching next to the dog, petting it while she talked to a painfully thin, nervous, pockmarked young man. Chris stepped back but remained within earshot.
    The boy held up a spliff. ‘This is my last.’
    ‘I’m not buying, I’m selling,’ Sarah whispered. ‘Grass and Charlie. Best quality and price for miles.’
    ‘How much is the grass?’
    ‘A gram?’
    ‘An ounce.’ The boy began to shake and Sarah guessed that he either was, or aspired to be, a small time dealer. ‘I got money.’
    ‘How much?’ Sarah asked.
    He pulled two crumpled notes from his back pocket and looked at them. ‘£30.’
    ‘If we let an ounce go for less than £43 our wholesaler will string us up.’
    The boy’s face crumpled. ‘That’s all I got until my next giro.’
    ‘We can do a swap,’ Sarah rose to her feet. ‘Got any black daffodil?’
    Trevor and Peter walked into the casino at eleven o’clock. They lingered at the entrance for a moment to gauge the atmosphere.
    ‘I just love neo-Nazi Classicism.’ Peter pitched his voice loud enough to carry to the bouncers.
    Over the years Trevor had learned to ignore fifty percent of Peter’s observations. But when it came to the décor, he had to agree. The initial impression was temple created by Las Vegas-based interior designer, with overlays of Hollywood, ancient Rome, Egypt and China. It had certainly been executed with no eye to economy or taste.
    Massive gilded figures of naked women held up a vast, domed navy blue ceiling studded with blinking star lights. Ornate gilded pavilions, hung with sheer crimson curtains housed the gaming tables. An indoor ‘terrace’ bordered with silk greenery and ‘sculpted’ resin nymph ornamented water features, was lined with gaming machines. A bar ran the length of the football pitch sized room, opening at each end into triangular stages around which nubile young dancers in G-strings pole danced.
    Peter scanned the tables. ‘I’m for Blackjack.’
    ‘You feeling lucky or fancy your chances with the blonde?’ Trevor had already spotted two potential ‘sleight of hand’ deals going down between bouncers and punters. Ten years ago he’d suspected, but never been able to prove, that Darrow had actively encouraged his employees to ‘make a little on the side’ so when the police moved in, as they frequently did, Darrow could throw up his hands in despair, and say, ‘I had absolutely no idea. It’s so difficult to find honest staff these days.’
    It was a plausible way of taking the heat from his own operations, as well as extending his market. He and Peter had also suspected Darrow of supplying his workers through a third party, but the man who’d promised to deliver evidence of Darrow’s involvement, had simply disappeared. As so many of Eric Darrow’s ‘business’ acquaintances had done before – and, according to police reports – since.
    ‘My hand is itching,’ Peter scratched it. ‘Here’s to my first hundred grand.’
    ‘I’ll help you make it.’ A dark-haired girl sidled up to Peter.
    ‘No thanks, love, I’m allergic to girls with moustaches. But, if I win, I’ll give you enough to buy a lady shave.’
    The girl brought her hand back and slapped Peter soundly across the face. Bouncers moved in but Peter laughed as the girl sauntered off. ‘You win some, you lose some. She doesn’t like my style of courting.’
    Trevor wished that, just for once, Peter had settled for a low profile. But he wasn’t surprised by Peter’s behaviour. Low profile had never been Peter’s style, and