Justice for the Damned by Ben Cheetham Page A

tomorrow,’ he said, turning to head back to his car. ‘Don’t disappoint me.’
    As Reece ducked into the driver’s seat, Wayne called after him, ‘Staci doesn’t want your dick, policeman, she wants your wallet.’
    Reece’s fingers twitched on the baton’s grip at the pimp’s words, which echoed his own doubts. He found himself almost hoping that when he returned to collect what was owed Wayne failed to produce the goods. As he drove, he phoned Doug.
    ‘Have you got it?’ asked Doug.
    ‘No.’
    Doug’s voice rose in irritation. ‘Why the fuck not?’
    ‘He’s got cash-flow problems. I’ve given him another day to come up with it.’
    There was a second or two’s silence, then, ‘I think we’d better meet up.’
    ‘I thought you were on duty.’
    ‘I just clocked off. I’ll see you at the usual place.’
    ‘On my way.’
    Heaving a sigh, Reece headed into the city centre. He parked close to the grim, grey-stone façade of the cathedral and made his way to a nearby bar. The place was almost empty. A barman was cleaning tables in preparation for closing up. Reece ordered a beer, and taking a slug of it, approached a man sipping whisky at a table. With his lean, tanned cheeks and baby-blue eyes, at a glance Doug passed for the same age as Reece. Upon closer inspection, a network of crow’s feet and the slight bagginess of his jawline betrayed his age as being more like forty-five than thirty-one. As did his hair, which was dyed several shades darker than its natural colour and carefully styled in an attempt to conceal a bald patch on the crown. A sharp blue suit, a white shirt with the top couple of buttons undone and a thick gold chain around his neck completed the impression of someone who fancied himself as a ladies’ man.
    Reece sank onto a chair opposite Doug. ‘Anything interesting go down tonight?’
    ‘Bryan Reynolds went for a drive with one of his sidekicks. They gave us the slip in Darnall. The DCI’s not a happy chappy,’ said Doug. ‘What happened with Wayne?’
    ‘I told you, he’s got cash-flow problems.’
    Doug responded with a noise in his throat that made it clear what he thought of Wayne’s excuse. ‘You can’t give these scumbags a millimetre. If they think they can play you—’
    ‘No one’s playing me,’ cut in Reece.
    ‘You sure about that?’
    Looking into Doug’s cynically knowing eyes, Reece got the feeling his colleague wasn’t simply referring to the ‘scumbags’ who paid for their protection. ‘Positive,’ he replied with a certainty he didn’t feel. ‘Wayne will pay up tomorrow, and if he doesn’t—’
    Now it was Doug’s turn to cut in. ‘If he doesn’t, you come down on him hard. Make sure he understands that the only reason he’s in business is because we allow him to be.’
    ‘Oh, I’ll make the little prick understand alright. Don’t worry, Doug, I won’t let you down.’
    Doug smiled with an easy confidence. ‘I know you won’t, Reece. I knew that the moment I realised you were Frank Geary’s boy.’
    A line twitched between Reece’s eyes at the mention of his father’s name. He took a swallow of beer to hide it.
    ‘By the way,’ went on Doug. ‘How’s your dad doing?’
    Reece thought about the last time he’d seen his dad, a couple of days ago. He thought about the brackish brown blood his dad had coughed up. He gave a small shrug of his big shoulders. ‘He has good days and bad days.’
    ‘Have the doctors given a prognosis?’
    ‘If they have, Dad isn’t saying.’
    ‘Sounds like him. He always was a closed-mouthed bastard.’ Doug reached across the table and patted Reece’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, your old man’s as tough as they come. I reckon he’s got a good few years left in him yet.’
    Years. Reece shook his head at the word. He wasn’t convinced his dad had months, let alone years, left in him. It wasn’t only the bleak articles he’d read online about survival rates for people whose lung cancer