Harry exchanged glances, knowing and wary.
Jimmy King moved towards Sam, his hand outstretched, a disarming smile telling Sam that Jimmy was in charge. ‘How is the beautiful Helena?’ he boomed, his Lancashire accent strong, although Sam knew it varied, depending on the audience.
Sam wanted to say, ‘Drunk most of the time’, but he resisted. Instead, he smiled and shook hands, felt King’s other hand wrap around his. Sam could feel the control in the man’s grip, like a statement of intent, so he shook back hard, tried to feel the crackle of his fingers. King’ssmile flickered for a moment and he gripped back. Sam felt Jimmy’s rings press against his own hand, the gold bands thick and bold. Sam had won the first skirmish.
‘Good morning, Mr King,’ Sam said simply.
Jimmy King regained his smile and patted Sam lightly on the back. ‘Jimmy. Call me Jimmy.’
Sam nodded politely. He sat down and crossed his legs, tried to figure out the reason for the meeting. He knew one thing: he didn’t trust Jimmy King. Despite being Harry’s friend, Sam knew of Jimmy’s reputation, and he saw how the rest of the staff became jumpy whenever Jimmy called into the office.
In the eighties, Blackley had tried to sweep away its past by clearing the slum terraces. Many stood empty, boarded up and derelict. They were sold off at a bargain price; Jimmy King had bought streets of them. He renovated them and rented them out, and was credited with saving communities. Those he couldn’t save were bulldozed and sold to developers.
No one mentioned
how
he treated his tenants. The houses were damp and cold, created health problems, asthma and respiratory illnesses. Some tenants tried to take a stand and threatened court action. The visits from Jimmy’s men came in the night, when Jimmy was somewhere visible. Not many complained for long.
Sam didn’t see a landlord rescuing communities in Jimmy. He knew Jimmy’s background, but Sam’s wasn’t so different. The law had been Sam’s way of escaping a derelict council estate: his edges were still rough, his accent strong, maybe his eyes lit by a little more fire than most lawyers. Sam had met the Jimmy Kings ofthe world many times over, and he saw just another gangster, ruthless and selfish, who used the ordinary people of the town for his own ends.
Sam looked at Harry, who seemed impassive. That was always Harry’s way. He would sit and stare, let people talk, so that he made them nervous and they talked when they should really stay quiet.
‘A girl was murdered last night,’ said Harry eventually, ‘on the Daisy Meadow estate.’
Jimmy King sat down and nodded in sympathy.
‘It turns out that a car belonging to Jimmy’s son Luke was near the scene,’ Harry continued, ‘so it will help the police concentrate their efforts better if they can eliminate him from the inquiry.’
Sam looked past Jimmy and at the nervous-looking young man. He had a vague recollection of an awkward teenager at Harry’s fiftieth birthday party, who’d sat in a corner all evening and watched the girls dance. Adulthood hadn’t changed him too much. He was in his mid twenties, his face pale, his eyes heavy under a small blond flick. He was wearing a suit that he couldn’t fill, the shoulder pads hanging slack over his lanky frame. He looked at Sam once and then quickly looked away, twitchy. His cheeks looked raw from a shave he hadn’t needed.
Sam turned back to Harry. There was a look in his eyes Sam hadn’t seen before. Harry Parsons was never nervous. Not ever. But he was now.
‘Just elimination?’ asked Sam, watching Jimmy King.
Jimmy smiled. His son just looked at a spot on the floor.
‘What else?’ said Harry, trying to drive the conversation. ‘We want to be discreet.’
‘Who’s in charge of the investigation?’
Sam thought he saw Harry’s mouth curl slightly.
‘DI Egan.’
Sam realised now why Harry might be nervous. Sam had dealt with Egan a few times, and the
Jimmy King moved towards Sam, his hand outstretched, a disarming smile telling Sam that Jimmy was in charge. ‘How is the beautiful Helena?’ he boomed, his Lancashire accent strong, although Sam knew it varied, depending on the audience.
Sam wanted to say, ‘Drunk most of the time’, but he resisted. Instead, he smiled and shook hands, felt King’s other hand wrap around his. Sam could feel the control in the man’s grip, like a statement of intent, so he shook back hard, tried to feel the crackle of his fingers. King’ssmile flickered for a moment and he gripped back. Sam felt Jimmy’s rings press against his own hand, the gold bands thick and bold. Sam had won the first skirmish.
‘Good morning, Mr King,’ Sam said simply.
Jimmy King regained his smile and patted Sam lightly on the back. ‘Jimmy. Call me Jimmy.’
Sam nodded politely. He sat down and crossed his legs, tried to figure out the reason for the meeting. He knew one thing: he didn’t trust Jimmy King. Despite being Harry’s friend, Sam knew of Jimmy’s reputation, and he saw how the rest of the staff became jumpy whenever Jimmy called into the office.
In the eighties, Blackley had tried to sweep away its past by clearing the slum terraces. Many stood empty, boarded up and derelict. They were sold off at a bargain price; Jimmy King had bought streets of them. He renovated them and rented them out, and was credited with saving communities. Those he couldn’t save were bulldozed and sold to developers.
No one mentioned
how
he treated his tenants. The houses were damp and cold, created health problems, asthma and respiratory illnesses. Some tenants tried to take a stand and threatened court action. The visits from Jimmy’s men came in the night, when Jimmy was somewhere visible. Not many complained for long.
Sam didn’t see a landlord rescuing communities in Jimmy. He knew Jimmy’s background, but Sam’s wasn’t so different. The law had been Sam’s way of escaping a derelict council estate: his edges were still rough, his accent strong, maybe his eyes lit by a little more fire than most lawyers. Sam had met the Jimmy Kings ofthe world many times over, and he saw just another gangster, ruthless and selfish, who used the ordinary people of the town for his own ends.
Sam looked at Harry, who seemed impassive. That was always Harry’s way. He would sit and stare, let people talk, so that he made them nervous and they talked when they should really stay quiet.
‘A girl was murdered last night,’ said Harry eventually, ‘on the Daisy Meadow estate.’
Jimmy King sat down and nodded in sympathy.
‘It turns out that a car belonging to Jimmy’s son Luke was near the scene,’ Harry continued, ‘so it will help the police concentrate their efforts better if they can eliminate him from the inquiry.’
Sam looked past Jimmy and at the nervous-looking young man. He had a vague recollection of an awkward teenager at Harry’s fiftieth birthday party, who’d sat in a corner all evening and watched the girls dance. Adulthood hadn’t changed him too much. He was in his mid twenties, his face pale, his eyes heavy under a small blond flick. He was wearing a suit that he couldn’t fill, the shoulder pads hanging slack over his lanky frame. He looked at Sam once and then quickly looked away, twitchy. His cheeks looked raw from a shave he hadn’t needed.
Sam turned back to Harry. There was a look in his eyes Sam hadn’t seen before. Harry Parsons was never nervous. Not ever. But he was now.
‘Just elimination?’ asked Sam, watching Jimmy King.
Jimmy smiled. His son just looked at a spot on the floor.
‘What else?’ said Harry, trying to drive the conversation. ‘We want to be discreet.’
‘Who’s in charge of the investigation?’
Sam thought he saw Harry’s mouth curl slightly.
‘DI Egan.’
Sam realised now why Harry might be nervous. Sam had dealt with Egan a few times, and the
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