Val McDermid by Star Struck

Author:Star Struck
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-09-20T21:51:56+00:00

Traditionally, the serious players in Manchester’s drug wars have been the black gangs of Moss Side and the white gangs of Cheetham Hill. The Cheetham Hill lads have been around longer, their criminal roots deep in the cracks between the paving stones

The Kellys were one of the oldest families, and most of them stuck to the old ways. Protection rackets and schneid sports gear, long firm frauds and small-time thieving, that was the Kellys’ style. The team of brothers had always had contempt for the drug lords, which was about the only good thing you could say for them.

I had to endure three boozers where I drank beer straight from the bottle because I wasn’t prepared to risk the glasses before I found a pair of grieving Kelly brothers. The Dog and Brewer was the kind of dump where your feet stick to the carpet and the fag ash forms a paste on the bottom of ashtrays that nobody has bothered to dry after rinsing them under the tap. Most of the punters had the blurred jawlines and bleary eyes of people who have smoked and drunk so much for so long change seems pointless. The women wore clothes that might have flattered them fifteen years before but now insulted them even more than the flabby men in ill-fitting casual clothes who were buying them drinks. Tom Jones was rejoicing loudly that again he’d touch the green, green grass of home.

I brazened out the eyes on me and bought a bottle of Carlsberg. “Any of the Kelly boys in?” I asked the barman, my fingers resting lightly on the fiver on the bar.

He looked at the money and gave me the once-over. I obviously didn’t look like a cop, for he jerked his head towards two shaggyhaired men in padded flannel work shirts at the far end of the bar. Before I could turn back, the fiver was gone. One good thing about lowlife dives is that the information comes cheap.

I picked up my bottle and pushed through the crowd until I was standing next to the two men. Their blue eyes were bloodshot, their stubbled cheeks scarlet with the stout and whisky they were pouring down their throats. “I’m sorry for your loss, gentlemen,” Evening Chronicle buy you a drink?”

The taller of the two managed a half-hearted leer. “I’ll let you buy me a drink any time, darling.”

I signalled the barman and blew a tenner on drink. “Hell of a shock,” I said, raising my bottle to clink against their glasses.

“I told him he was a dickhead, going up against Dennis O’Brien. Hard bastard, that one,” the smaller brother slurred.

“I heard the dog was supposed to be good protection,” I said. “Bit of a handful, I heard. They say he gave the Old Bill a hard time.”

The taller one grinned. “Thank fuck for that. I’m Paul, by the way, and this is Little Joe.”

I shook the outstretched paw. “I’m Kate. How come Patrick went to see O’Brien on his own? If the guy’s so tough?”

Little Joe snorted.

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