Sleaford Noir 1 by Morris Kenyon (the best books of all time .txt) 📕

Superintendent Donelan of the Lincolnshire Police asked to see me. He was respectful but made it crystal that not meeting wasn't on the cards. We met in that same mock Tudor gastropub on the A15 that I'd been in at the start of all this. Where I got my Audi keyed. The previous chef had since moved on and the new chef seemed to be having some trouble as several of the dishes were off the menu.

Donelan came in out of the rain wearing a civvie jacket over his uniform but he still looked like a plug-ugly copper. He ordered a freshly squeezed orange juice and brought it over to my table as I folded up my copy of the Telegraph. He held out his hand and after a moment's hesitation I shook. Although Donelan was okay for a copper, I still don't like shaking their hands. Makes me feel dirty, somehow. He sat down and glanced at the back page headlines.

"India's doing well. Reckon we'll draw the series?" he asked. "On the radio just now it said we're currently two hundred and eight in reply."

I nodded. "I think so. The forecast's for rain but we made a mistake by not asking them to follow on in the First Test. We should have won that easily and then we'd have the upper hand," I said.

We discussed the summer's cricket some more as the drizzle hit the windows. Outside some families dodged the rain under the parasols and a few hardy kids made the best of the small play area. A woman called out for Oliver, darling, to be careful.

Small talk over, Donelan got to the point. It was short and sweet. "Hennessy. Tell McTeague to calm it down. As for you: get out of the country for a while. Otherwise you're going down for a long stretch. And don't cry if it's a fit-up job. You've ruffled too many feathers of people who don't like having their feathers ruffled."

Donelan stood up to leave. "If you go down, forget any appeals even if you can afford to hire the best barristers out of your offshore accounts. The bigwigs in Whitehall will have a quiet word with the judges to laugh any appeals out of court." Donelan made a strange gesture with his hand which I took to be something from the Freemasons' rituals. Not that I'd ever be allowed to join! He couldn't have been any clearer. The Home Office mandarins and top judges all drink in the same Lodges.

Donelan looked down at my newspaper. "Three down. Forbidding Albert and Diana to join royal family? The answer's Grimaldi."

I looked down at my crossword. That was one of my few blank answers but I should have got that. I was annoyed that Donelan had come by before I'd had chance to complete the crossword.

"Finished with this?" Donelan said as he took my Telegraph with him as he left. Coppers. They're as light fingered as everyone thinks they are.

* * *

However, McTeague took advantage of my enforced absence by sending me to have a word with Finnigan. I tracked the old ex-Provo bomber to his lair in Antwerp after spending too long looking for him in his old stamping grounds around Rotterdam's Europoort area. That is a story in itself; but one for another time.

I found him with his Thai mail order bride – well, who else would look at a man with Finnigan's face? – in a coffee shop overlooking the medieval cathedral. I explained that it would be far better for him to cut ties with Wheelan and resume business with McTeague. Of course, Finnigan protested that he was protected by the Romanian.

Taking my time, I looked around the coffee shop and told him that I couldn't see any Romanians in here but I was sitting opposite with a razor sharp Gerber combat knife strapped to my thigh and a Honda Fireblade superbike capable of hitting one hundred and fifty miles per hour within quarter of a mile's distance parked outside for my getaway.

"Not in these streets it's not doing one hundred and fifty," Finnigan said with a smile. But that was bravado and nothing else. Both of us knew I'd found him once and I could find him again. Did he still feel so protected now? Finnigan got the message loud and clear and said he'd cut off Wheelan's supply routes.

I later found out that the old fox played off both ends against each other and supplied both men. I can't say I blame him.

* * *

However, McTeague didn't have it all his own way and whilst I was out of the way hunting Finnigan throughout Belgium and the Netherlands, things went wrong for my boss. He would have liked to keep me by his side but we both knew that was impossible for the time being.

McTeague called me one evening as I was resting in a quirky hotel on Keizersgracht canal in Amsterdam's bohemian Jordaan district. Not the sort of place I normally use – not a high enough star rating – so that's why I chose it. The sound of tourists jostling with cyclists came from below my bedroom window. McTeague told me that there had been a conference in London about the situation. Most of the big gangland firms were represented.

To cut to the chase, McTeague told me that the big firms had let him know that his activities were bang out of order and he was affecting all their businesses. Basically, he had to leave Wheelan alone for the time being – and push through his divorce before letting Claire have her own life back. McTeague wasn't happy but what could he do? These capos were the real heavy hitters of organised crime.

If the Serious Organised Crime Agency could have charged the men in that room with everything they had committed, these capos would be looking at sentences of about a thousand years each. Basically, their great grandchildren would die inside. However, and because of that, what they said went. Unless you were really stupid and had a death wish. A wish to die a particularly nasty death.

Strangely, McTeague didn't sound too upset by the ultimatum. I think even he had become fed up with the chaos and uncertainty but he couldn't let Claire go voluntarily now without losing too much face. Not after having started a big gang war just to get his woman back.

Also, McTeague had by now come to the conclusion that he could never make Claire love him again. He bought her presents: a Rolex with diamonds inset on the rim, a mink coat, filled his home with hot-house flowers specially brought in from Holland. Finnigan organised that for him – a change from his usual commodities. Pampering sessions at plush spas. You get the idea.

She lived with him in his farm outside of... if I told you, I'd have to kill you. Only joking but you really don't want to know. But within weeks they were back to sniping at one another and the atmosphere at home became tense and unpleasant very quickly. I heard that they had separate rooms with separate en-suites – well their farmhouse was more than big enough.

McTeague should have listened to me in the first place. I could have told him that and saved all the trouble. What do they say? Something like be careful what you wish for. You might get it. Now that things had calmed down, McTeague put out some feelers to Donelan (and maybe made a cash donation to the police widow's fund) and I was allowed to come home. I can't say I was sorry as I was fed up with eating fries with mayo – it was playing havoc with my waistline.

McTeague himself met me outside East Midlands Airport. This time he was driving an anonymous Ford Mondeo 1.6L. It had tinted windows but otherwise was plain vanilla. Just like you see countless sales reps belting up and down the motorways in. Things must be bad for McTeague to be driving those wheels because he was a man who loved his motors.

We shook hands and on the way back to his farmhouse, I filled my boss in on how I'd got on with Finnigan. He seemed pleased at the result. However, on the way back, I realised that was the only good news.

McTeague's hands gripped the wheel, his knuckles white and he changed gears with sharp, choppy motions. He lowered his window, lit up and blew smoke into the slipstream.

"I need you to meet with Wheelan. Thrash out a few details out with him. I can't face seeing that jumped up fool," McTeague said. He slammed his palm onto the wheel, hard. Smoke drifted into the Mondeo and I coughed.

"Sorry. I forgot you don't smoke, Hennessy. No respect – I taught that fool everything he knows. If it wasn't for me he'd still be joyriding around the estates with his tearaway mates; a baseball cap on back to front and thinking half a kilo of blow and a dozen tabs of E is some big deal."

McTeague slammed the wheel again. It was rare to see my boss in such a foul mood. I kept my silence and waited to hear what he wanted me to do. Somehow I didn't think I'd be sitting with my feet up on the sofa watching the cookery or property renovation shows on daytime TV any time soon. McTeague sounded off about Wheelan some more. His main theme was Wheelan's lack of respect.

"I want you to meet with Wheelan. I've decided he can keep that bitch Claire. I'm giving her a no-contest divorce and a decent pay-off, but only from what my legit businesses can afford, you know what I mean?"

I knew what McTeague meant. As a front, he owned lots of legitimate businesses, through most of which he laundered his less kosher sources of income. You know the kind of things – taxi firms, an amusement arcade, a chain of pizza takeaways. Pubs and clubs. As always anything where cash was king. He'd even been invited to join the Rotary Club of the nearby city. However, his illicit income dwarfed that and there was no way he wanted the Inland Revenue or the VAT people getting a sniff of that.

I was surprised. Despite what the London capos had told him, I had thought McTeague would try and hang onto Claire if only to stop Wheelan gloating over her. However, on second thoughts, it looks a little medieval to keep two ex-wives in seclusion. And, unlike Melissa, there was no way a young woman like Claire would keep herself out of the way. Maybe he was doing the right thing by letting the woman go. If McTeague presented it right, he could make it look like a gesture from a position of strength, rather than weakness. I told him this and he smiled.

"Trust you to see it in the right light, Hennessy," McTeague said with a smile.

Back at McTeague's farm, I found my Audi which had been collected from Sleaford after I drove away from the little town in Mulhearn's Jeep Cherokee. It had been resprayed, valeted and looked