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

After I'd finished in the cubicle, I had a strip wash, sprayed on deodorant and then changed into my new underwear and suit, hopping on one leg as I did so before bundling the old clothes into the carrier bag. I brushed my hair. Yes, I looked the part now. More businesslike. I opened the toilet door to see the cleaner mopping the corridor. I nodded to the woman as I passed.

"Was a queue but I send away," she said to me.

"Thanks," I said.

It had started to rain as I left the supermarket. One of those fine drizzles that gets into your clothes and soaks you before you know it. I didn't want to take my Audi to the meet with Mulhearn at The King's Arms so I strolled along the covered walkway outside the superstore and took the first cab on the stand.

The driver, an overweight man wearing grey sweat pants and purple fleece; a man who looked beaten down by life, switched on his meter, flicked on his wipers and drove out of the expanse of parking lot and made a right onto Northgate.

Immediately, he launched into a diatribe about all the eastern Europeans coming over here, taking all the jobs, their private hires keeping all the fares down, how you can't make a living any more before moving on to how much they drink, that decent local women can't walk about in safety no more... I grunted in the right places and was glad it was only a short journey into the centre of Sleaford. At least the cabbie hadn't got time to tell me how he would 'pull the lever myself' or how he would deal with all nonces except all the politicians are...

Stepping out in front of The King's Arms Hotel, I told the cabbie to keep the change. I thought about suggesting he use it to buy a copy of The Guardian newspaper to get a different slant on life but somehow I didn't think he'd appreciate my suggestion.

Looking up, I saw the King's Arms was, perhaps inevitably, a mock Jacobean building with exposed black painted beams. The upper floors were larger than the lower giving the whole a top heavy appearance. An ornate, if faded, heraldic royal coat of arms hung from the inn sign. The hotel's windows were all leaded with small diamond panes surrounding stained glass coats of arms. Warm light shone out, breaking up from the myriad tiny panes.

I ran in out of the rain, pushing through the heavily studded oak doors. My footsteps died away on the dark red, deep pile carpets inside the lobby. Bypassing a rack of tourist leaflets I walked over to the lounge on the left past the reception desk. A quick glance at my watch showed I was still early. I found a corner seat but made sure it was near to a side door.

The lounge was done up with heavy, baronial furnishings to match the Jacobean exterior. As soon as I sat down, a skinny, pale blonde girl wearing a white blouse and burgundy skirt came over. Her gilt coloured name badge told me she was called Morela. With barely a trace of an accent, Morela asked me if I wanted something to eat or drink.

Although I was still full from my breakfast in Bostongrad, I ordered a plate of sandwiches and coffee. The lounge was mostly empty except for a few couples having a break from shopping. They were well dressed, elderly, the men wearing tweed jackets and cavalry twill trousers, the women favouring knitted navy twin sets. Relics from a bygone age. I wondered if I'd see my friend from the gastropub yesterday. My coffee and sandwiches arrived and I settled back to wait for Mulhearn. I yawned once...

Mulhearn stood in front of my table. My coffee had gone cold with a milky skin on its surface. I sat up straighter and blinked the sleep from my eyes.

"Very lax. Could have killed you there, Hennessy. Should have done," Mulhearn said.

I looked up at Mulhearn. The man was of only average height – five eight or thereabouts, but powerfully built. He had a broad, ugly face deeply tanned as if he'd only just come back from a tour of some middle eastern hell-hole. However, the tan must have come from the electric beach as Mulhearn had been out of the army for a few years now. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off regimental and other tattoos.

"Trying to kill me would be the worst and last mistake of your life," I said, pushing a chair away from the table with my foot. Mulhearn sat and I called Morela back over and ordered two more filter coffees. I felt fresher, more alert after my cat-nap.

"Wheelan's angry with you," Mulhearn said as soon as Morela was out of earshot.

"Hurt him, have I?"

"No," said Mulhearn but his eyes told a different story. I doubted if the actual fire-bombings had damaged his empire much but when news of what I'd done inevitably reached back up the food chain it would make Wheelan look weak to the big-shots of Nottingham and Birmingham. The real big-shots would sit back and wait to see whether this upstart Wheelan could stick or fold.

"Then I'll have to do something that will hurt. Twist the knife a little. Maybe I'll take a trip to Rotterdam and go after Wheelan's Dutch contacts. He's still dealing with that ex-Provo, Finnigan, isn't he? Let them know they're only hurting because Wheelan won't give up McTeague's woman."

Mulhearn lifted his coffee cup. "That might be too hard an ask even of you, Hennessy. Finnigan's protected by the Romanian now."

I nodded. The Romanian was one bad man and I didn't think even McTeague would want me to go up against him merely for the sake of getting his runaway second wife back.

I looked Mulhearn straight in the eye. They were muddy as if his tan had leaked into the whites of his eyes.

"Then I have no choice. I'll have to bring down Wheelan – and anyone working with him will be so much collateral damage. I can do it, too. Remember what happened to the Kirkham brothers of Hull?"

Mulhearn did. Everyone in our line of work knew what happened to the late Kirkham brothers. The extremely late brothers. One died slowly. The other lingered for days. Apart from a missing persons report in the local rag, the story never made the papers.

"It doesn't have to be like that, Hennessy," Mulhearn said. "Wheelan's prepared to cut a deal, you know."

"Go ahead."

"He's built his business up more than McTeague ever did. And Wheelan's opened up some new lines of work. Lines." Mulhearn leaned forward over the table, pressed one nostril closed with his finger and mimed snorting up a couple of lines of coke. That was one of the Romanian's specialities after all. Looking up, I saw Morela and another waitress glance our way. I smiled at them to show there was nothing silly going on.

"Cut it out. What's Wheelan offering?"

Mulhearn's answer was too quick. "Fifteen per cent. Of everything. Even the new business. Even the lines."

I laughed. This wasn't an insult. It was a joke. Wheelan must have a sense of humour after all.

Even Mulhearn looked ashamed. "Twenty per cent, then."

Now we were edging into the realm of insult.

"And what about Claire McTeague herself?"

"She stays. Wheelan's not giving her up. And she doesn't want to go back to your boss anyway. They're getting divorced."

As if Claire McTeague's wants had anything to do with the situation.

I shook my head. "No. Claire McTeague's non-negotiable. She's going home..."

"Whether she likes it or not?"

"That's right. She's going home. If McTeague chooses later to give her up – maybe even let her shack up with Wheelan – then that's his decision. Certainly not Claire's or Wheelan's."

"I'm surprised at you saying that, Hennessy. I thought you of all people would have more sympathy with Claire," Mulhearn said.

I shook my head. "No. Claire knew full well what she was getting into when she married McTeague. She can't change the rules of the game now." I looked Mulhearn full in the face again, getting the full attention of Wheelan's lieutenant. Making sure the man fully understood what I was saying. "And neither can Wheelan."

"And neither can you or me, Hennessy."

"True. We're just pawns, Mulhearn. Pawns with teeth and claws but that's all we are at the end of the day."

"So there's no way you'll go without taking Claire with you?"

I thought I'd already made that crystal clear but I shook my head. "No."

Mulhearn thought for a moment and took out his Nokia. "I need to touch base with Wheelan. Give me a moment?"

I nodded and stood to give him privacy.

I left the lounge with its heavy dark furnishings and crossed the corridor to the toilets. The lavatories were old fashioned but clean. Someone had left little vases of fresh flowers by the wash basins next to bottles of scented hand lotion – a nice touch, that. Which is what you'd expect in an upmarket place like the King's Arms.

Pulling the chain, I stepped out of the cubicle and a moment later was washing my hands. A movement, a sudden reflection in the mirror caught my eye. I looked up, amazed that Mulhearn had followed me into the toilets. His phone was back in his pocket but now he carried a yellow cloth in his hand.

Mulhearn leaped forwards, annoyed that he hadn't been able to catch me unawares. The pungent sickly, sweetish scent of chloroform came from the cloth as he clutched it. I raised my eyes away from the cloth. Wheelan must have told Mulhearn to bring me in alive. Maybe as revenge for the fire-bombings or to use me as a bargaining chip with McTeague.

Mulhearn pulled up hard seeing that his surprise attack had failed. I paused, waiting for Mulhearn to take the next move. A grin crossed his broad face. It would be a mistake to underestimate Mulhearn's combat skills. The man had served in both Iraq and Afghanistan and I knew he'd fought several straighteners with other soldiers out there.

Particularly against the jocks. For some reason, Mulhearn hated Scots. I never found out the reason why, perhaps it was simply their accents that grated on his nerves. But a lot of Scots are very tough people and together with their hatred of everything English the jock squaddies almost held their own against Mulhearn's ferocity. Almost – but the way I heard it Mulhearn always won his bouts in the end.

So I didn't dare downplay Mulhearn's skills in one-on-one combat. All the same, Mulhearn should have waited until I left the toilets and grabbed me from behind in the corridor. The man must have wanted the honour, the glory of taking down the infamous Hennessy face to face.

Now Mulhearn leaped forward, hoping to use his heavier build and weight to overpower me. The fumes from the chloroform rag hit the back of my nose, making me gag. I sidestepped his attack and Mulhearn's body slammed into the rack of washbasins. He pivoted away, surprisingly light on his feet and launched himself at me, the rag clutched tight in his hand. I spun away and caught Mulhearn's jaw with my fist. Once again, he crashed against the washbasins.

Mulhearn bellowed with rage and frustration. He pushed away from the washbasins and attacked. I gave him a swift one-two to his face but I might as well have punched the tiled wall as his face. He didn't even recoil. For a moment, I felt a shudder of fear before pushing that feeling back down.

Grinning, Mulhearn approached. He was now between me and the door so I couldn't just cut and run. Not that I wanted