Sleaford Noir 1 by Morris Kenyon (top romance novels txt) 📖

counter. Again, not a newspaper I normally read – I prefer the Financial Times or Telegraph as they report the Test cricket in far more detail than just the briefest highlights. However, not much chance of coming across those two quality broadsheets in a dive like this. I took the paper over to a nearby table.

All the tables were occupied. I nodded to a man sitting by himself at one of the Formica topped tables. "May I?" I asked, drawing out a chair. The man nodded and cleared away some of the clutter littering the Formica. There were a few more whistles and cat-calls from some of the truckers but I took no notice. Instead, I shook out the Star and looked through the full colour pictures of celebs, most of whom I'd never heard of, as well as adverts for cell phones, legalised loan sharks and lotteries. The small amount of actual text took less than five minutes to read.

I flicked back through the paper on the off chance I'd missed anything, ending up on page three. The large-breasted page three babe, a girl working under the name of Nikkii, gazed out at me. "Nice baps on that, eh," one of the truckers said, leaning back in his chair and looking at me. He wore a black fleece hat against the cold. "Wouldn't say no."

There was some more laughter from the other men. Even the cook was grinning as he brought out some more breakfasts. I turned to Mr. Fleece Hat. "You ever get an urge for a feel of some tits, why don't you just play with your own man boobs?" The others all laughed at him. The man at my table called out, "that told you, mate." The laughter was directed at Mr. Fleece Hat instead of me now. The trucker turned as red as the tinned tomatoes on his plate.

A few minutes later my own full English arrived. Two Lincolnshire sausages, bacon, fried eggs, fried tomatoes, beans, mushrooms, couple of hash browns and hot toast, the butter melting into it. All washed down with a mug of hot tea. Who says you can't get good cuisine in England? I squirted brown sauce onto my breakfast, arranged my napkin and tucked in.

One or two of the truckers watched me for a few minutes, amazed that with my slim build I was going to eat it all but by then my novelty had worn off and the men got back to their own conversations or newspapers. More working men came and left as I ate but I took no notice of their stares or comments.

After I wiped up the last of my sauce with my toast, I stood and left a pound as a tip on the Formica top. Then I used the diner's toilets to freshen up. They were surprisingly clean, if cold and old fashioned with chipped tiles. Nobody followed me in and I had them to myself.

Back outside, I walked over to my Audi. I leaned against its bodywork. To be honest, after that huge breakfast I felt full with a bloated feeling in my stomach but the energy kick would keep me going for a while yet. Covering my mouth with my hand I gently belched.

Glancing at my watch it wasn't too early now so I called McTeague himself to keep him updated on progress. He was on his way for his early morning workout. He took the call on one of his disposable cells and I explained what I'd done so far. "Up the ante. Make him hurt. And most important, get Claire back," McTeague told me. No room for doubt there.

"No problems, boss," I said before dropping my cell back in my pocket. Glad to get confirmation from him. I thought I'd be hearing from Wheelan any time soon. Another look at my watch. It was coming up to seven in the morning so I lowered myself into my Audi and switched on the radio tuning into BBC Lincolnshire 104.7 FM, for the local news.

Unsurprisingly, the news was filled with a series of arson attacks around Sleaford. There wasn't much more than that at the moment. Probably the station's reporters hadn't yet had time to do their digging and make the connections. I thought there'd be more info at eight. Then I fired up the Audi's two litre turbo engine, pulled away from the kerb and accelerated away down the A1121 back towards Sleaford.

However, I had to slow down as I approached the burned out Luton. A cop in a hi-viz was directing traffic and a tailback had built up. The woodentop directed us onto the other side of the road whilst one of his colleagues held up the oncoming traffic. As I passed the blackened shell of the box van, I saw a full forensics team giving the area a fingertip search whilst a low loader stood by waiting to take the van away.

I gawped like any rubber-necker as I passed the scene. Then I rejoined the A17 and was in Sleaford an hour later. As I expected, the news at eight was more informative. The burned industrial unit and Beauticians were identified as belonging to a 'local businessman' whose home was also targeted but no names were given out. It also said police suspected arson attacks. I figured that those good people of Lincolnshire listening in would mutter to themselves 'gangster' as that's what most people think an unnamed 'local businessman' who gets fire-bombed must be.

And in Wheelan's case they wouldn't be wrong.

 

CHAPTER 6.

 

My BlackBerry rang as I approached the outer suburbs of Sleaford. I pulled the phone from my pocket but I didn't recognise the number so I let the phone ring and ring until the caller gave up. I was on the Holdingham roundabout when my phone rang again. This time I took the call. I recognised the voice of Wheelan's friend and, in police terms, 'associate'.

A man called Mulhearn. I think he was some distant relation of Wheelan – a second cousin or something like that. Whatever, the two men had grown up together on the same estate; been friends since primary school, and whilst Wheelan had worked for McTeague, the old boss had never taken on Mulhearn.

Not that Mulhearn wasn't capable enough. Okay, through Wheelan, McTeague had thrown Mulhearn a few bones from time to time, a few scraps from his table, made use of his talents, but the man was – well, flaky. He didn't use violence strictly as a means to achieve an end but used it for its own sake. He got off on violence way too much. Mulhearn was trouble with a great big capital T; a man who got you noticed – and not in a good way.

"Mulhearn. Good to hear from you," I said. For a second, I wondered if Wheelan had authorised this call, but on reflection I realised he must have. Although I wondered why Wheelan hadn't called me direct. Probably he was showing me he was far too important these days. Above my level. If that was the case Wheelan would soon find out he wasn't. I'd bring him down to earth in a hurry.

"You've been a bit lively, Hennessy," Mulhearn said.

"Me?" acting the innocent. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't hand me that, Hennessy. We know you've been making things rather 'hot' in Sleaford."

I didn't need to say anything. I let the silence spin out between us. It was Mulhearn paying for the call after all. Eventually, Mulhearn spoke.

"We need to meet, Hennessy. Get this SNAFU sorted. The King's Arms Hotel, twelve hundred hours. Okay with you?" Mulhearn said. I remembered Mulhearn had been the army and still liked to salt his talk with military slang.

You'd think a man with his record would have tried to put his army past behind him. He drew a dishonourable discharge after some business when he and some others in his unit went too far interrogating a bunch of Afghan prisoners of war. I heard that at the time, the army simply wanted to brush their misdeeds under the carpet before news hungry journos found out. The way the war was going, it would have been too politically embarrassing if that story ever leaked out when we were supposed to be winning the Afghans' 'hearts and minds'.

Which was an impossible task anyway.

So the court martial concentrated on his 'misappropriation of medical supplies' instead. Basically Mulhearn, and others, were stealing as many medicines and drugs and selling them on via a camp orderly to the Afghans. It's not like Mulhearn and his squad were the only ones at it.

Way I heard it, the biggest quartermaster for the insurgency in the area was the British army. Body armour, night scopes, boots, rations, you name it; equipment flowed out of the camp gates. Some of it in the same boxes it had been delivered in earlier that day. If our squaddies could've sold the Afghans a Challenger 2 tank, then they would have. But Mulhearn was caught out, drew a year at the Colchester glasshouse and then made his way back north to team up with his old mate, Wheelan. Inevitably, a harder and more dangerous man after leaving the army than he'd been when he'd signed up as a rookie.

However, as far as I was concerned it was a 'Situation Normal, All Fouled Up' scenario. After my quick snatch from the Beauticians had failed, I knew I'd have to up the ante.

"Only thing to talk about is Claire McTeague. Make sure you bring her along with you," I said.

"That's not going to happen, Hennessy. But we need to rendezvous – maybe come to some alternative arrangements."

I agreed even though I knew that the only way this was going to finish was with Claire McTeague back where she belonged – at McTeague's side for as long as he wanted her.

Checking my watch, I had a few hours to kill before the meet so I drove to the massive Tesco Extra supermarket over on Northgate. I went along Boston Road, looped around Old Place and slowly drove past McTeague's house. The gates were shut tight closed so I saw no sign of my fire-bombing.

So I turned around, picked up speed and a few minutes later I was parking outside the Tesco Extra. The car park was a wide windswept expanse of grey asphalt stretching out to the horizon under the grey sky. I parked as far as possible from the store – and the gang of Poles offering to wash your car for a fiver or valet it for fifteen.

Inside the store the smell of fresh baked bread filled my nose. After what I'd eaten in Bostongrad, the smell made my stomach roll slowly inside. Breathing shallowly, I picked up some toiletries, underwear and looked along the racks until I found another grey suit that fitted. It wasn't designer or anything but it still looked way better than the crumpled, soiled outfit I was still wearing. Once again, I paid using Wheelan's cloned credit card.

"Clubcard?" the smiling blonde girl behind the till asked with an accent that came from way east of the Oder river.

I shook my head. McTeague hadn't bothered cloning Wheelan's Tesco clubcard.

"Where's the toilets?" I asked the girl. Still with a smile on her face, she pointed me in the right direction. The store was so big I only got lost once before I found them. Another woman from some village on the Baltic Sea was mopping the tiled floor. A yellow cart surrounded by yellow 'wet floor' signs filled the space.

"Later," I told her, holding open the door.

"No – is my schedule. I clean now," she said, gripping the mop a little tighter.

I took a fiver from my pocket and held it out to the woman. She looked at the note like it might bite her. Until I showed her a couple of its sisters as well. She looked up at me and then snatched the notes from my hand.

"I clean other toilets first," she said.

"Take your time – twenty minutes," I told her as she left. I took an 'out