A Fistful of Knuckles by Tom Graham Read Free Book Online Page A

her.’
    ‘Stella?! Give over, I’m no granny-sniffer!’ protested Chris.
    ‘She’d make a man of you.’
    ‘She’d make
mincemeat
of me!’ Chris cried. ‘I’m not into all that kinky stuff anyway.’
    Ray sniggered. Gene looked sceptical. Chris got defensive.
    ‘I’m not!’ he insisted. ‘If you’re thinking of them magazines, I told you, I was looking after them for a mate.
You’re
the one who keeps bringing that plastic thing in, Ray!’
    ‘Oh please, not the plastic thing,’ groaned Sam, handing pints across. ‘I don’t want to think about the plastic thing.’
    ‘No plastic things, no kinky wrinklies, not here, not tonight,’ ordained Gene, and they all lifted their pint glasses. ‘Leave the filth of the world on the doorstep, lads. Let’s keep the Railway Arms hallowed ground.’
    ‘Amen to dat!’ put in Nelson.
    Enveloped in the thick, cancerous atmosphere of the pub, Sam, Gene, Chris and Ray raised their rich, golden pints and drew deeply on them.
    As Sam wiped away his froth moustache, Nelson leant close to him, dropped his exaggerated accent, and said in a low voice: ‘Only four of you this evening, Sam?’
    ‘I’m meeting Annie later, somewhere else,’ Sam whispered back.
    ‘Nelson’s little establishment not good enough for the likes of you two, eh?’
    ‘We’re having dinner together.’
    ‘You can get dinner here,’ Nelson grinned. ‘Two bowls of Smash and a selection of fish fingers.’ And turning on his accent again he added; ‘Birdseye’s finest! On de house! Wit mah compliments!’
    Sam laughed and toasted him with his pint glass.
    ‘So,’ declared Gene, indicating to Nelson to get another round on the go, ‘pie and chips with DI Jugs more appealing than drinks with the boys is it, Samuel?’
    ‘It’s not the pie and chips he’s looking forward to,’ said Ray, and Chris sniggered like a schoolboy.
    ‘Actually, we’re going Greek, so it’s more likely to be calamari and stuffed vine leaves,’ said Sam with dignity, ‘
if
any of you lot know what they are.’
    ‘I know what stuffing vine leaves is all about,’ smirked Chris. ‘It was in them magazines I was looking after for me mate.’
    ‘Is that why the pages were stuck together?’ asked Ray.
    ‘I spilt me calamari,’ said Chris.
    ‘More than once,’ said Ray.
    ‘This is like having a drink with the fourth form,’ sighed Sam, and put down his pint glass. ‘I’d love to hang about and listen to this cracking banter all night, but the table’s booked and Annie will be waiting. So, gentlemen, if you will excuse me?’
    Chris opened his mouth to say something daft, but Gene cut in gruffly: ‘No more hilarious gags from you, Christopher. I’m very fond of this shirt, I’d hate to ruin it by splitting my sides.’ And he glowered so menacingly that Chris hid behind his pint glass. Gene went on; ‘Before you leave us, Sam, I’ve got some shop talk for you – for all three of you. Whoever killed Denzil Obi is a dangerous man – an
extremely
dangerous man – and right now, while we’re stood here, he’s running around as loose as a whore’s drawers. It’s likely he’ll go after Spider whatever-his-name-is. It’s also likely Spider won’t want us around – he’ll be more interested in avenging his beloved blood brother. So – we’re going to keep an eye on Spider and see if the killer reveals himself by coming for him. But that doesn’t mean we can just sit about on our arses. I want to get to this murdering bastard before any more blood’s spilt on my manor, is that understood?’
    Sam, Ray and Chris spoke as one: ‘Yes, Guv.’
    ‘The man we’re after is a boxer – a boxer with small hands,’ said Gene.
    ‘How small’s small, guv?’ asked Ray.
    Gene grabbed Sam’s hand and forced his finger straight.
    ‘Our measuring stick,’ Gene said. ‘The width of the killer’s knuckles match the length of Sam Tyler’s pokey-finger.’
    ‘What bit of the boss can we use if we