Willing Flesh by Adam Creed Read Free Book Online

sergeant will ever be an old dog.
    Leadengate is unsuitable for modern policing, was never intended to uphold the law; in fact, quite the reverse. It was previously the Saracen’s Head, an old inn of bad repute.
    They spill out into the dungeon-like reception and Jombaugh gives Staffe a sarcastic, am-dram salute, calls out, ‘Take it easy, Staffe,’ his head sticking up above the high counter. He is leafing through The News by lamplight.
    ‘Easy?’
    ‘I don’t see Rimmer running at all that fine china.’
    ‘You calling me a bull, Jom?’
     
    Jombaugh smiles over his glasses. He is a tall, broad man piling on the half-stones since he became desk sergeant. At least he’s still married, though. ‘You just take it easy.’
    Outside, the snow reflects a pale orange hue. Smet answers and Pulford starts up the Peugeot. You can see the shapes of its splutter in the chill.
    ‘Staffe, you old bastard! What kind of trouble are you in now?’ says DI Smethurst.
    ‘It’s the season of goodwill, Smet, don’t you know?’ Staffe presses 0 on his phone and pulses it three times. ‘I’ve got to go, there’s another call coming in.’
    ‘What was it you wanted?’
    ‘Vassily Tchancov.’
    ‘Tchancov? He’s keeping his nose clean as far as I know.’
    ‘He just cropped up on something to do with one of Taki Markary’s girls.’
    ‘There was a coming together, a couple or three years ago.’
    ‘Over what?’
    ‘A gambling licence.’
    ‘Who got it?’
    ‘Neither. Two rabid old dogs in the manger.’
    Staffe presses o again, gives it a long beep and says, ‘Cheers, Smet,’ clicking off.
    *
    They park up on Wardour Street, three doors down from VodBlu, which loses £ 600,000 a year on a turnover of £ 9 million. That’s a lot of vodka amounting to nought, but Staffe’s gut tells him that VB was never conceived for profit, but to spit out clean cash and tax credits. VB, says the sign, sculpted from ice, dyed blue. It is so cold out, today, that the sign doesn’t melt at all. In summer – according to the website – they sculpt it fresh every day.
    Four doors down from VodBlu, two lean, chiselled and suited men are smoking next to a blacked-out Bentley. Staffe raises a hand to them, is amused when they seem puzzled.
    As they go in Pulford’s words plume up from his mouth. ‘Christ, sir! Is this …’ He looks around, open-mouthed, ‘… is this all ice? Even the bar is ice.’
    The girl behind the bar has black hair and powder-blue eyes. She wears a polar-white fur hat, a cropped, quilted gilet that shows her tummy, and knitted hot pants. Staffe wonders how long her shifts are. She looks happy enough and holds up a cone of black ice with a bottle embedded within. She wears white leather gloves, jiggles the bottle. ‘Absolut, gents? Today’s special.’
    ‘Water,’ says Staffe. ‘Two, please.’
    The bar is full of small groups of media types in thick vintage coats and porkpie hats or berets. One of the barmaids jokes as she goes out, cigarette at the ready, ‘to get warm’.
    Pulford brings the drinks and Staffe keeps an eye on a door between the end of the bar and the toilets. It is the only place that might accommodate an office, and, soon enough, a small, wiry man in a suit emerges. He has dyed-black hair with a widow’s peak and electric blue eyes, like beads pressed into deep scars. He comes across to Staffe and says, ‘You gentlemen have everything you need?’
    ‘Elena sent us,’ says Staffe, scrutinising the reaction.
    ‘Elena?’ says the man, convincingly deadpan.
    ‘A friend of Vassily’s?’
    ‘Maybe you should go.’ The man takes a hold of Staffe’s elbow. The grip is tight as a nut and Staffe shakes his arm, can’t shift it.
    Pulford takes a step towards the man but Staffe says, ‘This place does all right, I suppose. But you’re not turning over nine million a year. No way. Maybe we’ll have the DTI look at things.’
    ‘You have a strange attitude, coming into my bar with