‘I only heard about him a couple of days ago, my dear,’ McGlaglen replied. ‘But it must be longer than that, surely.’
She considered this. The last Creep attack in Birmingham had made the papers about two weeks ago. Prior to that, he’d struck every few days or so. He could well be getting itchy fingers.
‘Jerry … you’re absolutely certain about this? People you know and trust are saying the Creep is in Crowley? I mean, this isn’t some flight of fancy?’
He finally turned and frowned round at her, his odd-coloured eyes alight with intensity. On the basis of past information he’d provided, he probably had the right to look a little indignant.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll go back to the nick and make this official.’ She saw a stop coming up where it would be convenient for her to jump off. There was another one on the other side of the road; she could catch a bus back to the station from there. She stood up. ‘If it happens, you’ll get your usual fee. But if it doesn’t … if we end up wasting a load of time and resources, they’ll mark you down as a bad bet.’
McGlaglen sighed melodramatically. ‘It is a sad state of affairs when a generally reliable man can only be allowed to fail once.’
‘We’re talking about someone who, for his hobby, hacks people up with a sword.’ Lucy swayed her way to the top of the stairs. ‘Forgive me, Jerry, if I’m keen to get it right.’
He might have entered the criminal world relatively late in life, but Joe Lazenby had soon come to recognise this as a benefit rather than a drawback. It obviously helped that he didn’t have a rap sheet, and it helped enormously that after years of normality, he didn’t look like a criminal.
Whatever people said about the monsters in our society mingling easily and comfortably with the rest of us, that only really applied to the successful ones. As far as Joe Lazenby was concerned, some shaven-headed moron decked in cheap bling and wearing tattoos on his face and neck wasn’t even going to enter a street-corner boozer without the punters edging away from him, so his chances of getting close to someone it was actually worth robbing or conning were beyond zero. Not that Lazenby went in for primitive tricks like robbing or conning, but in complete contrast to those tattooed, knuckle-dragging apes, he still regarded his ‘ordinary joe’ appearance as his best asset.
In fact, that was the street name he used: ‘Ordinary Joe’.
He’d chosen it, himself, and almost unbelievably, it had caught on. Even so, as he sat here in the genteel environs of Hogarth’s Cocktail Lounge, working through his daily accounts, no one would ever know what he was really up to. They’d just see a guy in his mid-thirties, slightly stout of build, average height, with curly brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, a wedding ring on one hand, a none-too-expensive Nautica watch on the other, wearing black horn-rims and a three-piece suit, sipping Perrier water as he tapped away on a laptop; clearly an averagely successful businessman wrapping up the day’s work with a few final, essential adjustments before winding his thankful way home – no doubt to a semi in the suburbs, where his pretty wife and two-and-a-half nerdy children awaited him.
It helped, of course, that most of the clientele at Hogarth’s were cut from exactly that cloth, though mainly that was down to the time and place – late afternoon on a Tuesday, and Pearlman Road in the very centre of Crowley, where, for the most part, it was office and retail staff now disgorging from the workplaces close by.
Outside, the mid-October dusk was falling quickly, and with it the temperature. But Hogarth’s prided itself on providing a warm, snug environment. The mullioned windows were shaded with velvet, the lamplight low-key, the various loungers and armchairs of the deepest, most comfortable variety. The music playing was easy jazz, while the real fire crackling in the grate threw cosy orange-gold patterns across the hardwood floors. There was no actual bar service in here; all drinks were supplied by waitresses, who would attend your seating bay or booth or coffee table, in response to the ornate Edwardian bell-pushes located nearby.
It wasn’t too busy at present. No one would really expect it to be, but that suited Lazenby. He might be confident of his anonymity, but it was still easier to relax when people weren’t constantly edging past your table, perhaps throwing covert glances at your laptop screen. There were perhaps six other patrons in Hogarth’s at present, all dotted around, either alone or in couples, those together chatting quietly over drinks, the others reading evening papers, or, like him, fiddling around with electronic devices.
Either way, it left plenty of spare places all over the wine bar’s comfy interior.
Which is why it was so annoying to Lazenby when another guy in a suit, someone he didn’t know from Adam, suddenly inserted himself into the same booth and sat down on the other side of the coffee table, on top of which he nonchalantly plonked a large G&T.
Lazenby tried not to look at him, but couldn’t help stealing a couple of irritable glances.
The guy was in his mid-fifties and sharp-suited, with an average build, lean features and silver-grey hair razored into a crew cut.
Lazenby didn’t like his personal space being invaded for no reason, but for the sake of appearances – he was Ordinary Joe, after all – he didn’t make an issue of it, merely nodded when the newcomer’s dark eyes flitted towards him, and continued working at his accounts.
‘You picked the wrong place to try and get some work done, I’d say,’ the guy commented.
Lazenby didn’t at first realise that he was being addressed. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Noisy bar.’
It wasn’t an especially noisy bar – not at this time of day.
‘Didn’t notice,’ Lazenby replied, pointedly not looking up.
‘Hard to concentrate.’
The air hissed between Lazenby’s clenched teeth as he finally met the newcomer with his best blank-eyed stare. Ordinary Joe might value his average appearance and air of affability, but he was also a Scouser. He originated from Childwall, which wasn’t a poor part of Liverpool, but nevertheless, in archetypical Merseysider fashion, he didn’t take well to being hassled.
‘Especially when people keep talking to me,’ he said, ‘and only politeness is preventing me telling them straight that I’m not interested.’
He went back to his laptop, pink-cheeked, but reasonably confident that the unexpected show of no-frills hostility would have done the trick. It couldn’t be very often that tired, bored business guys encountered a straight-talking response like that in Hogarth’s.
‘You a polite guy, then?’ the stranger said. ‘Perhaps they should call you “Joey the Gent” rather than “Ordinary Joe”?’
Lazenby glanced up at him again, this time shocked.
The guy took a sip of his G&T, unfazed by the turn in the conversation. ‘But hang on, I don’t suppose that would work. “Joey the Gent” sounds like “Jimmy the Gent” … and wasn’t he some kind of gangster? That would never do, would it?’
‘Who are you?’ Lazenby asked, instinctively closing his laptop to protect the information it contained.
‘Me? Oh, I’m no one important enough to have a cool nickname.’
‘You a cop?’
The man smiled to himself. ‘I’m guessing they call you Ordinary Joe because you look and act like an everyday Charlie. Perhaps we should call you that, instead: “Everyday Charlie”.’
‘I could ring my solicitor right now,’ Lazenby said, talking tough, though in truth his hair was prickling