The Low Riders weren’t just a motorcycle club. They were traditionalists, with an ‘old-school’ ethos: Live fast, die hard. Leave us alone, and we’ll leave you alone. We operate by our rules, not yours. All of which translated into a lifestyle of endemic lawlessness and a natural distrust of the police.
Yellow teeth had now appeared in nasty, defiant grins. Lucy saw bottles of brown ale, the scattered empties as well as those half-full and clamped in oily fists (even though most of these guys would be on the road in the next hour). She saw spliffs too; not many, but enough on brazen display to signify a challenge. Not that making a drugs bust was why she was here tonight – as they realised perfectly well, hence their brashness.
One of them came swaggering forward.
It was Kyle Armstrong, president of the Crowley chapter.
Lucy hadn’t seen him for quite some time; he was in his mid-thirties now, but still the way she remembered him: tall and lean, with truculent ‘bad boy’ looks, a tar-black mane hanging to his collar, and thick black sideburns. In his tight jeans, steel-studded belt and leather jacket, which he almost invariably wore open on a bare, hairy chest, he had a raw animal appeal. He might be out of time, fashion-wise, but he’d always reminded her of one of those classy heavy rockers of the early days, an Ian Gillan or Robert Plant.
Of course, she’d never let him know that was what she thought about him. Armstrong’s ego was already the size of a barrage balloon.
‘New length on your locks,’ he said approvingly. ‘Just like the old days. Going plain clothes obviously suits you.’
Beforehand, when in uniform, a spell that had only ended about ten months previously, Lucy had always kept her hair cut square at the shoulder. She hadn’t been overly fond of that style, and so Armstrong was quite correct; being a CID officer did have its perks.
Again though, she wouldn’t admit this to him. Mainly because she wasn’t in the mood for banter. Were it any other low-to-mid-level criminal who’d requested a meeting with her, she’d have told him that he was the one who’d have to travel, but she and the Low Riders’ president had something of a shared past, which, being hard-headed about it, meant that a useful outcome here was marginally more possible than the norm.
Even so, she didn’t have to pretend that she liked the arrangement.
‘What do you want, Kyle?’ she asked.
He stepped around her, unashamed in his admiration for her leather-clad form, which irked her, though it was insolence rather than an actual threat – and anyway it didn’t irk Lucy as much as it did Kelly Allen, or ‘Hells Kells’, as Lucy had once scornfully (and secretly) known her, a busty beauty of a biker chick, famous in the group not just for her impressive physique, but for her waist-length crimson-dyed hair, which very much matched her temperament. Many years ago, Kells had zealously sought out Armstrong’s personal affection, and when she’d finally secured it – and it didn’t come easily – she’d defended that status like a tigress.
Kells currently watched from about ten yards away, not looking her sexy best in a raggedy old Afghan coat, but her kohl-rimmed eyes blazing under her blood-red fringe.
Armstrong, meanwhile, had moved his attention on to Lucy’s bike.
‘I heard you’d written Il Monstro off chasing some bad guys,’ he said.
‘Banged it up a bit,’ she replied. ‘Nothing that wouldn’t fix.’
‘How about the villains of the piece?’
‘They’re both doing life.’
‘Ouch.’ He grinned. ‘Should’ve known better than to mess with you, eh?’
‘So should you by now. What’s this about?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he chuckled. ‘I’m not after rekindling that fire we once had together.’
‘Good … because that’s dead.’ She could sense the rest of them watching her in expectant silence, which annoyed her all the more – it might be a police thing, but Lucy never liked being the only person on the plot who didn’t know what was going on. ‘In addition to which,’ she said, ‘it’s late and I’m in Court tomorrow. So, whatever it is, make it quick.’
‘All right … can we walk a little?’
‘If you don’t want the rest of the crowd to know what you get up to, you shouldn’t bring them with you,’ she said as they strolled along a narrow, moonlit path. ‘Or is that like asking someone to go out without his pants on?’
‘It’s them I want to talk to you about,’ Armstrong replied. ‘Or one of them. But there’s no point everyone being party to the nitty-gritty, is there?’
She supposed he was right about that. The rest of the clan would know that he’d asked her here to make some kind of deal, but the fewer of them who knew what it specifically entailed, the less chance there was that the info would leak out.
‘The word is you’re a big noise now,’ he said. ‘A full-time detective no less.’
‘And?’
He turned to face her, his wolfish features saturnine in the woodland gloom. ‘I need your expertise.’
Lucy had expected nothing less, but was still cheesed off about it. It was amazing how many of these outlaw gangs fell back on the law when it suited them.
‘Don’t look at me like that, babe,’ he complained. ‘We’ve never been enemies.’
‘Really?’
‘Look … we’re on different sides of the fence, I agree. But we weren’t always, were we?’
‘I was young and stupid back then,’ she said.
‘Some might say you’re stupid to do what you do now.’ Briefly, he sounded stung by her dismissal of their former relationship. ‘Lead a happy life, do you, Luce? Still see all your old muckers?’
‘My personal happiness is irrelevant, Kyle … whether I’m stupid or not depends on my response to this favour you’re about to ask.’
He didn’t immediately reply, humbled again – firstly because she’d clearly guessed why she was here, which kind of gave her an advantage, and secondly because if he wanted to get anything out of this, he had no real option other than to be nice to her.
‘One of our lot got turned over by Crowley Drugs Squad,’ he said.
‘Well … wonders never cease.’
‘No, look … this is serious. Remember Ian Dyke?’
‘Not sure. The memory plays tricks. All your idiots tend to blend into one.’
‘He’s been busted for possession with intent to supply.’ Armstrong shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t normally be a big deal … he was only carrying some draw, a few ecstasy tablets … but he really doesn’t want to go down.’
‘What’s that popular phrase?’ she said. ‘If you don’t like the time, don’t do the …?’
‘I know all that. Listen Luce, Dykey’s girlfriend’s just had a baby and he’s trying to get his life sorted. Got himself a proper job and everything. But this isn’t going to help with that, is it?’
‘If it’s only a bit of molly … he won’t go down for that.’
‘But he will lose the job.’
‘So, he’ll have to get another.’
‘Look