LITMIR.BIZ

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about him?’ said Dermot. ‘Denzil’s not here.’

      ‘No,’ said Gene. ‘No, he’s not. He’s gone to that big, stinky gym in the sky.’

      A ripple of tension ran through the men. Dermot straightened up, his face serious. ‘What you talkin’ about?’

      ‘Denzil Obi was found dead in his flat this morning,’ said Sam. ‘Beaten to a pulp.’

      ‘So it’s a not social call but a murder enquiry,’ Gene declared. ‘Any of you monkeys feel like having a chat? Eh? Anyone here know enough words to tell us anything?’

      Silent faces stared back at them.

      ‘One at a time, lads, no need to rush,’ growled Gene.

      Sam looked from one to the other, and it was then that he noticed a lean, wiry man – more sleek and well-toned than bulked-up and brawny – who was sporting a spider tattoo on the base of his neck, almost identical to Denzil’s. For a fleeting moment, Sam and the man with the tattoo made eye contact – and then the man looked nervously away.

      At that moment, Gene spotted the man with the tattoo, and at once strode towards him.

      ‘Oi! What about you? Eh? Knew Denzil, did you? Eh? Speak up, lad! Or would you rather chat about this under the lights down at the cop shop?’

      ‘Hey, constable, you lay off Spider!’ Dermot protested.

      ‘I don’t like spiders – I squash ‘em,’ said Gene. ‘Or pull their legs off and flush ‘em down the plug hole. But only if they ignore me – you get my drift? Eh? Spider?’

      Spider gave Gene a glowering look. He tightened his fists. Gene tightened his.

      ‘I said lay off ‘im!’ Dermot cried. He ducked under the rope and waddled aggressively towards Gene on his short, stocky legs.

      ‘Look, out, Sam,’ said Gene, looking down at Dermot. ‘Looks like I’ve upset the Lollypop Guild.’

      Dermot planted himself protectively in front of Spider: ‘Let him be, constable. Him and Denzil were buddies – that ain’t no secret. Real close.’

      ‘Best friends?’ asked Sam.

      ‘Like brothers,’ said Dermot.

      ‘Faggots, were they? Nancy boys? Like to dip your wick in the ol’ chocolate pot, eh Spider?’

      ‘Officer, you’re out of line!’ the Irishmen cried. ‘You’re well out of line!’

      ‘What you gonna do about it?’ asked Gene, leaning down so that his face was level with Dermot’s. ‘You gonna get Sleepy and Bashful to give me a going over?’

      ‘Guv, please,’ said Sam quietly, trying to calm the situation. The atmosphere was tense beyond belief. The men in the gym seemed ready to rush them.

      Maybe the machismo in the air’s gotten to him, San thought. Maybe he can’t help himself.

      Spider stared furiously at Gene for a few moments, his eyes red and watery, and then he turned and stormed away.

      ‘Let the fella grieve in peace,’ Dermot said. ‘Spider’s a good lad. Like I told you – him and Denzil, they were like brothers the pair of ‘em. Think of his feelings. Let him shed a few tears. Then he’ll talk to you.’

      ‘He’ll talk to me now,’ growled Gene. ‘You might be the leprechaun’s bollocks in this shite-hole, Murphy, but when it comes to a murder enquiry you’re less to me than a puddle of pissed-out Guinness.’

      ‘I’m warnin’ you …’ muttered Dermot at the back of his throat.

      ‘Get back to Santa’s gotto, there’s rockin’ ‘orses need wrapping,’ said Gene, and he pushed past the little Irish men to go after Spider. But at once Dermot planted himself directly in Gene’s way, blocking him – and as he did, the other men in the room pushed forward to back him up. Sam braced himself. The anger in the room was like an electric charge. Hands were clenched. Muscles tensed. Eyes narrowed. The whole gym seemed to thrum and vibrate with a deep, pulsing, masculine energy, like the prelude to a storm or the first ominous rumblings of an earthquake. The thrill of imminent violence filled the room.

      Sam froze.

      Dermot prepared to throw a punch.

      The boxers got ready to join him.

      Gene puffed himself up.

      It was then that they heard the gasp of a woman a few yards away to their right. It was an almost sexual sound. The lemony aroma of Charlie cut through the fug of sweaty men like the reek of powerful pheromones. Sam and Gene glanced across and saw bleached blonde hair, scarlet lipstick caked across wrinkled lips, a tight-fitting, zebra-patterned leather skirt, fishnet stockings encasing muscular legs, white stilettos. The balls-to-the-wall old bird who stared so frankly at the men in the gym raised her left hand to her painted mouth and teased a red lacquered nail between twin sets of nicotine-darkened teeth; as she did so, her right hand ran down her solidly curved body, from zebra-striped breasts to leather-clad crotch, in a single fluid movement of barely suppressed animal arousal.

      ‘Hands in your pockets, boys, your five-tissue fantasy’s arrived,’ Gene observed.

       CHAPTER THREE: SLAPPER

      ‘I’m Stella, and this is my gym,’ said the woman in the zebra-striped top, lounging back in her chair and planting her stilettoed feet on her desk. ‘This place is mine. Mine. You come into Stella’s Gym with questions, I’m the one you speak to first. Got that?’

      Sam didn’t know whether things would have kicked off had Stella not arrived the moment she did. But whatever the score, her sudden appearance had defused the situation. All eyes had turned to her as she stood there, running her hands over her own body and chewing her glistening bottom lip. Sam’s first thought was that she was somebody’s drunk and unpleasantly randy aunt, but whoever she was she radiated some sort of authority over the men in the gym. They respected her. Gene had sensed this too; instinctively, he’d turned his attention from the wretched Spider and the plucky Irishman defending him, and instead focused solely on this high-heeled, peroxided Amazon.

      Beckoning Gene and Sam with a red-clawed finger, she had brought them through a door that led from the gymnasium area into her private office. It was lined with framed photographs of big men, boxers every one of them: some were groomed and suited; some sleek and oiled and posing in the gym; others sweating in the ring during a fight; not a few gushing blood and hardly able to see through swollen eyes – one or two lying sparko and splattered on the canvas, defeated and senseless.

      ‘Didn’t expect to find a bird running this gaff,’ said Gene, casting his glance around the office.

      ‘Thought the name might’ve given it away,’ Stella said, not looking up from filing her talons. ‘I was born into boxing. My dad, his dad, his dad before him. It’s in my blood. It’s my life.’

      ‘You should’ve been born a bloke,’ said Gene.

      ‘So should you, Detective Chief Inspector whatever you said your name was.’

      ‘The name’s Hunt. Gene Hunt.’

      ‘And I’m Detective Inspector Sam Ty-’

      Gene silenced him with a curt wave of the hand, like Sam was cramping his style on a date. Which perhaps, in a way, he was. Gene’s eyes were fixed directly on Stella’s – and hers were now fixed on his. They were locked onto each other, oblivious to the rest of the world, like lovers. Sam fell silent and gave the two of them their space; it seemed wrong to intrude.

      ‘Denzil Obi’s got himself killed,’ Gene growled. ‘You know who I’m talking

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