Deadline

Eighteen

It was half past two on Friday afternoon when SG4 Tina Boyd stopped outside the Lively Lounge Club and Casino, a turd-coloured slab of a building straight out of the 1960s school of bland architecture, which sat at the Colindale end of the Edgware Road, about three miles and a thousand years as the crow flies from the leafy Hampstead suburb where Pat Phelan now lived. Looking at it made her feel mildly pleased that gambling wasn't one of her vices. It wasn't that she wasn't interested. She just didn't dare place a bet, even on something like the Grand National, because she knew if she got a bit of beginner's luck and started winning, she'd probably never stop. Tina had an addictive personality. It was part of her genetic make-up. All through her early and mid-teens she'd resisted the peer pressure to start smoking, then at seventeen she'd tried her first cigarette at a party and she'd been putting away twenty a day ever since, with every attempt to stop ending in rapid failure.

She wondered if Phelan was the same. Because he definitely had a gambling problem, and the Lively Lounge Club and Casino was where he sank the lion's share of the money he spent on his betting. And he spent a lot. Tina's team had got hold of copies of the previous year's statements for the five credit cards and one debit card held in his name, and during that period his outgoings amounted to a grand total of £87,288.36 – and this from a man with no actual income that they could find, other than a £1,500-a-month standing order paid into his personal bank account from Andrea's own account, which was held at a separate bank. There'd been a number of further payments into his account over the course of the year, more than twenty-five grand's worth in all, but they were sporadic which meant they almost certainly represented winnings. Even with his wife's £160,000-a-year salary it was an unsustainable amount, and already Phelan's credit limit was maxed out on every one of the credit cards, while he was currently overdrawn at the bank by more than six thousand.

It wasn't that someone getting himself into this situation was all that uncommon. As Big Barry had pointed out earlier that morning, people got themselves into serious debt the whole time. What was interesting about Pat Phelan's finances from a SOCA point of view was that his spending had tailed off dramatically in the last two months, by more than 90 per cent, and in the same period there'd been no deposits of winnings in his bank account. Either he'd turned over a new leaf or, in Tina's opinion far more likely, he was funding his habit from a different source. Since the financial statements all pointed to the Lively Lounge as the venue of choice for his gambling, Tina had decided that it was as good a place as any to start digging into Phelan's background. She could have left it to one of the more junior members of the team but, like a lot of detectives, she liked to get out and about; and if she was entirely honest with herself, she wasn't much of a delegator, preferring to rely on her own ability to get things done.

The needs of the compulsive gambler tend to be of the twenty-four-hour variety, and the club was open. Tina went through the tinted double doors and into the darkened lobby. A blonde girl was at the reception desk talking to an older woman with hair extensions and far too much make-up. The girl smiled politely as Tina approached, wishing her a good afternoon in a Polish accent. Her colleague, meanwhile, said nothing but gave her a more suspicious look, clocking immediately that she was police, even though Tina wasn't wearing a uniform and always made a conscious effort never to give off that aura. Some people simply have a nose for spotting coppers, and they're usually the ones who have the most to fear from them.

Tina smiled at the girl. 'Good afternoon, my name's Tina Boyd from the Serious and Organized Crime Agency.' She held up her warrant card. 'I'd like to speak to the owner, please.'

'I'll deal with this, Barbara,' said the older woman in a deep voice that was midway between a bear and Demi Moore. 'The owners aren't here.

They're not based in this country.' Her expression seemed to add, so what the hell are you going to do about that? 'Is there anything I can help with?'

'That depends. Are you the most senior person in the building at the moment?'

There was a moment's hesitation that told Tina the answer was no.

'Well, Mr McMahon's here, but—'

'And what's his position?'

'He's the manager, but I think he's—'

'Well, I'll see him then, thank you.'

'He's busy, Miss whatever-your-name-was,' the woman growled.

Tina wasn't deterred. 'That makes two of us. Can you take me to him, please?'

'I'll call up and see if he's available.'

She picked up a phone behind the desk, scowling at Tina, who stared back at her impassively, amazed why some people always had to put up a token resistance to the police before they acquiesced, even though the end result was inevitable.

The woman hung up. 'OK, he can see you now.'

Tina followed her through the main gambling area, a big, windowless place with all the charm of an aircraft hangar. Only a handful of the gaming tables were in use, the clientele mainly quiet Chinese men wearing inscrutable expressions as they placed their bets. None of them looked up as Tina and her guide passed by in silence.

Mr McMahon's office was at the far end of the building, up a flight of stairs and along a short corridor. The woman knocked on his door and moved out of the way for Tina to go in, giving her a last glare of defiance as she did so.

'The Serious and Organized Crime Agency,' said the man standing behind the desk as Tina shut the door behind her. 'I've not had any dealings with them. Malcolm McMahon,' he said, putting out a hand. 'Pleased to meet you, Miss . . .'

'Boyd. Tina Boyd.'

They shook hands, and Tina took the seat on her side of the desk.

Malcolm McMahon was a big man who looked like he enjoyed a drink. He was good-looking in a brutish sort of way, with slicked-back grey hair fashioned into a widow's peak as sharp as an arrowhead, and a straight one-inch scar edging away from his top lip. He was dressed in a badly ironed shirt and unfashionable striped tie, while his casino clothes – black suit and dress shirt – were hanging up on one wall, next to a bank of eight small screens that showed the gaming area from various angles.

'I hear you SOCA people aren't even police any more,' he said with a smile. 'You're special agents or something. So, what do I call you?'

'Miss Boyd'll do fine.'

He nodded slowly, accepting this. 'Well, Miss Boyd, we run a tight ship here, and we don't tolerate anything illegal, so I don't know how we came to the attention of SOCA. Do you mind if I check your ID again? Just to make sure you are who you say you are. It's amazing how many charlatans there are these days.'

'Sure.'

Tina produced the warrant card from the back pocket of her jeans and handed it to him, noticing the nicotine stains on his thick, stubby fingers as he took it. He examined it carefully before thanking her and handing it back.

'It's about one of your customers.'

'I don't like talking about our customers, Miss Boyd. They value their privacy, and so do we.'

'This is a very serious case, Mr McMahon. If you want me to get official and bring officers down here to interview all your staff, I can. But I'm also prepared to talk off the record, and I can guarantee that anything you tell me will be treated in the strictest confidence.'

'So, you want me to grass up one of my paying punters?' he asked evenly.

Now it was her turn to smile. 'No, I want you to help him. His name's Patrick Phelan, and I know he spends a lot of money in your establishment, and has done so for a long time.' McMahon didn't say anything, so she continued. 'Mr Phelan's gone missing, and we're extremely concerned about his welfare.'

'I don't see how I can help.'

'But you know him?'

McMahon sighed and sat back in his seat. 'Yeah, I know him. He's been coming here for a while. Nice bloke, friendly enough. Not the sort to piss people off.'

'When was the last time you saw him?'

He drummed his fingers on the desk. 'Last week some time. I can't remember for sure, but I definitely haven't seen him this week, and I don't think he's been in. I could check for you.'

'No, it's fine. Who does he usually come in with?'

'Various people. The occasional girl, sometimes with a couple of mates. Sometimes alone.' He shrugged. 'I didn't really know any of them.'

Tina reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a pack of Silk Cut. 'Do you mind if I smoke?' She knew from the way McMahon wasn't settling that he was itching for a cigarette, and from the stale smell in the room it was obvious he usually puffed away in here.

He grinned, and leaned down behind the desk. When his hand re-emerged, it was holding a huge half-full ashtray.

'Didn't realize you were a smoker,' he said. 'Now that it's against the law to have a fag in your own office, I thought I'd best be careful when you came in.'

'That's one law I'm happy to break,' she said, offering him a cigarette.

He took it, and she lit for both of them. A rapport had been struck based on their shared identity as social outcasts, just as Tina had hoped. It was amazing what you could do with a rapport.

'According to his bank statements, Mr Phelan was a big spender, and it didn't look like he was very successful.'

'He wasn't. He'd have a few drinks and he'd start getting reckless. Sometimes it worked – you know, who dares wins and all that – but most of the time it didn't.'

Tina took a drag on her cigarette. 'The thing is, the statements also show that his spending plummeted in the last couple of months, but it sounds like he was still coming here.' She paused. 'Any idea where he might have been getting his money from?'

'We've got credit lines we can extend to valued customers. Pat's a valued customer.'

'But you weren't extending credit to him for two months solid, were you?'

He shook his head. 'No, we weren't. We stopped a few weeks back. He still owes us more than three grand. He asked the other week for more time to pay. He told me he had what he called an alternative means of income. I wasn't happy. I like Pat, but this is business.'

Tina kept her interest in check. 'Did he give you any idea what this alternative means of income was?'

'Nah. He just promised me it was kosher.'

'Was he borrowing money from any other sources, as far as you know?'

This time, McMahon's silence didn't sit naturally. He looked evasive.

'Remember, Mr McMahon, this talk's purely off the record. If you know anything, I can guarantee it won't get back to you.'

McMahon continued to sit there smoking. Tina didn't push things. She waited.

'Look,' he said at last, 'I like Pat. He's a nice bloke. I wouldn't want to think anything bad's happened to him. But if it has, I'd want whoever's involved to suffer. You know what I mean?'

'Sure.'

'This is definitely, definitely off the record, right?'

Tina nodded, realizing something significant was coming.

'Pat doesn't just owe us. He also owes someone you really don't want to be in hock to. Man by the name of Leon Daroyce.'

'I don't know him,' she said, making no attempt to write the name down. Producing a notebook might give this talk an official air and spook him, and she didn't want that. She'd remember the name easy enough.

'He's a loan shark, and a big player round these parts,' McMahon continued. 'I think a few of our punters have used his services, but you've got to be pretty desperate. The rates he charges are high and, like I said, he really ain't a nice bloke.'

'Have you got any idea how much Phelan owes him?'

He shook his head. 'Pat never told me about Daroyce. I just heard rumours. It was one of the reasons I cut the credit lines to him. I was worried we wouldn't get paid.'

Tina was going to have to find out as much as she could about Leon Daroyce and how much Phelan was in the can to him. If Daroyce was such a brutal operator – and with a man like McMahon, clearly no stranger to violence himself, saying it then she was inclined to believe he must be – it was also possible that Pat Phelan had gone to extraordinary lengths to get the money to pay him. Maybe even resorting to the kidnap of his stepdaughter.

'I think that's everything, Mr McMahon,' she said, standing up. 'Thanks for your time, and for being so candid with me.'

He stubbed out his cigarette. 'I'm trusting you, Miss Boyd. If word gets out that I pointed you in Leon Daroyce's direction, things ain't going to look good for me.'

'I keep my word.'

'Yeah,' he said, watching her carefully. 'You look like you do.' He lit another cigarette, blew out some smoke. 'A word of advice. Be careful. Leon Daroyce tends to take things personal.'

Tina opened the door, gave him a cool smile. 'Don't worry about me, Mr McMahon, I'm always careful.'