Flowers for Mercedes Read online

PART THREE

  A Burning Issue

  "You're a wonder, Mikey," said Mercedes, casting an appreciative eye over her beloved Triumph Bonneville T120 motorbike. "She looks as good as new."

  Mike flushed faintly with the praise. "New front wheel, new forks and shockers on the front. Well, new old if you know what I mean. They're the ones I got off ebay, but they seem like new."

  "But Mikey, she looks as if she's just come out of a showroom."

  "Yeh, well, I did some touching up and a bit of polishing."

  "More than a bit, Mikey. She looks like new."

  The blush deepened. "Well, you are a special customer," he mumbled.

  She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. "And you're a special mate, Mikey. One in a million. You know that, don't you?"

  The blush was now full blown. He hugged her uncertainly back. "Special mate? Is that what he was? If only it could be more," he thought.

  "What do I owe you, Mikey?" she asked as she released him.

  "It's a bit pricey this time, Drew," he replied with some embarrassment. "I had to pay a fair bit for the parts."

  "Mikey. I don't expect you to work for nothing. You know she's my pride and joy, and I bring her here because you love her almost as much as I do."

  They retreated to the corner which Mike considered to be his office and settled up, before she kicked the bike into life and blew him a final kiss and roared away.

  He watched her black leather clad form disappear and wistfully wheeled the old Vespa he'd lent her back into the workshop. He'd been in love with Mercedes Drew ever since they were at school together, but he knew it was never going to happen and now, apparently, there was yet another new man in her life. A policeman no less. He shook his head sadly and returned to the Ducatti he was servicing for a less favoured client.

  For Mercedes, riding the old bonny again was like being reunited with an old lover, even though it had been less than two weeks since Mike had picked up her damaged bike following her argument with a manhole cover. Enough time for the bruises on her body to fade and enough time for her attraction to the new policeman in her life to grow ever brighter. Detective Inspector Des Flowers, or just plain Flowers as he preferred to be called, was rarely out of her thoughts these days.

  She took the road out of town and opened up the throttle as she hit the motorway. She had the bike up to eighty five before common sense intervened and she slowed back to only a few miles per hour over the statutory seventy limit. The beloved bike was as good as ever. Maybe even better. She had no idea what magic Mikey had wrought, but he'd tuned the bike to perfection. She was well aware how he felt about her and was truly sorry if she made him unhappy, but apart from regarding him as one of, or maybe even the best of, her best friends, the relationship would never go beyond that. She hoped, for his sake, that it would be enough.

  Traffic was light and she swept past most of it effortlessly. There was a police patrol car parked up at the side watching the cars stream by. She was glad she'd slowed down when she had. The motorway took a long sweeping downhill turn left before flattening out and then rising steeply. The leaves on the trees were turning autumnal and the sky was more blue than grey. It was good to be alive on a day like today.

  At the top of the hill, just off the motorway, was The Trucker's Stop, a transport café she used to frequent with some of her biker friends. She decided to take the exit to see if any of the old faces were about. Sure enough there were half a dozen bikes lined up outside. At least two of which she recognised. She added her bonny to the line and removed her full face helmet before pushing open the door.

  There was a cheer as she walked in when the seated bikers recognised her. "Drew! Where the f*** have you bin? Thought you must be dead. Haven't seen you in months."

  "Yeh," she grinned. "It's been a while."

  The six bikers, all male, who were sat around the table at one end of the café, rose as one to greet her. It took a while to complete the round of hugs and handshakes. Her old mate 'Dogtooth', whose Harley she'd recognised outside, was particularly pleased to see her.

  "Where've you been, Drew? I thought perhaps you didn't love me any more."

  "Sorry, Dogtooth. Don't know how it's happened. Just work and … I don't know … stuff."

  He hugged her again. "So you do still love me?"

  "I never loved you, Dogtooth," she joked. "Just couldn't work out how to get rid of you."

  The banter continued unabated as more coffees were ordered and served. "I wasn't sure any of you would still be coming here," she said. "What's happened to the girls, by the way? Seems to be an all boy club now."

  "Shopping!" chorused two of the riders. "That's why we're here. We're picking them up later."

  "Assuming they haven't bought so much we can't get 'em on the bikes," said Dogtooth.

  "It was just like old times," thought Drew, happily. "Can't believe I haven't missed you guys more."

  "I reckon she's got a new bloke," said Four eyes, one of the quieter riders.

  Her blush gave the game away instantly and there was a roar of laughter around the table.

  "It's not old Mikey, is it?" asked Dogtooth.

  She shook her head and smiled.

  "Come on then girl, give," continued Dogtooth encouragingly.

  "Not sure how you guys are going to take this," said Mercedes, "but he's a cop."

  There was a moment's silence before they all chipped in with their various witty comments. She ignored them all. "He's a good guy," she said. "Probably saved my life."

  Naturally, there was no way she could make a statement like that without having to tell the whole story and she was in full flow when two unpleasant looking men walked into the café. Dogtooth put his hand on her wrist and nodded in their direction. All the talk stopped and the two men walked to the counter, with their footsteps on the bare wooden floor being the only sound to be heard.

  When they reached the counter the girl at the till drew back and called through to the kitchen. A hot looking, middle aged man came out in response to her call, wiping his hands on his apron. He took one look at the two men and nodded gently in recognition. He reached under the counter and took out a buff coloured envelope, which he handed to one of them.

  The man who took the envelope opened it and peered inside. "It's all here, I hope?"

  The café proprietor nodded.

  "It had better be," he continued as he pocketed the envelope. "You know the score if it's short."

  The proprietor nodded again.

  "Same time next month," said the second stranger, who'd stayed silent 'til then, and with that they turned and left.

  "What was that about?" asked Drew.

  Dogtooth removed his hand from her wrist. "You don't wanna know, Drew," he said. "Just keep out of their way. They're not nice people."

  "But what was in the envelope?"

  "Money, I assume."

  "How much?"

  "I don't know, Drew. It's not our business. Like I said, you don't wanna know. The less you do know the better."

  Gradually the noise returned to the café, but the relaxed bonhomie was gone. Drew wasn't happy not knowing what she'd just seen and it wasn't in her nature to leave stones unturned. She had a feeling that she'd just seen two of the sort of things that crawl out when you turn stones over, but what exactly had she seen? For the moment she let it lie, but deep inside her she knew it wouldn't stop there.

  Detective Inspector Flowers was ploughing through the mountain of paperwork on his desk, when his boss, Chief Inspector Webb, pushed open the door without knocking.

  "Desmond," he said without looking up from the report he was carrying in his hand. "Have you seen this month's crime statistics?"

  Flowers had seen the report, of course, at the same time that his boss had received his own copy. The figures made grim reading.

  "Theft and burglary, up," said C.I. Webb, without waiting for an answer to his own question. "Muggings, up. Assault, up. Even parking a
nd speeding offences are up. What the hell's going on?"

  "What do you expect, Sir? If they keep cutting budgets and reducing manpower, what do they expect?"

  "That's not the answer, Desmond. You know that. It's not good enough. We've just got to be more efficient."

  "Sir, how do we do that? I spend more time filling in these bloody forms than chasing criminals."

  "Language, Desmond. There's no call for offensive language."

  "Sorry, Sir, but it is bloody frustrating. I could improve all those numbers if I spent more time doing a bit of basic police work than writing reports."

  "All of them?" asked Webb, looking over the top of his spectacles.

  "Well, maybe not the parking and speeding, Sir. But the rest … Yeh. I reckon."

  "It had better improve next month, Desmond. We can't afford to go on like this. I've got to give a speech at the Mayor's dinner in two month's time and I don't intend to be shot down in front of two hundred guests."

  "Doesn't the Super usually do the Mayor's dinner, Sir? Why are you doing it?"

  "He's away on a cruise. Chose the right year to be away, by the look of it. Just my luck."

  He pushed his spectacles back onto his nose. "We need a spectacular, Desmond. We need a spectacular."

  "I'll see what I can do," thought Desmond, but he wisely kept the thought to himself.

  "What's up Flowers?" asked Mercedes later the same evening.

  "Nothing," he said. "Shitty day, that's all. Just had the C.I. busting my balls over crime rates. Speaking to me like it's all my fault."

  "He can't have forgotten the metal thieves and the warehouse robbery already, surely?"

  "Oh, he can. Webb has a very convenient memory. He can forget anything when it doesn't suit him, but he's got a memory like an elephant for anything you'd like him to forget."

  "Would you like another beer? There's another one in the fridge."

  "Nah, thanks. I'm still nursing this one." He gazed morosely into his glass and took another mouthful. "Sorry, sweetiepie. Let's talk about something else. What about you? Did you have a good day?"

  "Sweetiepie?" she wondered. That was new. She wasn't even sure she liked it, but she let it pass. "I got the bike back from Mikey this afternoon."

  "Yeh. I saw it out the front. It's looking good. Did you ride it? Apart from getting home, I mean."

  "It is good. Mike's done an amazing job on it. I reckon it's better than it was before the accident and, yeh, I did take it out for a spin. Went up to the trucker's café on the hill."

  "You mean the one just off the motorway? I haven't been there for years. Bit of a greasy spoon isn't it?"

  "I used to go there all the time. It's a regular meeting place for bikers. I met up with some of my old mates. Hadn't seen some of them for months."

  She was going to tell him about the two characters who'd come in to collect the brown envelope, but he'd stopped listening. He was staring at the screen of his mobile phone.

  "I didn't hear it ring," she said.

  "Sorry, Drew. I had it on vibrate. I've gotta go, sunshine. Sorry. It's work."

  "Sweetiepie? Sunshine? Where was this all leading?" she wondered.

  He got up from the sofa and swallowed the last of his beer before putting the glass down on the coffee table. He put his arms around her, "Sorry, love. I'll be back. It shouldn't take long."

  She closed the front door after him and watched him through the sitting room window driving off in his silver Mondeo. "Well," she thought. "That's what you get, girl, for dating a policeman."

  She poured herself another glass of wine and switched on the TV. "Here's to another slow evening," she muttered.

  Flowers arrived to a scene that looked like something out of a low budget disaster movie. There were two fire tenders, an ambulance and a couple of patrol cars in front of a smoking Indian Restaurant. It looked like there'd been a fire, presumably started in the kitchen, but he wondered why he'd been called in. It looked as though the situation was under control. There was a crowd of gawping onlookers, but the young constable seemed to have them in hand well enough.

  He flashed his I.D. at the constable as he walked past and looked to see who was in control of the incident. He recognised the face of Station Officer Gerry Williams under his white protective helmet.

  "I see they've got you out as well," he said as they nodded to one another. "A bit of an overkill for a chip pan fire, isn't it?"

  "This could be one for you, Flowers," was the reply. "This one was started deliberately. Petrol bomb, we think. We'll have to wait until everything cools down, but it has all the hallmarks."

  "Anybody hurt?"

  "Fortunately not. Physically, anyhow. Not sure about financially. Depends on whether they've kept their insurance policy paid up."

  "What makes you think it was bombed?"

  "Kid over there, the one in the blue hoodie, says he saw the person who threw it." He pointed to a small group of youths standing, watching the fun.

  "Do you think he did?"

  "That's your job, mate. I put 'em out. You work out who started 'em." With that, Station Officer Williams redirected his attention to organising his crews and damping down the still smouldering building. The ambulance crew decided to stand down and began packing their emergency resuscitation gear back into the van.

  Flowers walked over to the small group of youths, who appeared to be aged about fourteen. The kid with the blue hoodie was leaning on a bmx bike. He watched suspiciously as Flowers approached.

  "Are you the kid who saw the person throwing the petrol bomb?"

  "Depends who's asking."

  "OK Smartass. Just answer the question."

  "I don't have to talk to you. My Dad told me not to talk to strange men." A snigger ran through the group.

  "There's two ways to do this," said Flowers. "You can answer the questions here and now, or you can come down to the Police Station and answer them. Your choice."

  "I demand a lawyer," quipped the kid.

  "Look, kid. I don't have time for this. Did you see something, or not?"

  "Are you a cop?"

  Flowers sighed. "Yes. I'm a cop."

  "Prove it, then. Show us your identification."

  The kid was heading for a clip round the ear, thought Flowers, but there were too many witnesses for him even to contemplate it. He fished in his pocket and pulled out his warrant card and flashed it in front of the boy.

  "I didn't see it properly," said the boy.

  "What?"

  "Your I.D. I couldn't see it. You took it away too quick."

  "Too quickly," corrected Flowers. "Doesn't anyone teach you proper grammar?"

  There was laughter from the group.

  "Whatever," the boy replied, "but you gotta show it to me proper or I ain't saying nothing."

  Flowers decided against correcting the double negative and held the warrant card out again for the boy to read.

  "Detective," said the boy, impressed. There was a whoop of derisive laughter from his companions. "Detective Flowers," he continued.

  Flowers snapped the card shut and replaced it in his pocket.

  "What sort of a name is that?" chipped in one of the other kids. "Flowers! Sounds like a poof to me."

  "Right, you little snots," said Flowers, his patience gone. "You've got ten seconds to give me an answer, or …"

  "Yeh? Or what?"

  "What's your name kid?"

  "Don't tell him, Rod," shouted one of the other kids. The group fell about laughing.

  "Did you see someone throw a petrol bomb, or not?" asked Flowers.

  "Might have done."

  "Hallelujah," thought Flowers. "OK. Thank you. Can you describe the person who threw the bomb?"

  "Maybe."

  "… and …?"

  "Tall, skinny, shaved head."

  "Have you ever seen him before?"

  "Nope."

  "Was he white? Did he have a car? Anyone with him?"

  "Yeh. Yeh and Yeh."<
br />
  "How old?"

  "Dunno. Pretty old."

  "Older than me?"

  "Dunno how old you are, do I?"

  "Did he look older than me?"

  "Nah."

  "What kind of car?"

  "I don't have to tell you."

  "Yes, you do."

  "Who says?"

  "The law says. Now stop pissing about. What kind of car?"

  "Big. Black. Four wheel drive."

  "Did you see the number plate? Do you know what model the car was?"

  "Nope."

  "No to what? Both?"

  "Yep."

  Flowers persisted for five more minutes, but got scant more information. He finally persuaded the kid to give up his name and address and gave him one of his business cards. "I want you to come to the Police Station tomorrow with either your Mum or Dad or legal guardian to give a statement. Have you got that?"

  "What if I don't?"

  "Then I'll bust your sad little ass," muttered Flowers. "Tomorrow, right! Don't forget."

  He walked away from the boys, grousing to himself all the way back to his car.

  "Why didn't you give him the registration, Rod?" asked one of the boys.

  "Cos I ain't no grass, that's why," said Rod defiantly.

  Flowers looked at his watch and sighed. He called up Mercedes on his mobile. "Sorry, Drew. Doesn't look like I'll make it back tonight… Some joker's petrol bombed an Indian Restaurant. What?... Oh, the one in North Street… Yeh, the Taj Mahal … Yeh... Totally wrecked… No… Don't know yet… Some little shit of a kid, who should have been home in bed, saw it happen, allegedly… No… I'll have to go back to the station and do a bit of paperwork and leave some notes for the guys when they come on in the morning… No… I'm sorry, Drew. I can't help it. Shit happens, that's all… Look, I said I was sorry… I'll give you a ring in the morning… Love you, too, Drew… Sleep tight."

  He pocketed the phone and sighed again before heading back to his office, wondering just who might have had a grudge against the restaurant or it's owner. It wasn't your typical Friday night crime, he mused. Not typical at all.

  Mercedes replaced the phone and groaned with frustration. "Why did life have to be so bloody difficult? Why were relationships so complicated? Why didn't she become a nun? She might just as well", she thought. "Though, actually, that might be a step too far."

  She'd waited up for Flowers to return. She might just as well have gone to bed. She switched off the downstairs lights and retreated to her bedroom. On her own, again.

  She undressed and looked at herself in the full length mirror on the wardrobe. The bruises from her previous escapades had pretty much faded. "You don't look bad, girl," she told herself. "Pity there's no one here to enjoy it." She put on the new negligee she'd been keeping just for tonight. "Might as well," she thought. She was tempted to photograph herself and send it to Flowers, just so he could see what he was missing, but in the end, she simply got into bed.

  She wondered yet again about Flowers. "Was it a mistake getting involved with a policeman? Would it always be like this, the irregular hours, the late night calls, the weekend overtime?" Her mind turned to Mikey. He was a best friend for sure, but she couldn't imagine him as a partner in bed, whatever he might dream about. And then there was Dogtooth. She laughed to herself at the thought. Big, shaggy, old, leather clad Dogtooth. Now there was a real mate, but she couldn't imagine him in bed with anyone, unless he could take his Harley with him.

  "I hate you Flowers," she said suddenly. "Where are you? You should be here, keeping me warm."

  Flowers snatched a few hours sleep before getting into the office early the following morning. As usual he grabbed a cup of black coffee from the vending machine on the way in and, as usual, scalded his mouth by taking a large gulp as he walked down the corridor.

  "Boss wants to see you," shouted Janet as he walked through the admin office.

  "For Christ's sake," said Flowers, looking at his watch. "What time does this guy get in? It's only just after eight."

  He changed direction and headed for C.I. Webb's office. The door was open.

  "Ah, Desmond, you're in at last."

  "You wanted to see me, Sir."

  "Just wondered if there was any update on the fire at the Taj Mahal last night. I gather it was arson."

  "How the hell did he know that already?" wondered Flowers. He hadn't even posted his report yet from last night. "It could be a petrol bombing, Sir, but it's too early to be sure."

  "I thought you had a witness?"

  "There's a boy who says he saw it. I've got him coming in this morning."

  "Kid gloves, Desmond. Kid gloves, remember. Make sure you've got his parents or guardians present."

  "Yes, Sir, it's all in hand. I'm not sure how reliable the kid is, though. He's a bit of a smartass."

  "What do you reckon's behind it? Some racist protest? Anti Moslem?"

  "I think they might be Hindu, Sir."

  "Whatever, Desmond, whatever. Just get it sorted a.s.a.p. Don't want any sectarian violence on our patch."

  "It might just be someone who didn't like the curry, Sir. It's not necessarily anything deeper."

  "Well, I'm sure you'll get to the bottom of it. Just keep me up to date, That's all."

  Flowers retreated to his own office, still clutching his now lukewarm coffee. The light on his desk phone was blinking. It was a message from Station Officer Gerry Williams from the Fire Service.

  "Give me a ring when you get in, Flowers. We may have found something interesting."

  Flowers called the number and it was picked up on the second ring. "Good Morning, Flowers. Another early bird, I see."

  "Hi, Gerry. You said that you'd found something at the Taj Mahal fire."

  "It may be nothing, but I thought you should know. We found the remains of a smashed bottle that we think might have been the petrol bomb. It's just the bottom part of the bottle."

  "What makes you think it was the petrol bomb? The restaurant must be full of bottles. Surely all the petrol would have been burned away in the fire, anyway?"

  "Yes. You're right, but this part bottle was outside the building, as though it was smashed on the wall as it hit the front of the restaurant."

  "Might be some fingerprints on it, I suppose," said Flowers. "Did your guys touch it?"

  "We were all gloved up, so it should be clean of our prints. We've bagged it up for you, anyway."

  "Thanks."

  "There's more. There's part of the label on the bottle, Flowers, and guess what? It's Sicilian."

  "Sicilian?"

  "Yes. And the restaurant doesn't sell Sicilian wine."

  "Don't tell me you think this was a Mafia hit? You've been watching too much Godfather, mate."

  "Who knows? You're the detective. Anyway, it's on it's way over to you."

  Mike was working his way through the bikes that had been left for repair or service with his two engineers, Pete and Chris. The workshop was open to the shop part of the premises so that they could see anyone who might walk in. There were several bikes parked out front that were either waiting for collection, or still waiting to be serviced. The radio, on a shelf at the back of the workshop, was tuned to the local station, which had been full of news of the alleged arson attack on the Taj Mahal restaurant, though they stressed that neither the Fire Service nor the Police had yet confirmed arson.

  "Have you ever eaten there?" asked Pete.

  "Don't really do curry," said Mike. "It's too hot for me."

  "It was last night, anyway," quipped Chris.

  Each man was working on a separate bike. There was plenty of room for them to work round one another and all three were pretty capable mechanics. Mike finished the bike he was working on and wheeled it towards the front of the shop as two mean looking men walked in from the street. They didn't look like bikers and they didn't appear to have arrived by bike either.

  "Good morning," said Mike, propping up the Honda he'd been pushing o
nto it's stand. "How may I help you?"

  "Mike's Bikes," said the taller of the two men looking around. "Nice set up. Are you Mike?"

  "Thank you," replied Mike. "Yeh, I'm Mike. What can I do for you?"

  "Maybe it's the other way round," continued the visitor. "Maybe we can do something for you."

  "Ah. Selling something are you?"

  "You could say that."

  "I've already got regular suppliers for spares and accessories, thanks. But you can leave a card if you like." Mike held out his hand for the expected business card, but he was ignored.

  The second visitor, who'd said nothing, was looking at the racks of accessories that Mike had in the front of his shop. He pushed over a stand that was hung with carded items.

  Mike went over to pick it up.

  "Oops!" said the tall man. "I hope nothing's damaged."

  Mike was almost certain that the short guy had pushed the rack over intentionally, but he said nothing as he stood it up again and began rehanging the items that had fallen off. "What was it you wanted?" he asked.

  The short man went over to one of the bikes waiting for collection and sat on it. "That's a customer's bike," Mike said. "It's not for sale." The short man looked over to him and reached across to the next bike with his foot. He pushed it gently until it toppled off it's stand and started to fall. Mike went to grab it, but he was tripped by the tall man as he lunged forward. The bike and Mike hit the ground at about the same time.

  "You seem a bit accident prone," said the taller man as Mike picked himself up. Chris and Pete, alerted by the noise, stopped working on their respective bikes and began to come forward to help Mike.

  "It's OK, guys," said the unwelcome visitor. "We're fine out here. You can carry on with your work."

  They waited, hesitantly, for Mike. "I'm OK," he said. "Just … just tripped, that's all." His chin was bleeding slightly from hitting the floor.

  The taller man walked back towards the workshop and motioned the two mechanics back to work. He waited until they retreated slowly and turned towards the cash drawer that Mike used in lieu of a proper till. "May I?" he asked as he opened the drawer, not waiting for a reply.

  Mike started towards him, but was restrained from behind by the shorter man catching his overalls.

  "Let's call it 'insurance' shall we?" said the tall man. He took a handful of notes from the till and counted off five tens, putting back the remainder and closing the drawer. "We won't be greedy. We'll say fifty quid a week for starters. You OK with that?"

  Mike tried to pull himself free, but the short man pushed him to the ground again. "He says that's fine, bro."

  "Good, good. We wouldn't want any more little accidents would we and we wouldn't want anyone getting hurt either." He helped Mike back to his feet. "We'll be back next week, same time. OK? Oh, and don't even think about going to the police. Not if you want to keep your little business running, that is." He turned and walked out of the shop.

  As they passed the fallen motorbike, the shorter man picked it up and stood it back on it's stand, flicking imaginary dust of the seat as he went. "You should take more care of this stuff," he said. Moments later Mike heard the sound of a car starting up and moving away.

  "What was that about, Mike?" asked Pete.

  "I think we're in trouble," muttered Mike, shaking.

  Flowers made a few phone calls. He told Forensics to expect a package with the broken bottle in it, and he arranged for a female police constable to be present when he interviewed the boy later, assuming he turned up. He also called the Taj Mahal Restaurant owner and asked him to come in for interview. He sent a text to Mercedes, apologising again for last night and asking if it was alright for him to call this evening. It was strange that he hadn't heard from her yet today.

  At eleven o'clock, Rodney's mother presented herself and her son at the front desk. They were shown through to an interview room and joined by Flowers and the female constable.

  "Thank you for coming, Mrs …?" prompted Flowers.

  "Jelly," she replied. "Mrs Jelly."

  "Sounds like something out of a Roger Hargreaves book," thought Flowers, but he simply nodded. "This is just an informal interview, Mrs Jelly," he began.

  "He's not in trouble, is he? I told him not to go out. I told him he had to be back by eight, but he doesn't listen. It doesn't matter what I say."

  "No. No. He's not in trouble. It's Rodney, isn't it. No, I'd just like to talk to Rodney about what he saw last night."

  "I didn't see nothing,"

  "Yes you did Rodney," said his mother. "You told me you did."

  "I'm not a grass."

  "Whoa," said Flowers. "No one said you were a grass. I just want to know what you saw."

  "I told you last night."

  "I'd like you to tell me again, please."

  The boy sat and stared at the table. "Tell the man, Rodney," said his mother. He shrugged.

  Mrs Jelly looked at Flowers. "I'm sorry," she said. "He's been like this since his Dad left." With that she drew back her hand and clouted her son smartly around the ear. Flowers wasn't sure who was the more surprised, him or the boy. However, it had the desired effect. Rodney's defiance collapsed entirely and he became positively effusive.

  Flowers learned little more than he had the previous evening, though. The boy didn't see the men arrive, or notice the petrol bomb being lit. It was only the explosion of fire when it hit the front of the restaurant that alerted his attention. He'd watched the man who'd thrown it - the man he presumed had thrown it - walk slowly back to the waiting black four wheel drive car and be driven nonchalantly away.

  "Would you be able to indentify the man?"

  Rodney shook his head.

  "And you don't know what make of car it was?" prompted Flowers. "A bit unusual isn't it for a boy of your age not to be able to recognise different models of car?"

  The accusation didn't have the desired effect. Rodney merely shrugged. Of course he knew the model, and the registration, but he wasn't giving up either. Whatever they thought, he wasn't a grass.

  An hour later Mr Chatterjee, the restaurant owner, came into the Police Station and asked for Flowers. After introductions in the interview room, Flowers asked him to describe what had happened the previous evening.

  "I don't know, Sir."

  "Just tell me exactly what took place."

  "There was a fire, Sir, that is all I know."

  "How did it start, Mr Chatterjee? Did you see that?"

  "No. My back was towards the window when the petrol bomb was thrown."

  "How do you know it was a petrol bomb?"

  "I don't know anything, Sir." He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "I am very sorry, but I cannot help you at all."

  "Don't you want us to catch whoever did this?"

  "I can't tell you anything, Sir. That is all. I would like to leave now, please."

  Flowers was confused. Why didn't the man want to cooperate? What was he hiding? He tried again. "Do you know of anyone who might want to harm you or your family?"

  Mr Chatterjee wiped more sweat from his brow. "I have to protect my family," he said. "I cannot tell you any more. I would like to leave now, please."

  "You are free to go, Mr Chatterjee. You're not under arrest. I simply want to know who started this fire. It was started deliberately, Mr Chatterjee, wasn't it." The way Flowers stressed this made it clear that this was a statement and not a question.

  Mr Chatterjee stood up. "Thank you, Sir. I understand that you are trying to help, but I do not wish to press any charges. The fire was just an accident." He pushed back the chair and started towards the door.

  "What are you afraid of, Mr Chatterjee?" asked Flowers, but he was gone.

  "Curiouser and curiouser," thought Flowers, rocking his chair onto it's two back legs. "Hmmm."

  Word of the incident at Mike's Bikes spread quickly through the biker community, despite Mike's request to Pete and Chris to say nothing. Pretty soon Dogtooth got t
o hear about it and he was the one who rang Mercedes.

  "Hi DT," she said when his name came up on her mobile phone.

  "Hi sweetheart," he replied.

  "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were stalking me. This is twice in two days."

  "You know that I'd stalk you anywhere, sweetheart, but I was actually ringing up about your friend Mike."

  "What's happened, DT? Mikey hasn't been in an accident, has he?"

  "Not exactly, Drew. Someone's putting the heavies on him, though."

  Dogtooth told her what he'd heard, which was pretty close to what had actually happened. "I was wondering if you knew anything, Drew?"

  "Sorry, DT. I didn't know anything at all until you phoned. I should tell Flowers."

  "Is that your cop boyfriend? Mike was warned off calling the cops. You'd better talk to Mike before you say anything to anyone else."

  Mercedes decided to bypass the phone and drove her Triumph Bonneville T120 around to Mike's Bikes.

  "Hya, Drew," said Mike disconsolately. "Obviously you've heard something."

  "Dogtooth called me. Did they do that to you?" she asked pointing to the wound on his chin.

  "No. Well, yeh, I guess. I was tripped."

  "We should tell Flowers."

  "No, Drew. They said not to involve the cops. It'll be worse if we do."

  "What did they want, Mike?"

  "Fifty quid a week."

  "Fifty quid? What for?"

  "To leave us alone. They called it 'insurance'."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Pay it, I guess."

  "And then what, Mike? They'll just ask for more."

  "I don't know, Drew. I don't know. This is well outside my zone." He looked so miserable that Mercedes threw her arms around him and hugged.

  "We're not going to take it, Mikey. They aren't going to do this to you."

  "What can I do?" asked Mike.

  "We, Mikey. We. What can we do. You're not on you own. We'll think of something."

  Flowers rocked back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. There wasn't much to go on. The boy, Rodney, wasn't telling him the whole truth. Mr Chatterjee wasn't telling him anything and no one inside the restaurant had seen anything except a ball of flame come hurtling through the window. It was a miracle that no one had been hurt. He'd rung Highways to ask about cctv cameras, but there were none covering the length of street by the restaurant. He had asked for the nearest camera discs to be sent to him anyway. There might be something. Perhaps the kid would recognise the car, though he held out little hope of that.

  There was a call from the Forensic lab. "There's nothing usable on the bottle, I'm afraid. It's been wiped."

  He flicked the switch on his electric kettle. This was a case that was rapidly going nowhere and likely to be joining the pile of other stalled enquiries on his desk. His boss wouldn't let him spend a whole lot of time chasing a case that wasn't making progress, especially one where not even the victim was interested in pursuing the investigation. He peered into his stained coffee mug and vaguely thought it needed cleaning. He shrugged and made himself another black coffee in it regardless.

  He was lost in thought momentarily and wondered why he'd heard nothing from Mercedes all day. Had he really pissed her off that much last night? He tried her number again, but it went straight through to voicemail. He didn't leave a message.

  When Mercedes arrived at the Trucker's Stop, there were already nearly twenty bikers there, including Pete and Chris from Mike's Bikes. She'd been unable to persuade Mike to come with her, in fact he'd begged her not to get involved, but he knew her well enough to know that his words were likely to fall on deaf ears.

  Dogtooth was holding court when she walked in and there was a muted cheer when the crowd recognised her through her black leathers. Although she'd been unable to persuade Mike to come with her, she had got one useful additional bit of information from him that he hadn't even revealed to Pete or Chris.

  "Those guys are coming back to Mike's next week at the same time to collect the next instalment."

  "But we're not going to let 'em," said Dogtooth defiantly.

  "How are we going to stop them?" asked Pete. "They looked pretty mean."

  "We'll just have to be meaner," said Dogtooth.

  "Or smarter," thought Mercedes.

  She noticed the proprietor of the Trucker's Stop hovering in the doorway to the kitchen. He'd been ear wigging the conversation of the bikers. He gave a start when he saw Mercedes clock him and disappeared back into the kitchen.

  She leaned forward and spoke quietly to Dogtooth and left the table. He indicated to the rest of the guys to stay put and keep talking and followed Mercedes into the kitchen. They cornered the proprietor, who looked scared half to death.

  "They've been doing you too, haven't they?" said Mercedes.

  "Don't know what you mean," he replied.

  "Don't f*** about Jimmy," said Dogtooth, looming his bulk over the man trembling in the corner. "We've seen you handing over the money."

  "Don't rock the boat, Dogtooth," he replied. "It's under control. Don't cause trouble."

  "Jimmy. It's not under control. Those guys are taking money from you, aren't they?"

  He gave the slightest nod of agreement. "You'll just make it worse, DT. Just leave it. I can cover it."

  "Yeh, for how long? How long before they put the price up?"

  Jimmy shrugged non committally.

  "How many times have they put the price up already?" asked Mercedes.

  "Couple of times."

  "And how much are you paying now?"

  "Two hundred."

  "A week? Two hundred a week? Jesus, that's more than my benefit," said Dogtooth. "OK, We're going to get those bastards. You've made your last payment, Jimmy."

  Jimmy didn't look reassured. "Don't make it worse, DT. They're not nice people."

  "And we are?" asked Dogtooth. "Jimmy, you haven't seen how nasty I can be."

  They spent the next two hours discussing strategy. For an hour and half there was nothing but argument, but gradually they began to work something out.

  When Mercedes got home, she was surprised to find Flowers sitting in his car outside her house. She'd not yet given him a key. That had been part of last night's plan, but in view of his early departure it never happened. For the moment she decided to keep that option under wraps. He waited as she propped her bike up on it's stand and followed her into the house.

  "I tried to call you," he said.

  "Yeh? I've been busy today!

  "Anything interesting?"

  She was about to mention the business with Mike, but remembered in time that the police were not to be involved. "Saw Mikey," she said, "and met some of the guys up at the Trucker's Stop."

  He nodded. Mikey again. Maybe there was something going on between them. "How was he?" he asked.

  "Who?"

  "Mike."

  "Oh. OK, I guess." She tried to change the subject. "Anyway, what happened to you last night? I waited up, but you didn't show."

  "I'm sorry, Drew. I said I was sorry last night. It just happens that way, I'm afraid. Criminals don't work nine to five, you know."

  "So, what was it last night? Another train derailment? A mass murderer? A bomb plot?"

  "The last one."

  "What?"

  "The last one. It was a bomb plot."

  Mercedes was temporarily deflated. "A real bomb?"

  "Don't you listen to the local news? The Taj Mahal restaurant. Last night."

  She looked blank.

  "Someone threw a petrol bomb in last night. I told you when I phoned."

  "You mean the Taj Mahal in North Street?" She remembered then that he had told her when he phoned. She'd been half asleep at that time and so annoyed with him not being there that she'd scarcely listened to the reason. "Oh," she continued, somewhat subdued. "Did anyone get hurt?"

  "Fortunately not."

  She looked across the kitchen at
him and smiled. "I missed you last night."

  He reached across and pulled her towards him. "I missed you, too."

  She put her arms around his neck and closed her eyes. There was a ringing at the doorbell. "Leave it," she murmured.

  He put his lips to hers, but the doorbell was destroying the moment. Flowers drew back. "You'd better answer it," he said. "We've got all night."

  Mike stood at the front door holding an expensive looking bouquet. "Mike!" exclaimed Mercedes in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

  "Just wanted to say 'thank-you' for being there today," he said sheepishly. He held the flowers out awkwardly towards her and began backing away from the door.

  "Mikey, you shouldn't have. It's not necessary. Mikey, oh Mikey. Come here." She threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss on the lips just as Flowers appeared at the far end of the hall. Mike blushed from top to toe and put his arms awkwardly round her waist. "Come in, Mikey," she said. "Come and meet my cop."

  Flowers watched them come up the hall, Mercedes with her arm around Mike and Mike ,looking embarrassed, clutching a bunch of roses.

  "Mike, this is Flowers. Flowers this is Mike."

  "I've heard a lot about you," said Flowers, grudgingly offering his hand. "You're the bike man, right?"

  "Yeh," nodded Mike. "Yeh. I just bought these for Drew. To say 'thanks'. I … I won't get in your way. I was … I was just passing." He began to walk back towards the front door. "Um. Nice to … um … nice to meet you Flowers."

  "Mikey, you don't have to go. Stay and have a drink with us."

  Flowers wondered what Mike was thanking Drew for. Surely it should be the other way round, shouldn't it? Wasn't he the guy who fixed her bike? What else was going on between them?

  "Perhaps Mike doesn't want a drink if he's on his bike," suggested Flowers.

  "No, I'm not. On my bike, I mean. I walked here," replied Mike.

  "Then have a beer," said Mercedes. "There's plenty in the fridge."

  "Yeh. Have a beer," thought Flowers disingenuously. "Bring your mates. We could have a party." This was shaping up to be another great evening.

  "What was it today with you and Mike?" asked Flowers after Mike had left.

  "Oh, nothing," said Drew.

  "He said you'd called in to see him. You haven't got another problem with the bike have you?"

  "No. The bike's great. Mikey's done a brilliant job on it. He's a genius."

  "So?"

  "Oh, it was nothing. Mikey had a bit of a problem, that's all and I just called in to give him a bit of moral support. Like mates do, you know."

  Flowers didn't know. He didn't have many mates of his own. There was something going on between Mike and her and they weren't including him in their secret. He didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit.

  "Are you hungry?" asked Mercedes, trying to switch the subject. "I've got a whole freezer full of microwave meals."

  Flowers had lost his appetite suddenly. He looked at his watch. "I think maybe I should split," he said unexpectedly. "Just remembered a report I've got to finish."

  "I thought we had all night," said Drew with disappointment.

  "Yeh." He shuffled his feet. "I forgot I had this to do."

  "You're not jealous of Mike are you?"

  "Mike? Nah. I'm cool. I know you two go back a long way," he said, unconvincingly.

  "We were at school together, Flowers. There's nothing else."

  "None of my business," he said, backing towards the door.

  Mercedes couldn't believe that he was leaving. What the hell was wrong with all the men she ever dated?

  Flowers couldn't believe that he was leaving either. What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he being so stupid? Why was he leaving when she wanted him to stay? But he couldn't even answer his own questions.

  The number of bikers coming to the Trucker's Stop increased substantially over the following two days. Dogtooth was almost permanently in residence and ruling his end of the café like a mediaeval king. There was much earnest conversation, nodding agreements and detailed planning. There was also action of a more practical nature. Amongst the biker community pretty much every trade and every skill was represented. Small, unobtrusive, but important, additions were made to the facilities at the café in anticipation of the next visit from the 'insurance' collectors.

  Jimmy was more or less relegated to his normal role in the kitchen and told not to worry, but worry was the thing that Jimmy did best. If his chefing had been up to the same standard as his worrying, he'd probably have had his own TV show. The only good news for him was that with the increased number of bikers coming in, the number of monster all day breakfasts he was being asked to provide had increased considerably. Takings, at least, were significantly up.

  Mercedes called by at least twice a day to be updated. She also called on Mike at the bike shop, but she only passed on the full details of the activity at the Trucker's Stop to Pete and Chris. It was better for Mike's peace of mind not to know too much. He had two things in common with Jimmy. The first was that they were both victims of a scam. The second was that they were both worriers.

  The communications between Mercedes and Flowers had dropped to just a couple of polite text messages a day. There was no mention of the discussions taking place at the café.

  Flowers had made no progress with his investigation into the fire at the Taj Mahal. Without more cooperation from the restaurant manager, or more witnesses, his enquiry had pretty much ground to a halt. Since no one had been killed and there was no major robbery it was unlikely he'd be given the resources to take the case much further. His boss, C.I. Webb, was leaning on him to complete his monthly crime reports, not that he was going to be happy with what they contained, and he concluded that this was yet another folder to be added to the heap of stalled investigations.

  He finished his latest black coffee and checked his mobile yet again for any new message from Mercedes. There was none. For the hundredth time he asked himself why he'd walked out so stupidly the other evening and for the hundredth time failed to come up with any sensible answer.

  The phone on his desk rang. It took him a moment to realise who he was speaking to.

  "Mrs Jelly. Good morning. What can I do for you, today?"

  "It's Rodney, Mr Flowers. He didn't tell you everything the other day."

  She had his attention. "What didn't he tell me?"

  "He won't be in trouble, will he?"

  Flowers reassured her that he wouldn't, unless he'd broken the law, of course. "What didn't he tell me?"

  "It's on Facebook."

  "What is?"

  "It's on Facebook. He says he knows the car."

  "How do you know?"

  "I know it's bad of me, Mr Flowers, but I look at his Facebook page. He leaves his computer on all the time, so I just see it sometimes."

  "What exactly has he said?"

  "It's just boasting, really. To his mates. They call them 'friends' you know, even though he's never even met most of them. He just wrote in there that he knew the car, but he hadn't grassed to the police."

  Flowers groaned with frustration. What the hell was wrong with kids today?

  "He won't be in trouble, will he Mr Flowers?"

  "Giving false statements, obstructing the police, knowingly withholding material evidence," thought Flowers to himself. He shook his head. "No, Mrs Jelly, he won't be in trouble if you bring him in now. Can you do that?"

  Rodney sat defiantly opposite Flowers in his office. There had been no free interview room.

  "I ain't a grass," he muttered.

  "Rodney," said his mother. "I'm going to count to five. If you haven't told Mr Flowers what he wants to know by then, I am going to knock your head off. Do you understand?"

  "She can't hit me, can she?" he said to the detective sitting opposite. "It's child cruelty, isn't it."

  Flowers leaned across the desk and spoke softly. "Rodney. If your mother doesn't knock your stupid little head off,
then rest assured, I shall."

  The boy looked from one to the other and began to deflate. "What if they know that I told you?"

  "They won't."

  "Will I have to go to court?"

  "Probably not."

  "What about witness protection?"

  Mrs Jelly began to raise her arm threateningly. "One … two … three …"

  "It was a black Range Rover Sport, 3.0 litre TDV6," he said suddenly.

  "Hallelujah," said Flowers. "And I don't suppose you got the registration?"

  Rodney nodded, mutely. Flowers waited and then pushed a notepad across to the boy, with a pen balanced on top. After a few seconds, the boy picked up the pen and wrote down the registration. Even viewing it upside down, it looked strangely familiar to Flowers.

  Fifteen minutes later Flowers walked into his boss's office.

  "Desmond. What can I do for you?"

  "We've got some information about the car used in the Taj Mahal fire bombing. It's a Range Rover."

  "That's good, Desmond. Have we got a name?"

  "We've got a registration number, but there's a problem with the plates. It's a clone."

  "You've got a model, though? You could put out a watch on that."

  "Already done, Sir. It's not a common model so there won't be many about. There's a bit of a twist, though, Sir."

  "Go on."

  "The cloned plates. They're yours."

  "You mean someone's copied my vehicle number?"

  "Looks like it, Sir, unless it was you throwing the petrol bomb, of course."

  C.I. Webb pulled his spectacles down his nose and peered over the top of them. "I don't appreciate your humour, Desmond. Why would anyone clone my plates?"

  "I've been thinking about that, Sir. It's too much of a coincidence to be random. I reckon it's someone's idea of a joke. Maybe someone you put away in the past?"

  "Hmmm. It's possible I suppose. Well, Desmond, you better get out and start looking. Oh, and tell uniformed that I shan't be amused to be pulled over. They need to match both the plates and the car remember."

  A black Range Rover pulled into the car park outside the Trucker's Stop. There were only a couple of other cars there and half a dozen motorbikes. One of them was a Harley. Two men climbed out of the car and pushed through the door into the café. Dogtooth watched them enter from his throne at the end table.

  One of the men was tall and skinny with a shaved head. The other, shorter and stockier, with dark slicked back hair. They both wore expensive looking leather trainers and black trousers with white T shirts. They were unsmiling.

  At the counter, the girl on the till had already retreated and called her boss from the kitchen. Jimmy hovered nervously in the doorway.

  "Jimmy," said the taller of the two men, in greeting.

  Jimmy made no move.

  "Don't keep me waiting, Jimmy, or I might have to put the price up again."

  "I'm not paying," said Jimmy, gulping.

  The tall man laughed. "I think I just misheard you then, Jimmy. You know what might happen if you don't pay your insurance?"

  His stocky companion swept the display of chocolate bars and sweets off the counter. They crashed to the floor. "Ooops!" said the tall one. "Tch. Tch. That was careless. You see why you need good insurance, Jimmy."

  Dogtooth and his three companions at the table, watched, but did nothing.

  "I'm not paying," said Jimmy, nervously.

  The stocky man pushed the till off the back of the counter. The drawer burst open, spilling coins and notes onto the floor.

  "Looks as though takings have been good," said the tall man. "I think we might have been undercharging you. Let's make it five this week, eh? Since you've been a little slow paying."

  Jimmy looked anxiously across to Dogtooth. "I'm not paying," he said waveringly.

  The stocky man went to move around the counter, but a hand gripped his arm from behind. "I think it's time for you to leave, gentlemen."

  He whirled around with his fist raised to see who was holding his arm and was faced by a giant of a man in biker's leathers. Dogtooth smiled at him. "You're welcome to try it, my friend. But I should warn you, we do have a few reinforcements."

  The three bikers who had been sitting with Dogtooth were now stood behind the two visitors. Three more bikers appeared from the kitchen and stood behind Jimmy.

  "Would you like these gentlemen to leave, Jimmy?" asked Dogtooth.

  Jimmy nodded weakly.

  "And you don't want them to come back, is that right?"

  He nodded feebly again.

  "Well, gentlemen. I think that's clear. Jimmy doesn't want to see you again and he won't be paying any further money to you. Is that understood?"

  The tall visitor glanced at Jimmy and then faced up to Dogtooth. "Perhaps you'd like to explain to Jimmy that he's just made a rather big mistake. If he doesn't keep up with his insurance premiums, then I'm afraid we shall no longer be able to protect him. I hate to think what might happen now."

  "Is that a threat that you are issuing?" asked Dogtooth.

  "More of a promise, I think," replied the unwelcome visitor. "We'll take our leave for now, Jimmy, but we'll be back."

  Dogtooth released the arm of the stocky man and the two visitors walked out of the café to their waiting car. They didn't look back as they drove away or they might have noticed that they were being followed.

  "Well done, Jimmy. You done good," said Dogtooth as they scrabbled to find the coins and chocolates that had rolled behind the bar.

  Jimmy's face was ashen. "They'll be back," he said. "What do I do then?"

  "You don't have to worry, Jimmy. We're going to be here round the clock until this is finished. Meanwhile, I think me and the boys are about ready for one of those big breakfasts, if that's OK."

  Jimmy looked unconvinced, but after a few seconds disappeared back into the kitchen.

  The black Range Rover sped back towards town. En route they were passed by a police patrol car travelling in the opposite direction. Unfortunately the driver was arguing with his partner in the passenger seat at the time and neither of them noticed the car opposite, or it's occupants.

  Mercedes checked her phone again. Still no messages from Flowers. Was that another budding romance down the drain? She sighed and pulled on her helmet before kicking her bonny into life and heading to the Trucker's Stop.

  Dogtooth gave her the rundown on what had happened earlier. "We tracked them back into town," he said. "We've got an address now."

  "Is it time to bring Flowers in on it?" asked Mercedes.

  "Not yet," answered Dogtooth, who was enjoying the adventure immensely. "We've still got Mike to sort out tomorrow."

  "Do you think they'll come back here tonight?"

  "Maybe," said Dogtooth. "But if they do, we'll be ready for them."

  "How many of you are staying here tonight?"

  "About ten at the last count. Everyone wants a bit of the action."

  "What about your bikes? Won't they see them?"

  "There's room round the back. They aren't visible from there."

  "OK. I'm staying, too."

  "No you're not, Drew. It could get rough out here. You are going to go home and keep that pretty little arse of yours out of harms way."

  "You never quite made it through charm school, did you DT?"

  "I reckon when you're as big as me, Drew, that it ain't strictly necessary."

  Flowers waited in his office as reports came back about the Range Rovers locally, which were being checked off by uniformed officers. Each vehicle they'd examined to date, though, had been as it should, with the correct license plates. He was quietly confident, however, that it was only a matter of time until they located the one they were looking for.

  He sent a text message to Mercedes. "Are you free tonight?"

  She was pleased to get his message, but for once she wasn't available. She had a date with Mike. "Could we make it tomorrow?" she texted back.

 
At Mike's Bikes some additions were being made to the facilities by a couple of Dogtooth's biker contacts. Pete and Chris were helping as Mike sat anxiously with Mercedes. They ran over the plan for the morning for the umpteenth time and Mike asked her again exactly what had happened at the Trucker's Stop earlier.

  "Now, when these guys arrive in the morning," emphasised Mercedes. "Assuming they do, that is. Just say 'no' when they ask for the money. No heroics. Nothing else. Just say 'no'. They might mess the shop up a bit, but we're going to be close. No one's to get hurt, OK?"

  "Why don't you just tell that cop boyfriend of yours?" suggested Mike.

  "We're going to, but the cops have certain rules to follow. We have a bit more flexibility."

  "What do you mean, flexibility?"

  "That's all you need to know, Mike. All you have to do is say 'no'. Have you got that?"

  He nodded weakly. "Thanks Drew. It's good to have mates like you."

  She kissed him on the forehead. "Me, too, Mike. Me, too."

  At ten thirty the next morning a patrol car reported seeing a black Range Rover travelling down the opposite carriageway of the bypass. They didn't get the registration, but there were two male occupants in the front seats. Both wearing white T shirts, one with a shaven head and the other with dark hair. The message was picked up by three other patrol cars and logged.

  At ten forty five a black Range Rover parked across the entrance to Mike's Bikes and two mean looking men climbed out. Mike had been unable to concentrate on anything and was waiting anxiously at the back of the workshop.

  "Looks like they're here, boss," said Pete. "Good luck."

  Mike could have done without the 'good luck'. It reminded him how vulnerable he felt. He walked towards the front of the shop as the two men walked in.

  "It's pay day, Mike" said the taller man. "I hope you haven't forgotten."

  Mike gulped and tried to speak, but no words came out. When they eventually did, his voice was cracked and weak. "I'm not paying," he finally managed.

  "Dear, oh my, oh dear," tutted his tormentor. "What is it with you people this week? Tch. Tch. I thought we had an arrangement, Mike. Fifty pounds a week, I think we agreed. Perhaps it's not enough?"

  "Now what do you suppose would happen if something like that fell through your window?" he asked, indicating his companion, who had picked up a torque wrench that was for sale on the display stand. "I think that might be a lot more than fifty pounds don't you?"

  "I'm not paying," said Mike with more resolve than he felt.

  The stocky man moved towards the window swinging the torque wrench experimentally.

  "I'll give you one more opportunity, Mike. Let's make it a round hundred, shall we?"

  There was a movement from the workshop area and Dogtooth appeared from behind the corner. "Good morning," he said.

  "Not you again."

  Mike stepped aside as Dogtooth walked purposefully towards the two intruders. The stocky man faced him with the torque wrench still in his hand. "You seem to be unarmed," said the tall man, smiling.

  Dogtooth smiled right back. "Are you threatening me?" he asked.

  "More of a promise, I would have thought. You don't seem to have your companions with you this morning.

  There was a distant roar from the roadway as a group of motorcyclists pulled to a halt outside.

  "I wouldn't be so sure," said Dogtooth.

  Further motorbikes arrived and pulled up behind the first group.

  The two men looked nervous and began to back towards the doorway. "You'll regret this. We'll be back."

  "I don't think so," said Dogtooth confidently.

  A siren could be heard in the distance, followed by another and another. Three patrol cars pulled up behind the bikers.

  "I think your taxi's just arrived," said Dogtooth as half a dozen uniformed officers surged through the entrance.

  "Well done, Desmond," said C.I. Webb bursting into his office. "I gather you caught them in the act."

  "Yes, Sir. We had a bit of help."

  "So I understand. Something to do with bikers, I believe."

  "Yes, Sir. Apparently some of their friends were being threatened by these jokers and they decided not to take it lying down."

  "It was the Callaghan brothers, I hear."

  "Uh huh. I think they must have been watching the Sopranos on TV."

  "I've put them away more than once," said Webb.

  "I guess that's why they cloned your number plates, Sir. Their idea of a joke."

  "It's going to stand up in court, I hope, Desmond? These bikers didn't do anything underhand, did they?"

  "I don't think so, Sir. They seem like quite a savvy bunch. Their leader, Dogtooth, went to some lengths to get everything on film. We've got demands for money, threats against people and property, and allusions to previous cases."

  "I understand the proprietor of the Taj Mahal is being a bit more cooperative, too."

  "Yes. Now that he knows we've got them locked up, his memory seems to be returning quite quickly. He's already identified both of them."

  "Well done, Desmond. This should improve our figures this month. You have done the end of month report, haven't you?"

  "Mostly, Sir. It should be with you later today."

  "Good. Good. Well, don't let me hold you up."

  Flowers shook his head wearily as Webb left and reached across to switch on his kettle. The overheat button kicked in almost immediately and it switched itself off. "No bloody water, again," sighed Flowers.

  "You should have told me, Drew. It's not your job to go round like some kind of vigilante. What did you think you were doing?"

  She looked defiantly at Flowers. "I was helping a friend, Flowers. Besides, we did tell you."

  "Yes, but not until you'd well and truly interfered. There's ways to do this sort of thing, Drew. There's right ways and there's wrong ways."

  "You weren't getting very far doing things your way," snapped Mercedes, instantly regretting it. "I'm sorry, Flowers. I didn't mean that. It's just that we could move quicker than you could and we had more resources."

  "But you can't just set up a bunch of vigilantes and go after someone like that."

  "We didn't go after them. They came after us. That's the whole point."

  Flowers had to concede that she was right. "But you can't just take the law into your own hands, Drew."

  "We didn't do anything illegal, Flowers. We just refused to pay their protection money and asked them to leave."

  "You threatened them."

  "No we didn't. Look at the films."

  "And that's another point. You filmed them without their permission."

  "You are joking, Flowers, aren't you? Is that the best you can come up with?"

  "It won't be admissible in court."

  "You're wrong, Flowers. We posted the notices."

  "What notices?"

  "The statutory notices. There were notices posted in the café and in Mike's Bikes to say that we were filming everything. I guess those guys just didn't read them."

  Flowers was lost for words temporarily.

  "And just in case you are wondering, we even filed to register under the Data Protection Act."

  Flowers power of speech remained absent.

  "You seem to forget, Flowers, that just because we're bikers doesn't make us morons."

  "I never said you were, Drew. I just don't want you to get hurt, that's all."

  She moved towards him and put her arms around his neck. "I know, Flowers. I don't want to get hurt either."

  He put his hands around her waist and pulled her into him. "Thanks," he said at last. "I'm sorry I snapped at you."

  "I'm sorry, too," she said. "You could make it up, though."

  "How's that?"

  "I was thinking a bottle of wine, a takeaway, a bunch of flowers. That sort of thing."

  He kissed the top of her head. "I've got some reports to finish," he said. "I might have to arrive late."

  "We've
got all night, Flowers. There's no rush."

  There was no reply. He was too busy kissing her to want to waste breath talking.

  The End

  ( … for now! Look out for news of more Mercedes Drew stories at Barnaby Wilde's blog)

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