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shrugged.
    'It's more than two years since there was any trouble like this. I should know, it was me who started it last time,' said Harrison. He pulled off his tie and threw it into one of the leather armchairs then, holding his drink in one hand, he began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
    'Well I'm not having it. And it happened on my manor too. That makes it worse. What a fucking nerve.' He downed more of the whisky. Then he turned to face his visitor who sat quietly, allowing the gang boss to vent his fury, knowing that no words could calm him.
    'You tell me if you hear anything, anything at all. I want to know, got it?' Harrison snarled. 'Where do they think they are, fucking Belfast? Bombs, machine guns.' He shook his head, drained his glass and hurled the empty receptacle across the large lounge where it shattered against the wall.
    'Fuckers,' shouted Harrison, furiously. 'You find out,' he growled, stepping closer to the other occupant of the room. 'And you do it quick, right? I don't pay you twenty thousand a year for nothing. Find out who wants me dead.'
    Detective Inspector Peter Thorpe nodded slowly.
     
     
     

 
     
     
     
Six
     
    He awoke suddenly, as if propelled from a nightmare, eyes jerking open, mouth forming soundless words.
    As he was dragged to his feet Danny Weller shook his head as if trying to clear his senses. A vile stench filled his nostrils, a stench so rank that he thought he was going to vomit. He felt strong hands gripping his wrists, dragging him backwards towards the wall of the supermarket storeroom and, suddenly, the circumstances of his predicament came flooding back with a clarity which forced a moan from his throat.
    The figures were standing in front of him.
    Three of them.
    Two others held him against the wall as he struggled in their-grip, aware of the numbing coldness which seemed to radiate from them. It was as if the chill ran from their own hands into his veins causing him to shudder as they slammed him back against the wall and held him there.
    The first of the watching trio stepped forward and gripped Weller's chin in one powerful hand, running his fingers over the flesh, enjoying the smoothness, stroking the skin as a man might stroke the face of his lover. But there was no emotion in this gesture.
    Weller felt the pressure on his chin increase and he let out a grunt of pain. By now, the stench was almost overpowering and it was all he could do to keep a grip on consciousness.
    The moon had retreated behind a thick bank of cloud so the supermarket was once again in almost total darkness. But, even so, Weller knew that his captors were close.
    Exactly who, or what they were he didn't know.
    The one that held his face took a step back and glanced across at the two who held Weller's arms. He nodded slowly and the younger man felt his hands being forced back against the wall. He tried to struggle free but the pressure on his wrists only increased.
    'Who are you?' he wailed, tears of fear once more running freely down his cheeks.
    He heard a metallic rattle and looked to his left.
    One of the figures had taken a handful of flat-headed nails from his jacket pocket.
    He pressed one into the palm of Weller's left hand.
    The movement was so swift he barely had time to scream.
    The figure gripping his wrist dropped down and retrieved a piece of broken concrete; then with one powerful blow he struck the head of the nail.
    Weller shrieked in pain as the metal spike was driven through his hand, each successive stroke sending it deeper into the flesh of his hand then beyond into the wall.
    Blood burst from the punctured palm, spurting on to the jacket of the one who stood before him but the figure did not move, merely continued to stare into Weller's face as he tried one last time to escape.
    His right hand was pressed against the wall and, quick as a flash, he felt another of the metal spikes being pounded through that palm until he was supported not by the freezing hands but by the thick