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wharf to make sure that he could fix the spot exactly when the tide was right down, then walked off into the mist.

Chapter Four
    Jackie Stott was a pretty tough nut, but even his stomach gave a nasty lurch when, first thing next morning, he was visited by a detective chief inspector.
    A moment later, he kicked himself for his stupidity, as he knew very well that Alec Bolam was concerned only with clubs and gaming, not murder.
    When Bolam called, Jackie was sitting at a table in the empty main room of the Rising Sun.
    Every Monday, there was a ritual meeting, when Thor Hansen went through the previous week’s business. As Hansen rattled off strings of figures, Jackie leaned back in his chair, a mini cigar clamped between his lips. His ears were deaf to business matters. His mind was on the body that now lay twenty feet down in the mud of the Tyne. He was not particularly uneasy about it – he reckoned that there was no reason why it shouldn’t stay down there for years. There was no one to go clamouring to the police about Geordie’s disappearance and it might be months before his family got curious as to his whereabouts. And as far as Jackie was concerned, Geordie Armstrong had left his job and gone to London to seek his fortune!
    While he was daydreaming against the background of Hansen’s financial droning, Bolam’s raincoated figure appeared silently inside the glass doors. He was almost at the table before Stott noticed him and his first words were tailor-made to give the club owner the maximum shock.
    â€˜What you been doing to Geordie Armstrong, then, Jackie?’
    While Stott sat frozen to his seat with shock, the detective pulled out another chair and plumped down uninvited. Jackie stared at him in fascination, his mind momentarily seized up.
    The Danish manager stopped his recital and looked from one to the other with his usual impassive expression fixed in place.
    Jackie rapidly took a grip on himself.
    â€˜What the hell d’yer mean?’
    In spite of his efforts, his voice sounded like an old hacksaw.
    Alec Bolam ran a hand over his jet black hair. ‘Our river lads tell me you had a bit of trouble on Saturday night. I hope we’re not going to have any strong-arm routines on any of your premises.’
    You bleeding liar , thought Jackie, you’d like nothing better . But he was relieved; this was only a check-up on that damn fool Joe.
    â€˜Divvent worry yourself about that, Inspector. Our poor old Joe is getting weaker in the pan than ever. You know how he is!’
    Bolam allowed himself a weak, official smile.
    â€˜I know that Sergeant Leadbitter heard you tell Joe that you wanted Armstrong duffed up a bit.’
    Stott rasped his chair back and planted his hands aggressively on the table. ‘He heard bloody wrong, then!’
    â€˜The sergeant had a witness – his constable,’ retorted Bolam.
    â€˜Then they’re both bloody liars.’
    â€˜Come off it, Jackie! Ernie Leadbitter should have pulled Joe in on the strength of that. Breach of the peace, disorderly conduct on licensed premises … what had Geordie been up to?’
    Jackie had to think fast. Should he stick to a flat denial or spin some yarn to satisfy Bolam? Knowing the chief inspector, he hesitated to try the first.
    â€˜All right, then, it was a storm in a flaming teacup.’ He put on a falsely contrite expression and tried to pass the thing off. ‘Joe is as jealous as hell of Geordie – divvent ask me why. He saw Armstrong slipping a coupla gaming tokens in his pocket and came and told me. Naturally I don’t want any sharp practices like that in my place,’ he went on righteously, ‘so I had it out with Geordie.’
    Bolam sat with a sardonic grin on his face, but he kept silent.
    â€˜He got right nasty, so I told him to shove off and never come back – rather have a croupier short than a crooked one. He turned violent and took a poke at me,