Free The Nothing Job by Nick Oldham Page A

ordered a round of drinks which looked like expensive cocktails. He carried them back on a tray.
    Now he’d got him in his sights, Henry pondered the next move.
    He could call in the troops to effect an arrest. He was loath to do this because it might cause mayhem in the club, especially if Downie kicked off, which he was very likely to do. Secondly there was the question of where Downie had come across his present money supply. The cash flow from the murdered man in Nottingham had been plugged. Downie wasn’t drawing any state benefits, so how was he financing himself? If Henry arrested him now he might never reveal his present living accommodation and what could be a good source of evidence. But if he allowed Downie to walk out of the club with a view to tailing him, that could all go wrong especially if Downie was surveillance-conscious.
    â€˜Spotted him?’ Pussy Beaver had sidled up to Henry in the royal box.
    â€˜Yes, thanks. Who is he with?’
    â€˜Two gay guys. What are you going to do? I don’t want any trouble in here, luvvie.’
    â€˜There won’t be. I’m just wondering what to do for the best. One way or the other, I don’t want to miss him. He’s too dangerous to be free. I could do with knowing where he’s holed up.’
    â€˜Looks like you’re gonna have to make a quick decision.’
    The wanted man had just sunk the last mouthful of his cocktail and was getting to his feet. It was clear from the body language, nods, handshakes, that he was on the move.
    â€˜Bugger,’ Henry hissed. ‘Why isn’t he watching the show?
    On stage the cast was performing a Monty Pythonesque knees-up and the audience were roaring their approval at the sight of a dozen high-kicking men in knights’ outfits and spandex. Downie walked across the auditorium, glancing at the show as he threaded his way through the tables towards the exit. Henry rose to follow, his right hand dropping into the jacket pocket into which he had stuffed his personal radio, which was switched off. Downie walked across Henry’s bows, less than ten feet away, and Henry had to resist the urge to vault over and grab him. He held back, allowing Downie to reach the exit, then trotted out behind him, wondering whether Downie had clocked him and made him for a cop.
    As Henry entered the foyer, Downie was leaving through the front doors, turning left on to the promenade and heading south. Pausing agitatedly for a few moments, Henry then emerged and saw Downie turning left on to New Bonny Street without a backwards glance. Not that Henry made the assumption that Downie hadn’t spotted him. It would have been easy for Henry to do a quick sprint and close the gap, stop at the corner, peer round and come face to face with Downie who might be waiting there to pounce. Instead, Henry dashed across the road and walked quickly down the seaward side of the prom and reached the junction just in time to see Downie turn into Bonny Street near the police station.
    Henry jumped the railings and trotted across the prom and into the same street, finding himself fifty metres behind the man.
    Bonny Street ran parallel with the promenade; the buildings on Henry’s right, the backs of amusement arcades and Sea Life Centre, had their main entrances on the prom itself. On the left was a huge car park and the multi-storey eyesore that was Blackpool nick.
    The road was deserted and dark, allowing Henry to follow from shadow to shadow. At one point Henry walked underneath the huge plastic shark affixed to the wall at the back of the Sea Life Centre. It was a nasty-looking model he had christened ‘Dave’ after Dave Anger. It had Anger’s look about it: a beady-eyed viciousness.
    Ahead, Downie walked past the newly constructed ground-floor public entrance to the police station, now locked for the night, then past the pub opposite, the Pump and Truncheon, a hostelry frequented by off-duty