‘Stan thinks it may be more than that,’ she replied. ‘He’s trying to put a team together to look into it, but we’re all a bit busy.’

‘Should ask for some help from Robbery Squad. They were quick enough to call on you when they needed some help.’

‘To be fair, I took that job to them.’

‘Yeah, but it wasn’t just you. They got other bods off Division as well.’

‘I think they’re a bit buried under this Andy Northwood murder.’

Now that it was mentioned, the robbery/homicide at Andy Northwood’s house started Lucy thinking. Nearly all the other recent incidents, most of which they’d heard about over the radio while they’d been engaged on the Hatchwood, had involved assaults, sometimes vicious assaults, on known members of the Crowley criminal community.

Could the Andy Northwood murder be connected to that?

Harry, meanwhile, snorted with disdain. ‘Too busy admiring themselves in the bathroom mirror, you mean. Too busy counting the brownie points they collect each time they pull a major crim in, simply because they haven’t got any other distractions … apart from making daisy-chains out of paperclips, of course.’

Lucy couldn’t help feeling stung by that; on Danny Tucker’s behalf of course, and maybe on her own if future plans came together, though she wasn’t comforted that it was a week since she and Tucker had chatted properly. ‘I think they’re pretty good at what they do.’

Before he could reply, there was a crackle from the radio.

‘Attention all units on November East and West! PC requires immediate support at O’Halloran’s Snooker Hall on Peak Street! Fighting in progress … officer already believed injured. Anyone to attend, over?’

Lucy glanced at Harry, but he’d already hit the accelerator.

Peak Street, Dunnington, was less than half a mile from their current position.

‘DCs Clayburn and Jepson en route from Dunnington Road, over,’ she shouted, digging their detachable beacon from out of the glove compartment.

‘Roger, Lucy, thanks for that. And take care … this sounds serious, over.’

Chapter 21

O’Halloran’s Snooker Hall, which they reached within four minutes, was one of those single-storey 1970s-built structures which could have been put to almost any use, from carpet-sales to bingo, so long as it didn’t matter that it possessed the drabbest exterior imaginable. It was windowless, constructed from basic brick, but covered with stucco-type whitewashed plaster, much of which was now rotten, damp and dirty. The roof was flat and probably pooled with rainwater, its outside walls littered with the rags and tags of illegible fly-posters.