Impurity (DI Gardener 1)

“We don’t want your sort round here.”

The ringleader had spoken. Reilly made some quick observations. No one else seemed willing to back up the four. The people sitting at the nearby tables made a hasty exit, expecting trouble. The landlord conveniently turned his back. The music stopped.

“What sort?”

“Perverts!”

Gardener walked through the front door, dressed in a black sweatshirt, jeans, and trainers. He chose to sit at the bar. He gave Reilly a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

“If I was you, I’d be a little more car

eful when you’re addressing people you don’t know,” Reilly said, his tone even.

“What?” the tattooed man asked. He glanced around at his colleagues, pointing towards Reilly, and laughed. His grin revealed uneven, tobacco-stained teeth.

“Some people are easily offended.” Reilly paused. “Now me, I’ve been around a bit. I’ve developed what you might call a ‘thick skin’. But I draw the line at being called a pervert.”

The atmosphere grew heavy. From the expressions in their eyes, Reilly could see that two were reluctant to become involved. Gardener was still ignoring the publican, who seemed content to disregard the brewing trouble.

“Shouldn’t hang around with other perverts then, should you?”

“I don’t,” replied Reilly. “I said I was looking for him.”

“Come on, Craig, let’s leave it.”

“Now that sounds like good advice to me, Craig. So, I’m going to go over there and finish my wee drink. I suggest you go back to playing pool. We’ll let this little matter drop, and no one will come to any harm.” Maintaining eye contact, Reilly pushed his way past the man.

“Sean!” Gardener shouted suddenly. As Reilly turned, the ringleader was raising his cue, ready to bring it down across the detective’s head. All hell broke loose.

Reilly brought his right arm up, wrapping the cue up and yanking it toward him, out of the way. He slammed his left fist into the tattooed man’s face, then followed through with a knee to the man’s testicles and a right uppercut to his jaw. He then snapped the cue across his knee and hurled it the length of the bar, narrowly missing the landlord as he frantically made a phone call.

Gardener rushed past Reilly, shouting, ‘Police!’ It made no difference. One of the remaining two pool players took a swing at the senior officer. Gardener avoided the blow by raising the barstool he’d brought with him, smashing it into the man’s face.

The pub might as well have been in the middle of the football ground for all the noise that erupted. Two women at the bar screamed, encouraging the pool players. Glasses were smashed. Tables were overturned.

A pair of hands grabbed Reilly, one on his shoulder, the other hooked into his belt buckle. The next thing he knew, he was airborne. He crash-landed on the pool table, immediately rolling off and taking a pool ball with him.

He pulled himself to his feet, glancing around. Charging towards him was the rugby player, his face a contorted grimace of rage. His hands clenched into tightly-balled fists; his eyes vacant of emotion. Reilly took the only option open to him.

He launched the pool ball with an accuracy that relied on luck more than judgment. He heard the crunching of bone as the rugby player dropped to his knees. A guttural howl escaped his lips, along with teeth and blood, which spilled out onto the floor.

A man suddenly slammed down on the pool table in front of Reilly. The Irishman pulled him up by his collar, punched him hard in the mouth, then threw him over the side of the table.

He supposed he should have tried harder to impress upon them who he was, but by now he was enjoying himself.

As Reilly turned, he saw Gardener take a hard punch to the face. Kicking a chair out of his way, Reilly climbed over a body to reach the barbarian who had floored his superior officer. The giant turned fast. Using all his weight, he barged into Reilly, knocking him off balance. He landed beside the body he’d climbed over.

The last thing he expected was to be helped to his feet. He drew his fist back but momentarily held it, surprised at the sight of a riot squad officer trying to restrain him. Surveying the pub, he realized it was almost empty. Only the landlord and two customers remained, all of them horrified.

“Where the hell did you come from?”

The riot officer ignored his question, choosing instead to read him his rights.

Reilly held up his hand. “Hold it, I’m a police officer. So is he.” Reilly pointed to Gardener, who was nursing his swollen cheek. The officer let go but waited for identification. Once satisfied, he checked to ensure the ringleader and the rugby player had been escorted from the premises.

Chapter Twenty-two

“What the bloody hell did you two think you were doing?” demanded Briggs. Apart from the fact that Briggs was the DCI, no one argued with him because he was physically overbearing. His huge chest rose and seemed to keep on rising as he took a breath. Little could be seen of his face due to his thick black beard and moustache. Briggs was a few inches shorter than Gardener, but nevertheless, his authority – and the fact he spoke extremely fast without fluffing any of his words – gave him a decided advantage.