A Question Of Honour: A Harry Royle Thriller (4 page)

The thoughts brought back another game, a grim game and one that wasn't innocent or funny. It was a hard, bitter thought that he was, in fact, a fully paid up member of a cheap Manchester gang and that soon he would be pulling jobs with them in order to survive.

Mandell's face swam into view and Harry cursed it, wanted to kill the man. His whole frame shook with anger, as he smashed his fist through the wardrobe door, causing slim shards of mirrored glass and wood splinters to fly past his bloody skinned knuckles. The pain was sharp and in an odd way made him feel better. At least it stopped him feeling sorry for himself. Mandell would pay, that much he knew, no matter how long it took, Harry would see him broken and on his knees.

The morning came and Royle was surprised to realise that he had, in fact, slept and very deeply from the throb in his dull head. It had seemed to have been a night without any sleep, but somehow his body had given in at some point and now he was paying the price. He could make out the sound of shuffling in the hall beyond his room and imagined Edna about her landlady duties oblivious to anyone or anything but her mop and bucket. He smiled a faint smile as he heard the tell-tale clang as the metal bucket struck a door frame or was put down too heavily on a hard surface.

Harry Royle rubbed his eyes and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He got dressed quickly and headed down the hall to the bathroom, just as another man exited the room. The man looked pink and scrubbed as he stumbled sleepily from the steamy room, towel in hand. A scent of carbolic soap hung in the air.

"Still a bit of hot water going, chum."

Harry mumbled a vague thank you and moved into the room beyond, shaving kit in hand. After a wash and shave and with a deep growl in his stomach, he set off in search of food. The room back at the house was a decent enough room, but it was just a room, not bed and breakfast, no kitchen access, just bathroom and an outside toilet in the yard at the rear. Not much to brag about, but it was home to Harry. Besides Edna seemed to Harry, to be a good sort and didn't ask questions, that he liked.

He passed a cafe just off Greame Street and the smell of an early morning fry-up was too much. Turning on his heel, he pushed his way through the door. Before he could reach the counter, a voice greeted him from the far right corner.

"Harry, over here mate. Barney get another full English over here sharpish."

Harry turned to see Welsh Eric peering at him over the paper, he heard a grumbled agreement to Eric's order come from behind the counter. Royle forced a smile and sat down at the table. He silently cursed his use of his real first name, but he just wasn't used to hiding. He had had the sense to use a different last name and had settled on Trent, as he'd seen a poster on the train advertising the river. The other man was small and wiry with thinning black hair, he put Harry in mind of a jockey. Royle had noticed the night before that Eric appeared to be the most cheerful and talkative of the group. The cafe atmosphere seemed as conducive as had the night-time pub to the man's exuberance.

"Look at this boy, in the paper, it says here that City has paid £10,000 for Peter Doherty, that's criminal isn't it?"

Harry shook his head.

"What did you say?"

"City, Manchester City, they're only paying Blackpool ten thousand quid."

With a dull thud, a plate containing a full English breakfast landed on the table in front of Harry, followed by a mug of strong tea. Barney, the proprietor, gave the two men a nod and walked back to the counter, wiping his hands on the front of his already stained apron, as he went. Harry looked down at the food, which was piled high on the plate in front of him.

"I was just going to have a bit of toast, mate."

"Don't worry it's on me, well, to be honest, it's on Pete, he said to treat you well and you look hungry, boy."

"I'm starving, thanks."

Harry gave a wolfish grin and no more words were needed, as he ate his meal in silence, just nodding at the almost continuous flow of conversation, single handily kept going by the young Welshman, spoken around mouthfuls of hot food.

That evening saw both men propping up the bar of The Alex. It was a quarter to nine before Pete came in and the three of them took their pints and sat over in the far corner of the vault. Pete had a job for them and it quickly became apparent to Harry, that what he had taken as a small-time outfit, was in reality a much more ambitious one. The plan involved a factory wages snatch and the leader didn't hesitate when it came to his orders.

"Look, Harry, you're new and a bit green. The other lads will warm to you, but you need to prove yourself. You're my soldier and so on this job I want you to handle the rough stuff and the driving. Follow me out the back in two minutes."

Royle nodded in agreement, as Pete stood and walked towards the bar area. Harry was surprised when he noticed the man nod to the barmaid and lift the counter, entering the staff area at the rear. He looked at Eric, who just smiled and counted on his fingers playfully. They waited, and taking his lead from the Welshman, Harry followed where Pete had gone. In the backroom, Pete was holding court, waiting for Eric to close the door behind them.

Pete opened a leather bag, producing a number of weapons from it. He laid the bag aside on the table. He picked up a homemade cosh, a lead shot filled leather club, just big enough to peep over the top of a clenched fist and heavy enough to knock out the toughest have a go hero. Eric smiled and pocketed the offered weapon. Pete grinned and picking up a handgun offered it to Harry.

"For you son. You'll know what do with this, I imagine?"

Harry's fingers folded automatically around the cold wood and metal of the heavy firearm. He knew that this was not a moment to be hesitant and he could feel the eyes on him. He decided to act up.

"Nice and not one of the Spanish ones."

Pete nodded.

"So do you know what it is then?"

Harry Royle turned the automatic pistol over in his hand.

"I bloody well hope so. This is what we call the C96, or Mauser to you. A very popular gun this, even carried by Lawrence of Arabia during the war. Often termed the Broom Handled Mauser because of the grip and stock which doubles as a carry case. Ammo?"

Pete clapped his hands together like a schoolboy.

"Bravo Mr Trent. You do know your guns. I trust you'll be okay handling the business end of it then?"

Harry shook his head and replacing the gun on the table picked up another pistol.

"If you don't mind Pete, I'd rather carry this. Auto's are good in their own way, but they have a habit of jamming, so I'd rather stick with a revolver like this Webley Mark Six."

Pete shook his head at the other man's choice.

"Bit of a cannon isn't it?"

"That it is, sometimes all you have to do is fire a warning shot and they surrender, plus it's powerful and while it's not the new Enfield, which I'm used to, at least I can trust it."

Pete smiled and clapped his hands again in glee.

"Good enough for me, it's yours. There's a box of ammo in the bag and cleaning materials too, you'll want them I imagine. Keep the bag and I'll take the Mauser."

Royle nodded, pocketing the handgun and taking the offered bag. Both Harry and Eric were then told to go home and be ready for the call. Each was given some money, enough for a few days food, lodging, and a night out, as well as other expenses.

The following night Harry decided to go into the city. Early in the day he had bought a half-way decent suit from a pawnshop on Princess Road. He wanted to see the city centre and most of all he needed to think. A large part of him wanted to go straight to Bootle Street and turn over the whole gang to the police at A Division. That part was too large to ignore, but too small to act on. He knew what awaited him if he were to give himself up. Even with good intent, he would hang. He was in the eyes of the law, a dangerous and wanted man, a killer.

He alighted from the bus on the edge of Piccadilly Gardens and was surprised at its size. Living on the outskirts of the city made the place seem much smaller. Now standing before the blazing night-time lights reminded him of London. He stood rooted to the spot, turning his head to take in the evening display. A loud blast of a car horn reminded him that taxis in Manchester were as eager to be about their business as in any other city. He stepped out of harm's way and headed across the Gardens.

Royle was surrounded by the night-time crowd and he enjoyed the bustle, compared to the quiet peace of Moss Side. He slid his right hand into his overcoat pocket and felt the cold steel of the gun, which weighed heavy on both his pocket and his mind. He had wanted to leave it at the house in Denmark Road. He had walked around the flat looking for a good place to hide it. In the end, he was too nervous of it being found to leave it there and so had decided to take it with him. He had spent half an hour cleaning and stripping it. It was clean as a whistle and fully loaded. He hadn't really intended to load it, but it was a force of habit, he told himself that there was no point having a gun in your pocket if it was empty. He had left one chamber empty, the one where the hammer was resting. He didn't want the risk of fumbling with it and the hammer catching and discharging a bullet.

Walking on with the milling crowds, he realised that he needed an aim, some kind of direction. His blood froze as a police officer came into view. Royle's mind swam in panic. If stopped and searched, a gun would be found. He knew he had to do something and fast.

Chapter 3

What the officer had in mind, Harry had no interest in finding out. He bolted across the street just avoiding being hit by passing traffic. From behind, he heard a shrill police whistle and knew he would have to keep moving. He dodged down what seemed to be an endless procession of nameless side streets, in an attempt at leading the hunter off his scent.

Coming out at last on Deansgate, he saw his chance and quickly flagged a passing cab. As he settled back in his seat, he instructed the driver to take him to Moss Lane East, near Princess Road and settled back. He knew the drop was close enough to his lodgings, but far enough away to give him time to run, if need be. Looking over his shoulder he watched as people hurried along making their way past Lewis's, the department store. The shop caught his eye and as he attempted to see what was in the big display window, a tram rattled by blocking his view.

"New in town Mr?"

The taxi drivers voice pulled his thoughts into sharp focus.

"Just passing through, been staying with a friend."

The back of the cabby's head smiled, as they so often do.

"Young fellow like you, thought you'd be out seeing the city, not running off home."

Harry didn't like being questioned but realised that it wasn't personal and was in fact part and parcel of taking a taxi journey.

"No well I thought about it but wasn't sure where to go and being new in town didn't want to be fleeced, you know."

The driver's shoulders shrugged.

"I know what that's like. Tell you what, let me have a little think and see if I can come up with something a little more exciting than an early night and a cup of cocoa."

Harry realised that it might not be such a bad idea to do what he had originally intended to do and see a little of the Manchester nightlife. Besides a running man doesn't stop and have fun, he keeps running until he gets to a bolt hole.

"Sounds like a plan, I'm game."

"Good, well there's the Ritz, but not only is it a bit pricey, but it's also somewhere to take a girl, not turn up on your lonesome, and you don't look like a dancing type to me, am I wrong?"

Harry felt a laugh escape.

"No, you're not wrong there."

"What about a picture?"

Royle agreed.

"There's the new Robert Donat film on at the Regal, he's a Manchester lad."

"Is he? I didn't know that."

The driver turned the next corner.

"Not many do my friend. In fact, he used to ride his pushbike along Deansgate right here in town. He went to Central high school and was born in Withington. A bit of a film fan, not as much as the wife, she reads all those film magazines, sooner watch a picture than read about one myself."

Harry sat forward a little and leaned toward the man, before speaking again.

"I thought The Thirty-Nine Steps was a great picture."

"Same here, the other half preferred the one with the ghost following his old castle over to America, but I thought it was a bit daft. How about you?"

Harry shook his head.

"Don't know that one, but he's good, so Lead on Macduff."

The cabby nearly missed the traffic light's signal to stop. A screech of brakes and the taxi came to an abrupt halt, sending Harry forward, just missing the back of the drivers head and using the man's seat back to come to a stop. The driver turned around and smiled.

"Sorry about that, you put me off. It's not lead on Macduff, it's lay on Macduff, most people make that mistake."

"Well, I'm glad we got that cleared up."

The cabby smiled and his old blue eyes twinkled in their setting of silver eyebrows.