‘Give it to me,’ she’d said once. A week when he’d refused her money for a new sweater even when she thrust out her arms, showing how the sleeves wouldn’t cover her wrists any more. Him saying things were too tight. ‘I’ll put it towards a new jumper.’
He’d halted over his paper and looked at her, set his fag in the ashtray and risen to his feet. ‘What?’
She didn’t back down. ‘Your stake, give it me.’
He’d given her the back of his hand, sent her flying. Setting Dom off, only five and bawling the house down. Bringing Alison in from the kitchen to sort them out, placate their father, shoot Rachel a black look.
Mitch said, ‘Rattigan’s not here.’
No one fitting the description. ‘We could wait a bit? Or ask if he’s already been in?’
Right then the door swung open and in he walked, pegged them for police as soon as he laid eyes on them. Rachel saw him think about legging it, but Mitch had moved behind him, blocking the exit. Handy having someone Mitch’s size on your team. Ex-army and he had that confidence; no need for any macho stuff, from what Rachel had seen of him.
‘Desmond Rattigan,’ Rachel said, flipping her warrant card his way. ‘DC Bailey.’ The other punters put on a good show: pretended not to notice the exchange, though you could tell by the angling of heads, the cessation of movement, that they were all ear-wigging like mad. ‘Could you step outside with us?’
Rattigan didn’t ask why, just shrugged, affecting nonchalance, and did as she asked. They talked to him in the car. Rachel showed him Lisa’s phone in a clear exhibits bag. ‘You sold this phone last night in the Blue Dog. I want to know where you got it.’
‘I never seen it before,’ he said.
Like that, is it? ‘Try again, pal,’ Rachel said sharply, ‘or we could just nick you, take you down the station, search your address, look at building a case against you for handling stolen goods. What’s that these days, Mitch?’
‘Anything up to fourteen years. More, with aggravating circumstances.’
‘We got any aggravating circumstances?’ Rachel said.
‘Very aggravating.’ Mitch didn’t smile, not so much as a twinkle in his eye or the hint of humour in his voice. That, coupled with the sheer size of the bloke, sent a clear message: Deep shit.
‘Where did you get the phone?’
Rattigan hesitated. Rachel felt her impatience growing until he spoke: ‘Lad came round floggin’ it. Didn’t know him. Said it was clean.’
‘You took him at his word? Bit risky, for a man in your line of work.’
