If Rob Stokes comes in here, it's not during the day.

I head to the bar, order a pint and take a seat on a stool that threatens to examine my prostate. Looking over at the roulette table, I can make out an elderly couple playing the outside bets. Red or black, even money, but it means the dealer has to spin up for the sake of a fiver. He clears it; they'll get it back on the next spin. It's dull to watch. I can't imagine how dull it must be to play.

Sip my pint, light a cigarette. The hangover's gone into a slight remission; the beer takes effect but the Embassy turns my stomach if I inhale too deeply. The guy behind the bar wears a blue shirt with forced pleats down the front and a cock-eyed name badge that reads 'George'.

'How you doing, George?'

He bristles at his name. One of the many people who hate the informality of the service industry. 'Fine,' he says.

'How long you been working here?’

‘A while. Couple of years.’

‘Huh. You know many of the punters?' George's left eye closes halfway. He's either trying to work me out, or it's a nervous thing. 'Some of them,' he says. 'How well?'

'We're not allowed to fraternise.’

‘I know the dealers aren't.’

‘Nobody is. It's a security risk.'

'Right.' I drink from my pint. 'No, I get it. You have friends who aren't in the business, you're a criminal, am I right?’

‘Something like that.'

'Yeah, I know all about that,' I say. Shake my head and watch the old couple at the roulette table. 'Listen, you know your punters by name?'

'Some of them.'

'Rob Stokes ring a bell?'

'What's he look like?'

'A bloke. Salt and pepper hair. Tall. Bad attitude. A chip- chaser.'

'Mate, you just described ninety percent of the blokes we get in here.'

I finish my pint, order another. 'Take one for yourself.’

‘So how much does this Stokes guy owe you?' says George. 'Owe me? Nowt. He's a mate. I heard he came in here. Why?'

'You're not police,' he says. 'Nah, I'm not police — '

'And you're not a mate of his. Otherwise you wouldn't be asking questions.'

'Maybe I just lost his number. You have it?'

'I don't know who you're talking about,' he says. Smiling like he's really enjoying this. And he knows the guy, I can feel

it. I dig out a business card — one of those I got done at my local Shell — and bang my mobile number on the back with a wee bookie pen.

'Tell you what,' I say. 'If anything springs to mind, or your memory comes back, you give me a ring, okay?'

He looks at the card and the smile turns upside down. 'You're a private detective.'

'Investigator,' I say.

'What's the difference?'

'A private detective solves the case. A private investigator just looks into it. I'm not the type to gather suspects in the drawing room. I'm the poor bastard who follows cheating husbands, wives, runaways. I'm the one sitting in the car with fuck all else to do. And I'm the one who'll slip you a wad if you can point the finger, George.'

He blinks. 'You practise that speech in the mirror?'

'Twice a day. But the deal stands.' I down half the pint and leave the glass on the bar. 'You see him, let me know. I'll make it worth your while.'

'I'm not daft, Mr Innes.'

'Good lad,' I say. 'Make sure you stay that way.'

And I leave. Glad I got something out of him, even though I'm not sure what it is. A feeling, but sometimes that's all it takes. Most of all, though, I'm glad I could leave that pint unfinished. No self-respecting alkie would let that happen.

Which makes me one step on the road to normal.

So I had to go with them. No skin off my cock. They wouldn't go up without us, the born fuckin' leader that I were. So I said alright, what the fuck. I could keep Dad off me back for as long as it took. And I knew I wouldn't be able to keep meself from going mental if I'd stayed down here. Call me a control freak.

Standing outside this garage in Moss Side, and Baz were with us. Rossie were inside talking to this lad with a swallow tattoo on his neck. He looked like a proper hard cunt, like. I wished I had him with us instead of Baz, who were griping again.

'Why we got to be here, man? What's the matter with my car?'

'Your car's a fuckin' shitheap, Baz. Couldn't make it to Chester in your car. Besides, it's too suspicious. It looks like a gangster's vehicle.'

Baz looked a bit happier at that. Like he were the real deal. Like fuck he were.

Rossie came out the garage. 'Jimmy says he's got a Bedford we can use.'

'How much?' I said.

'Nowt. Just a favour for a mate.'

'You're kidding.'

'Nah, I help him out sometimes.'

We went through into the garage. Jimmy were waiting for us, didn't look like he wanted owt to do with us. Clocked me once and reckoned me a soft cunt. I wanted to prove him

different. As we went to the back of the place, I heard all these dogs barking somewhere. 'Fuck's that?' I said.

'Them's Jimmy's dogs,' said Rossie.

'Animal lover.'

'Nah,' said Jimmy. He had a growl of a voice, sounded like them dogs. You know what they say about pets and their owners, like. He had a rollie in the corner of his mouth that didn't smoke, but it moved when he talked. 'Them's me fighting dogs. I fight 'em.'

'Fuckin' hell, Jimmy. That's not much of a match, is it?'

'They fight each other, Mo,' said Rossie.

'Your mate simple?'

I ain't simple, Jimmy-son. Where's this fuckin' wreck you want us to drive?'

I don't know if I like his tone,' Jimmy said to Rossie.

Rossie looked at us to shut up. At the back of the garage, there were this dirty-looking heap. Jimmy kicked one of the tyres. 'This is it. How long you need it?'

'Couple days,' said Rossie.

I kept me mouth shut. Didn't like the way Rossie were handling all this, like. I were the one in charge. I looked at Baz, but he were already looking around for a way out, the bottling bastard. Went up to the Bedford and pulled open the back door. In the back of the van, there were a mattress that stank of dog and a cage between that and the cab.

'I keep me bitches in there,' said Jimmy.

'Good,' I said. 'Cause that's what we're gonna be using it for an' all'

'I want it back in good nick.'

We all looked at him then. Like we could trash this fuckin' heap any more than it already was. Rossie said, 'Yeah, no problem, Jimmy.'

And as we was driving away, the engine coughing, I said to Rossie, 'And the cunt called me simple.'

TWENTY-SEVEN

The receptionist at the Grey Street casino has black make-up clogged in the corner of her eye. She looks at me with resigned recognition and it's strangely comforting. A uniform that's been washed too much, a spare tyre around her waist and the gnarly hands of the serial drinker.

If I was a gambler, I'd be in here all the time. It's all faded glamour. Like the receptionist, the furnishings used to be lush, but now they're a little threadbare. A group of Chinese guys are crowded round a blackjack table. Every so often one of them yells. Then there's laughter, the kind that follows excitement. All over a steady rhythm of Mah Jong tiles being shuffled by some Chinese ladies in the far corner. It's difficult to see through the cigarette smoke. I add to it with another Embassy. My lungs are starting to scratch, but the nicotine helps keep that down.

I can hear 'Spanish Eyes' being sung by a guy with a whisky-soaked voice.

The bar's at the back of the room, so I start walking. With the music, I feel like I should be carrying a six-shooter. I hope nobody notices that I'm walking to a rhythm.

There's a girl behind the bar, cleaning something out of sight. She doesn't look up as I come over. I lean against the bar and try to look nonchalant. She carries on cleaning. I don't see her face, just the expanse of her arse and a visible panty line. But I try not to stare too hard at that. When she