I head up a narrow stairwell. No need for a banister, the walls are that tight on me. When the space opens up into a landing, I'm confronted by a mountain masquerading as a bouncer. He's stuffed into a tuxedo two sizes too small. His shirt cuffs ride up on his wrists, prison ink spilling out from under. I need to take a step back to look up at his face, then wish I hadn't. He's done time, this one, and it wasn't easy.

'Yeah?' he says.

'Callum Innes,' I say.

He digs into his jacket pocket, pulls out a wrinkled sheet of A4, lined. Studies it as if he needs glasses but he's too vain to get them. With a boat like that, vanity should be the last thing on his mind. I don't tell him that. I value my scrotum too much.

'You got ID?' he says.

I show him my driver's licence. He takes it, compares the picture to what's standing in front of him. 'Morris sent me,' I say.

'Big whoop. Morris sends everyone.' He hands me my licence, jerks his head. 'Go on.'

I try to give him a friendly smile, but it doesn't feel right and he doesn't offer anything in return, so I move past him into the club. A cloud of cigar smoke hits me in the eyes as soon as I step through the door. The sound of chips being click-shuffled, the muted rattle of a roulette wheel some- where and the throbbing undercurrent of cards hitting felt. As the smoke clears, I blink through the tears and get a better look at the room. It's crowded with gamblers, most of them too dangerous to hit the legit casinos. The bad vibe of barely-concealed aggression. Low ceilings smother us from above, thick carpet threatens to do the same from the opposite direction. A small bar on my right, blackjack tables in front of me, the roulettes behind them. And right at the back, huge red curtains tied back to reveal private rooms.

I recognise a couple of scallies with temper problems drinking at the bar, but they don't recognise me, thank fuck. Tiernan's lads. The last thing I want is to get into conversa- tion with them. I'm sick of telling people Declan's clean, sick of seeing their eyes glaze over.

Oh, right, yeah. Your brother's clean, he's off the junk. Good on him. No more gabbing to the busies for a baggie of black. No more living in his own filth. He's fine, that's a good thing.

Have a drink on me.

I head to the nearest blackjack table, find a spot and get seated. Hand over a tonne to the dealer and get twenty reds back. I sit and fiddle with the chips, try to look like a proper punter. When I see the dealer staring at me, waiting, I smile and slip a tenner onto the table. He clicks onto autopilot, starts dishing out the cards.

Five minutes later and I'm down to half my stack. The other players aren't the best conversationalists. In fact, they haven't said a thing. They came to play.

'Been a while since I been in here,' I say.

A grunt from two seats down. The dealer doesn't acknowl- edge me.

'Yeah, used to be a dealer here, a guy called Rob. He still about?'

'Card?' says the dealer. He stares at me intently. Something in his eyes, but I can't make out if I've hit a nerve or not. He might just hate all the punters in here. I look down at my cards. Sixteen. I take another. The dealer flips a four. I stay.

'So I don't see him about,' I say. 'What happened? He get the sack or something?'

No answer. The dealer continues as if I'm not there.

'Fine, fuckin' hell. Just trying to make a little conversation.'

The Chinese guy next to me turns his head, looks me up and down. 'No here for talking,' he says. 'You play, you no play.' He points at me with his right hand. I notice two fingers cut off at the knuckle. A tattoo on his neck, a bluebird peeking out from under the collar. He's an old-time wannabe Triad, maybe a real one. I don't want to find out which.

'Okay,' I say. 'That's fine with me.'

'Card?' says the dealer. This time, there's a twinkle in his eye. If I didn't know better, I'm sure he's laughing at me. My heart starts to beat faster.

I have seventeen in front of me. 'What do you think?' I ask him.

His lips twitch as he moves to the Chinese guy.

'Oi,' I say. 'I didn't say I was staying. Gimme a card.'

The dealer's eyes narrow for a second. Then he slaps a queen in front of me, rakes in the cards and my cash in one fluid motion. The Chinese guy is sitting there with nine, and he looks fit to cut my throat.

'What a pity. Never mind.' I get up from my seat, taking the rest of my chips with me.

Fuck the dealer. I should have known he'd keep his mouth shut. And I was hardly subtle about it, but then I'm not used to being in places like this. Word spread, obviously. Employ- ees banding together against a common enemy. In this case, it's Morris Tiernan. And me, I stand for Morris. It's okay, though. I'll find someone with a mouth on them. I always do.

I just have to bide my time.

A couple of bottled beers later and I feel loose in my skin. I'm leaning against the bar, sipping a Becks. The scallies I know have gone, so I'm more relaxed. I'd be even more relaxed if these drinks weren't costing me so much.

The barman is a gangly lad with a perpetual stoop. Like every other employee in here, he's wearing a dress shirt and dicky bow. But the dark sweat patches under his arms and the luggage under his eyes give him away.

'You work here long?' I say.

He doesn't say anything, busies himself with the optics. I watch him. He's trying to avoid me. I slap two red chips onto the bar. 'Oi,' I say. 'I'm talking to you.'

The barman turns, clocks the chips. 'You want another drink?'

'You know a guy called Rob Stokes?'

'Nah,' he says.

I light an Embassy. 'He was a dealer here.' The barman shakes his head. 'You don't know the dealers?'

'Nah.'

'You don't take breaks together?'

He doesn't answer. He's watching something over my shoulder. Feels like the floor just listed to one side, so I'm guessing the bruiser on the door just walked in.

'What are you, a fuckin' mute?' I say.

'Nah,' he says.

For fuck's sake. 'Fine, don't talk to me.'

I turn away from the bar, take a swig from the bottle. Sure enough, the doorman's looking at me, even though he's pretending not to. Got that shifty-eyed glance going on, as if he's not sure what he should be doing. I stare right at him. This place is tight. No wonder Morris couldn't get anything out of the staff.

'You don't have to talk to me, mate. But you will have to talk to someone sooner or later. This Rob Stokes isn't going to get away scot-free.'

I let that hang in the air. The barman's stopped moving.

'Tell you what I'm going to do. I'll leave you my number. You get over your lockjaw, you give me a bell and we'll talk about it.'

'I don't talk to the police, mate,' he says.

'I'm not the police. And I'm not your fuckin' mate.' I turn back to the bar, see he's still looking at the bouncer.

I write down my mobile number on a napkin, push it towards him. 'My name's Callum Innes. I'm a private investigator. And whatever you say to me is just that: private. You've got nothing to be afraid of.'

The barman gives me a look like who do I think I'm fooling?

He's right. It's all shite. But sometimes it works. 'Everything alright here, Kev?'

It's the bouncer. And I didn't hear him coming. He's almost right on top of me when I turn. 'Everything's fine,' I tell him. 'Me and Kev were just shooting the breeze.'

He doesn't look at me. The mountain and the barman, exchanging glances like a couple of star-crossed lovers. It's enough to make me sick. 'Here, Kev, I'll have another Becks, mate,' I say.

Kev doesn't move.

I think you've had enough,' says the bouncer. 'You what?'

His hand opens, gestures towards the door. 'You're not welcome here. C'mon.'