Playing a Dangerous Game. Warning – may prove unpleasant reading.

Doormen, security personnel, whatever they call themselves these days, are divided into two camps. The most common group are what everybody else still refers to as bouncers; those of the no hair, no neck, and no brain cell variety. Not much conversation, but that’s not much of a job requirement. If you resemble a brick shit-house and can say “You, outside, now,” and “Now fuck off and don’t come back,” you’re up to the job. There’s the obligatory few digs in between the two set speeches, but they wouldn’t be in this kind of work in the first place if the opportunity to duff up the odd punter wasn’t a major incentive to take the job on.

There’s almost always a place for sorting out unruly punters, usually a dark alley at the side of the club well away from the ubiquitous CCTV cameras. Retribution for perceived insults and other dark deeds are settled in the alley. No cameras. No rules. No mercy.

The other type of security personnel is much more of a rare breed. A doorman with a fully functioning brain can be a dangerous combination and Winston Deakin had been just about the best in the business for the past five years. Not large by accepted standards at a shade over six feet with a body that tapered rather than being shaped like a giant breeze block, he had the trade mark shaved skull and twenty inch biceps, but hidden beneath the white dress shirt and immaculate dinner suit was the epitome of a modern Renaissance Man.

His home background was classic: absentee father and a succession of temporary step-dads all keen to sort out the stroppy little kid with an attitude by giving him a good hiding. He’d made his name on the door of the toughest clubs on Merseyside and had moved up the ladder in the last few years. Winston was now chief “minder” for one of the most notorious criminals in the British Isles. Drug barons and crime bosses like Des Sherlock make a lot of enemies and need a reliable man watching their backs.

The work is dangerous, but a higher salary than the Prime Minister is a fair trade-off. Muscle men are ten a penny, but a man like Winston Deakin had the ability to look after himself and his employer and also possessed that most useful commodity of all – initiative. Nobody needed to tell Winston how to do his job; he took care of everything.  Des Sherlock paid top money to ensure his freedom to go just about anywhere without worrying about some nutter from his past turning up with a gun in each hand.

I’d come across Winston a fair few times while developing a relationship with his boss. Des Sherlock was a throwback, a man who’d built his crime empire based on fear and ruthlessness, but he’d become complacent. I’d made solid progress in a relatively short time, establishing trust, even the beginning of a friendship based on an assumed mutual advantage. Winston was brighter than his employer, suspicious of everyone who tried to break into the inner circle. He was a problem and I’d indicated as much to my contact a few days ago.

‘Don’t sweat it,’ I’d been told, ‘the word is he’s got enough on his plate with the new boys to worry about you.’

I’d nodded, not entirely reassured, but not wishing to make it more of a threat than it really was. I knew all about the latest challenge to the Sherlock empire; it was the sole topic of conversation lately. East Europeans, bringing their own brand of ruthlessness to the UK, were increasingly nibbling away at hard-won territory. Des Sherlock knew only one way of discouraging competition. The method had served him well. Broken bones and a lot of pain were involved and that was just for openers.

Last night Winston had been given fresh instructions: seek out the leader of the incomers. Remove the head and the body dies was the gist of the words I’d managed to overhear.

I wasn’t involved. Not at this stage. Just one of the group awaiting an audience with the boss. Winston left, smiling. The job obviously appealed to him.

Less than twenty-four hours later the goalposts had shifted. I stood on the terrace, maintaining a respectful distance as Des Sherlock ranted and raved at the men who’d been part of Winston’s crew. The terrace was magnificent, paved in Italian marble, stone balustrades leading the eye across the vivid green lawns to the distant shoreline.

Winston didn’t say anything. His eyes were wide open, fixed on the last rays of a magnificent sunset. The sight was spectacular but he didn’t appreciate it. He’d never enjoy a sunset again. Despite the staring eyes, he had obviously been dead for some time.

His eyelids had been cut away and the open wounds on his chest and arms testified that he’d taken a while to die. His genitals lay alongside his severed fingers on a white handkerchief by the side of the body along with a wallet and wristwatch.  It was transparently obvious that this was the body of a man who’d died a hard death and also that his final hours had not been at all pleasant.