The back of an unmarked Transit swung open. These cops were in full riot gear: helmets, shields and batons. They clattered out of the van and started jogging down the street, moving into closed ranks. It was genuine choreography, no doubt something they practised at cop-school. When they were maybe twenty paces from the Zipper Store, a second team came pounding from Canal Street in parallel formation. Both teams were dragged up in scary black body armour, ready to put a pincer lock on the store-front. It was not like there was any opposition. As they formed a corridor, either side of the door, the police came with the battering ram. No opposition there, either. The wood cracked and split, fracturing at the first assault, and caving with the second. As it fell, the two cops with the battering ram fell back and a third stream of cops, these in regular dress, made for the doorway and disappeared inside.
Outside Good-Day’s, the Rembrandt and all the other smaller bars, packs of men stood in the rain and watched. Carve the Village open and you got to check out the full cross-section: Bowie boys, clones, queens, straight-looking, old geezers, also a sprinkling of fag hags and a few fewer dykes. All out to watch a bad night turn sour. The whole show had been running almost weekly since the Chief Constable had declared he was God’s Cop and he was ready for a genuine crusade. Jake felt someone panting at his shoulder. It wasn’t Paulo; he’d disappeared the moment the sirens started, and they hadn’t stopped yet. Turning to look back into the crowd, Jake saw Slappy standing there. The kid was breathing hard but it wasn’t excitement. It was more like this was bonfire night and he was one of the dogs they forgot to lock away before the fireworks started. The police lights parasolled across his face, painting it with white and blue stripes.
Jake said, ‘I tell you who’s a Bowie fan…’
He pointed out Fairy, over on the far side of the road. The recognizable head of problem hair popping up between the crowd as the boy hustled for a clear view. There was no sign of Sean.
Slappy said, ‘What’s that?’
It wasn’t worth repeating. Jake shook his head and turned to watch the first of the police come out of the Zipper Store. Still in single file, all holding cardboard boxes in front of themselves. Inside: magazines, pin-up calendars. Even greeting cards.
From this moment on, it was plain routine. Jake didn’t know why they even bothered with the riot cops. Did they think, one of these nights, the Village was going to erupt? That it was going to go up in flames like Moss Side had that summer. Maybe one man seriously believed it was going to burn, though not in a riot. Chief Constable James Anderton, spokesman for God in Greater Manchester. Maybe one other, Inspector John Pascal. There was no sign of Anderton himself but you wouldn’t expect to see him until the photo op at the press conference in the morning. Inspector Pascal was there, though. Now the streets were guaranteed peaceful, he had appeared out of one of the cars and begun directing the loading of boxes into a Transit van.
Jake watched Inspector Pascal at work. The man had a semi-military style: the kind of act he could have carried off without props, although he was holding a truncheon. All told, he was a different type to his boss, Anderton, who was queer for the Old Prophet look, the thick beard and swept-back hair. Pascal preferred to stay clean-shaven and neat. Still, it was Pascal who looked more like Charlton Heston.
Jake had seen enough. He pushed away towards Piccadilly Gardens. He was just passing the bus station when he heard the dull slap of tennis shoes off the wet pavement, and looked over his shoulder. It was Slappy again, nervously following him. When Jake turned, the boy stopped. It was maybe something in Jake’s expression: something of the grim touch Pascal had been wearing. Jake reset his face before he waved the kid over.
‘You got a cig?’
Slappy nodded hard and started fumbling at his pockets. The left-hand side of his Harrington, he felt something and reached through the zip to pull a crumpled pack of B&H out of the shoplifter’s pocket. The way he ran up and offered it over, it was a tear-jerker.
Jake took one and said, ‘Let’s get out of the rain. You got any money?’
Slappy nodded again. Jake jerked his head: Okay then, this way.
He took him round a corner where the narrow street and the high buildings took some of the sting out of the rain. As they turned into Silver Street, jake ducked into a service door and waited for Slappy to pull out his matches. The kid was an outdoor smoker. When he lit the match, he held the box upright and slipped the flame into the recess of the box drawer. Jake hunkered over the light, sucked hard and waited for the cig to fizz and settle, before he asked the kid his name.
‘Kevin Donnelly.’
‘Jake Powell. Come on.’
He moved off sharply. The kid had to jog to catch up, holding his hands like a bantamweight, his cig cupped inside a rabbit punch. They were maybe ten yards from Portland Street now, cresting round the side of the Britannia Hotel. And, only now, Jake finally caught sight of the white Cavalier. Already it was idling up to the kerb in a shower of gutter spray. It was a police car: unmarked but always recognizable.
Jake would have crossed the street, making like he’d seen nothing, but the Cavalier’s back door was swinging open. Out of the front seat, a voice saying, ‘Get in.’
‘You what?’ Then, ‘What for?’
Detective Constable Green poked his head round the door. ‘What do you mean what for? For fucking sus, you little puff.’ Giving a sigh as he turned back to his driver. ‘You believe this? Some people haven’t the fucking sense to get out of the rain.’
Slappy – Kevin Donnelly – was backing away. If he walked any further he’d be jammed against the wall of the hotel. Jake looked right and left, letting his breath out. He wondered how long it would take for DC Green to find the gramme of speed. He thought of running out into traffic along Portland Street and across the reservation towards Piccadilly Gardens, but his suit was beginning to feel heavy with rainwater, and there were so many cops in the area. How far would he get?
As he climbed in the back of the Cavalier, DC Green shouted over to Donnelly. ‘You too, son. Don’t be shy.’
Chapter Three
Detective Inspector Green was impressed, so he said. The man was sucking on a cig, strutting around the flat like he had a warrant. All the time keeping up his one-sided conversation. Saying, ‘We’re talking London prices, right. So you got to be doing all right at the casino. A super-duper croupier – management even. Give it me straight, what’s a gaff like this set you back?’
Jake was stood at the kitchen sink, waiting for the kettle to boil, and washing the blood off his knuckles. Basically closing his ears and staring into space. The view out of the kitchen window was his favourite, looking out across the ornamental rooves of the other mansion blocks. Coming up to four in the morning, and there was nothing moving between the pavement and the night sky but black cabs on the shortcut from Edgware Road through to Baker Street.
The man he was trying to ignore, DI Davey Green, was just five yards away: walking, talking, smoking one of his old Rothmans… spying. Heaving himself from room to room, and then padding back to fill the kitchen doorway. This exact second, Jake couldn’t actually see him, but he hadn’t managed to shut out the sound of his voice.
‘Oh, look at that. There’s a message on your answer machine.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘I’m just saying. Like, you feel you need one of these gadgets, you probably got some kind of dizzy social whirl going. I don’t want you missing anything important. Your life falling apart just because of me.’
‘It’ll keep.’
Jake turned from the sink and dabbed at the graze on his hand with a clean tea-towel. Somehow he had scraped the skin off his second knuckle when he was fighting that guy. He wasn’t sure when exactly. Call it a mystery: it wasn’t like the man put up much of a fight. He just rolled over and took his beating. Staring at the dry wound, Jake thought he might have caught the man’s tooth.
Davey Green was still obsessing on the answer mach
ine. Now asking: ‘You want me to play it back, or what?’
‘No, leave it. It’s okay.’
He had already seen the flashing light of the message indicator. He could guess what it was: a short word from his partner to say Milan was okay, there were no insane hijackers on the aircraft, no devices in the hold… everything funky and hunky, just adorable. If there ever was a real emergency, he could be paged at the casino… He was there every solitary night. The message could keep because, so long as Green was in apartment-colonizing mode, Jake wasn’t going to give him the least edge. He didn’t want the man to know what kind of shape his life was in. You gave him the smallest fucking window, he would come whooping through, riding a pack of sniffer dogs.
Green didn’t give a shit about the guy Jake half killed: whether he was ambulance-ready or able to walk. Green had his own approach to police work: the victim could bleed to death and all he cared about was could he grab a hold of it, make it work for him. As he walked Jake away from the crime scene, he started spinning a whole string of jokes, speculating on the relation between being queer for violence and queer in general. And he fed Jake a proposition: they could discuss it with the local bobbies, get their informed views, or they could find somewhere quiet to talk. Jake weighed it up: the police station maybe five minutes’ walk away or one of the all-night cafés on Edgware Road. What’ll it be? Green said, ‘How about your place?’
Since they’d reached the flat, Green had shut up for maybe five-ten seconds at a stretch. Jake couldn’t swear to it being even that long. He could hear the squish of the man’s DM soles, the rubber on the wood floor as he scoped the shelves of books, videos, the CD collection. And every couple of steps that voice again.
‘You like to do a bit of reading, then?’
Jake said, ‘Some.’
Green had finally taken off his anorak with the ridiculous hood. The suit was no improvement, but at least it wasn’t physically hurtful on the eyes. It was more of a psychic jab. He was running down the shelves now, ticking off the titles with his cigarette fingers:
‘Oxford Companion to Renaissance Literature, Autobiography of Malcolm X, Chinese Horoscopes by Dr Nick Land, Christopher Marlowe by Dr Faustus…’
Jake walked through with the tea-tray, just in time to see Green lip his cigarette and reach up with his free hand to pull a slim purple book off the shelf.
‘Kant’s Critic of Judgement. Looks like a fucking laugh. Jesus, you seen this, just about every word underlined.’ Flapping the book open, his finger flattened to the margin notes. ‘Someone’s written “groovy” here. What’s that: is it a philosophical term or what?’
Jake shook his head, it wasn’t his book. He set the tray down on the table. The full rig: a teapot, two china mugs printed with Van Gogh’s sunflowers, a sugar bowl and only one spoon. The milk jug he left in the kitchen, selecting the Tetrapak instead. He didn’t want to give Green too many joke locuses. How would that end – watching the man short out because he couldn’t decide what to take the piss out of first? It was bad enough the tea was Earl Grey. Jake intended to let it brew awhile, but Earl Grey never coloured up too dark. It was certain Green was a strong-and-milky man. You could tell by looking at him.
Green said, ‘You shacked up with a student, right?’
‘About ten years ago. She works for a record company now.’
‘She?’ Coming over all surprised, like he was auditioning for the police pantomime and the director really wanted to see those double-takes. ‘You shacked up with a chick?’
If you saw her, it’s how you’d want to describe her.
Until she set you right. She was out of the country, now, trying to persuade a new-age Italian composer that his CD of ambient electro was finished. Before she left, Jake had asked, ‘How can you tell?’ The music dribbled on for one-hour-fifteen, minor chords over a synthesized rattle like the sound of a plug chain caught in the leak of a warm tap. He could have told Davey Green any of this… if it had been any of his business.
‘Little Jakie, all grown-up and hetero. Who’d have thought it? You taken the AIDS test, then?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘No, I’m serious. What with you having a past history, you got to think about it.’ The man paused, his mouth open, either dumb or enquiring. He looked like an uncooked American doughnut, but Jake wasn’t sure what impression he was actually trying to create. ‘The reason I’m asking, it’s got to be something that preys on you. Yeah? Every time you shoot your load, you wonder what’s wiggling up between the spermatozoa?’
Jake said, ‘I was just thinking you look like shit.’
Looked it, talked it, acted like it. Everything but rise to it. Green was still pondering the great issue. ‘You know, Jake lad, something I was wondering: you see a paisley pattern, like a dressing gown or, say, the lining to an anorak… does it make you wonder whether you got iffy spunk or what?’
‘No.’
‘But it will do now, eh?’
‘Yeah,’ Jake said. ‘But I’ll think about how you thought of it first.’
Was that a point? Green didn’t look bruised. He had slotted the philosophy book back onto the shelf, stubbed out his last cigarette, and was looking round for somewhere to park himself. Jake was sat on the settee, making like mother and pouring an inch of milk into his flowery mugs.
Davey Green squirmed into the chair opposite, saying: ‘I like a higher back, me. Get to my age, you always gonna look for lumbar support, know what I mean? On top of which, I did my fucking back in – must be five years now – pulling some cunt out of the Rochdale Canal.’
‘I wouldn’t take you for the heroic type.’
‘What?’ A two-second pause before Davey realized there was a misunderstanding. ‘Oh. No, the guy had been dead two days. I was just trying to haul him to the side with this boat-hook. I think I overstretched myself, pulled some kind of muscle and never popped it back.’
He groaned a bit, his hand in the small of his back at the exact problem point. Then he took another look at the mugs. ‘Ooh, tasteful. You get them out a catalogue? Best give me three spoons, son. Keep my blood levels bubbling. This looks like it could be a long night.’
The thing with Jake Powell, boy and now man, he never said anything in custody. Or nothing apart from simple answers to direct questions. It wasn’t something he had learned. He didn’t have the benefit of a family background in crime: maybe an uncle who fancied himself as a cell-block barrister. What he had was arrogance and a kind of inner sufficiency. Davey glanced over to the clock: four-fifteen. At this rate they’d be up all night.
‘Maybe I should have asked you for a coffee – what you reckon?’
Jake said, ‘Whatever… Espresso?’
‘Fuck no. I’m a Birds Mild man. Give it me grey as dishwater and I’m laughing. It’s my tea I like to have a bit of colour.’
He pulled a face at the mug, staring down at the off-white mess and wishing that he hadn’t started on that sperm rap. He closed his eyes, downed it in one and dumped it back on the tray. Saying: ‘You left some washing-up liquid in the bottom of that.’
‘The tea’s perfumed. You’ve had Earl Grey before.’
Give the lad that one. ‘You’re right. I interviewed this stripper once, she was suspected of over-stepping the lap-dancers’ code. The two of us sat there in her dressing-room sipping Earl Grey because she reckoned it gave her class.’
Jake said, ‘What I think, you’re still watching those Columbo reruns. You still reckon you can hassle out a confession if you come across as a big enough arsehole.’
‘You think I’m putting this on? I really am an arsehole… ask my wife.’
The night Davey Green first met Jake, he remembered hauling him off Portland Street with little Kevin Donnelly. It was a memorable night, what with Inspector Pascal and the vice squad pulling one of their major numbers down in the Village. Now, that was pure hassle: sending the riot cops to raid what was basically a gift-shop. Davey liked to think, the way he
did things, there was a little more finesse to it. Not on the surface, perhaps. But something in the overall style. Maybe, later on that same night, he had made a mistake mentioning Columbo to Jake: once you give away a part of the trick, you find the whole magic’s gone.
*
DC Davey Green, sitting at his interview desk, twisting open the carefully folded wrap and saying: ‘The fuck’s this. I’m a Sweet ’n’ Low man, myself.’ It was a good line. It was even true. Back in those days, he was still married and his wife had put him on the saccharine substitute.
He got the initial details, name and age, etcetera, and he found the speed easy enough, tucked into the top pocket of Jake Powell’s suit. But he was still feeling his way round the lad’s psyche: the specific shape of his personality.
What he was getting was pretty much nothing: a whole mix of signals.
Maybe, three-quarters of an hour into it, he said: ‘You like Peter Falk? Columbo, right. He’s the kind of guy you can underestimate, basically because he looks like a no-mark. But the thing is, when he gets on the sniff, he’s a fucking hound. Does he have a dog, too? A bloodhound or something, just to underline the point? I’ve a feeling he has, but I might be wrong. Anyway, what Columbo’s got, is tenacity. That’s the central thing. You also know that he’s super-intelligent, but that’s more of a secondary motif. It’s really his tenaciousness that gives him the edge. And that’s like me. That is my basic style, I’m tenacious as fuck. It’s the one factor you really got to grasp if you want to get under my skin. Then the other thing, my secondary quality if you like, I’m not so super-intelligent. What I am is a twat. And I reckon the last thing you want, now you’re living in Manchester and acting like cock of the fucking walk with all your little bum chums, is Manchester’s biggest twat dogging your every step.’
Manchester Slingback Page 3