No Time To Cry

by James Oswald

  ‘I’ll look after her.’ The words are out before I’ve begun to consider their implications. The young RSPCA officer’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

  ‘You will. But I thought—?’

  ‘You thought she belonged to me, right? So who’s to know she doesn’t?’ I glance down at the pet carrier again. Going to need to get one of them for myself. And a litter tray. And cat food. What the hell are you doing, Con? You don’t need a cat. You can’t have a cat. The lease on the flat says no animals.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. It’d make things a lot easier.’

  I’m not sure. Not sure at all. But I make the decision anyway, step to one side so he can come inside.

  ‘It’s the least I can do, really. Reckon she took a bullet intended for me, so I kind of owe her my life.’

  You never have to go far in London to find a shop selling the stuff you need. Just as well, since I didn’t know I needed cat food, a litter tray and litter until about half an hour ago. There’s one of those retail units a mile or so from my flat, with a line of chain outlets and a far too small car park shoved into an old industrial site the council obviously decided was too contaminated for housing. A supermarket on the other side of the main road brings the punters in, and enough of them need to buy electrical goods, cheap clothes and pet food to justify the existence of small warehouses catering to each of them. I’ve never been in any of the shops before, but you can’t miss them, especially on a Saturday morning when the traffic clogs up the high street.

  I’m not quite sure how I feel about acquiring a cat just now. It’s not something I’d have chosen, and yet the poor beast looked so downcast when the young man from the RSPCA let her out of her cage in my living room. She slunk around for a minute or so, crouched so low to the carpet I thought she was going to mess it. Then she more clambered than leaped into the armchair I’d been sitting in, turned around a couple of times and settled down to sleep. Apparently the sedatives she’d been given while they were stitching up her wounds would take a while to wear off, which gave me just enough time to pop out.

  It’s all too easy to spend money in these places. A new carry cage, bag of litter and a tray, selection of dry and wet foods, dish to serve them in, collar and a couple of toys – because why the hell not? – and soon enough I’m handing over fifty quid to the cheery-faced teenage girl at the tills. She tries to engage me in conversation, but I’m not in the mood.

  Weighed down by my newly purchased cat-loot, I almost don’t notice the car parked on the wrong side of the street, right outside my apartment block. It’s a stretch limousine, but not the kind you usually get around here, with drunken hen party girls hanging out of the windows and screaming at the passers-by. This is a businessman’s car, shiny, black and expensive. I’ve got my hoodie on, and clearly the two muscle-bound oafs in suits aren’t looking for the bag lady I must resemble. Their gaze glides over me as I shuffle past on the opposite pavement. A hundred yards down the road, I cut across and around the back of the block and knock lightly on Mrs Feltham’s door.

  ‘You in some kinda trouble girl.’ She beckons me into her tidy hallway, closing the door swiftly behind me. I can’t help but notice it’s not a question.

  ‘Expensive car out there? Two goons in suits?’ I jerk my head in the direction of the road.

  ‘They gone to all the flats in this block now. Banging on the doors like they debt collectors or something. Heard them talking to Mr Johnston at number two there. They were asking for you, girl. Only they don’t use your name. They just say nice police lady. He told them he don’t know nothing about no police and sent them on their way. What you gotten yourself mixed up in now?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Mrs F. It’s nothing good though. I can tell you that.’

  ‘Well, you can wait here till they gone. You see them from the front room here. No lights on, they don’t see you back.’

  She leads me through to a darkened room, the window covered with a lace curtain. Twitching it aside affords me a clear view of the street, just in time to see the suits get back into the car and drive off. I watch the tail lights as they brake at the corner and then disappear from view.

  ‘You want a coffee while you wait?’ Mrs Feltham asks. I’m sorely tempted; her coffee is very fine indeed and the chances of me sleeping tonight are minuscule anyway. I don’t need to bring whatever trouble’s seeking me down on her head though.

  ‘No. Thank you, Mrs F., but I should go.’

  She looks disappointed, although that might just be the way the street lamps cast insufficient light on her dark features. ‘You know best, girl. But if you ever need anything, you just ask, right? I won’t stand for no hoodlums messing with the people in my block now.’

  Back in the hallway, I scoop up my bags. Mrs Feltham says nothing about the cat litter and carrying box, but insists on stepping outside to check the coast is clear before seeing me off. I scurry away up the concrete steps like an overburdened land crab, hardly daring to breathe until I’m safely back in my flat, the door locked and bolted behind me.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ I ask the darkness. It doesn’t answer, but hearing my own voice calms my nerves a little. I can’t keep running and hiding for ever. Maybe it’s time to start acting like a detective again.

  12

  The cat stares at me with supreme indifference as I pace back and forward in front of the television. I could just be imagining it; that car might have a perfectly legitimate reason to be loitering around here. Yeah, and the couple of heavies Mrs F. saw were probably just Jehovah’s Witnesses too.

  I’ve got the number plate though. Normally I’d call it in and get the details of who it belongs to. But that would start a paper trail that would lead back to Bailey. Chances are I’m already registered on the system as suspended. Not worth taking the risk of yet another bollocking. Likewise I can’t see much point in calling it in to the station. They all think I’m either nuts or bent, or both.

  So I guess I’ll just have to do this the old-fashioned way.

  There’s a couple of pubs near here I reckon I’m safe enough to go into even if someone’s out to get me. Sticking to public places is probably the best idea anyway, but I need to find out what the hell’s going on. And that means talking to the sort of people who don’t answer phone calls from police officers, suspended or not.

  ‘You going to be OK if I just pop out?’ I ask the cat. She looks up from my chair, eyes still droopy from the anaesthetic, then tucks her head around and goes back to sleep. I can see we’re going to get on just fine. Grabbing a coat and my keys, I leave the flat, making sure to lock the door properly behind me.

  I don’t hold out much hope for the Three Tuns. It’s a dive, frequented by the local lowlife, but they’re slowly being edged out by the young affluent Londoners who’ve decided this little corner of the city is the new place to be. I shouldn’t be so dismissive, really. I’m one of them, after all, except for the affluent bit. I grab a drink anyway, more money going out and no good idea how much longer I’m going to have a wage. I’m not exactly skint, but rent takes up more than its fair share of even a detective constable’s earnings in this city.

  The evening’s not got started properly yet, which works to my advantage. The afternoon drinkers are still here, the old men who make their money where they can and spend it on the lonely camaraderie of bars like this one. I glance at each in turn as I make my way from bar to small table by the door, but none of them are who I’m looking for. None of them pay me much heed either, which is a good sign. I take my time over my drink, watching for anyone making surreptitious phone calls to tip off some unidentified mob boss as to my whereabouts, but all they do is get up, one by one, and shuffle to the door for a smoke or the loo for a piss.

  I don’t get any joy in the Green Man, and switch to soft drinks at the Wellington Arms. The evening’s wearing on and I’m getting desperate, which is why I
chance my luck with the Ivy. Not to be confused with its posh namesake in the city centre, this place is a dark and forbidding basement, low-ceilinged and with its one light-well window painted out. Several televisions play different sports channels, and I know that many an illegal bet is placed here, away from the eyes of the law. It’s also the place I should have come first; I’d have wasted a lot less time that way, and might have avoided using the rather unsavoury toilets.

  Wee Jock probably has a surname, but it’s been lost in the distant past. Actually, I don’t think Jock’s his real name anyway, but he’s Scottish and small, so he’s Wee Jock. Nicknames can be crueller.

  I spot him almost as soon as I walk in, lurking in the corner and nursing a pint of something dark. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, but I know he’s seen me as I lean against the bar. I order a couple of pints of Guinness, one for him, one for me. I don’t really want it, but there’s some things you have to do if you want people to be cooperative. This is a pub where men drink, so anything less than a pint’s not going to cut it.

  ‘Surprised to see you in here, lassie.’ Jock barely catches my eye as I push the chair opposite him aside with my foot, place our drinks on the table and sit down. He claims his pint though, gnarled old fingers wrapping possessively around the glass.

  ‘Not my usual watering hole, I’ll admit. Still, hard times make for hard choices.’

  ‘Heard about that DI of yours. Not good.’ He’s still not meeting my eye, but he shakes his greying head all the same.

  ‘Any idea who did it?’

  ‘Also heard you’d got yourself suspended.’ He ignores my question. ‘Pretty sure that means you’re not meant to be talking to me.’

  I take a sip of my beer. It’s cold and wet, and tastes of burnt toast.

  ‘You always were good at keeping an ear to the ground, Jock. You hear anything about someone wanting me dead?’

  Finally he raises his head and looks straight at me. I’ve no idea how old he is, could be forty and had a hard life, could be pushing seventy. His face is lined, slightly grubby and sporting a couple of days’ worth of grey stubble. His eyes are bloodshot and yellowing, and when he opens his mouth there’s more gaps than blackened teeth. He probably smells like a tramp, but this pub’s so foul it’s hard to tell where the stench comes from.

  ‘Way I hear it, there’s a price on your head, aye. Someone reckons you saw too much. Don’t matter if you did, ken?’

  ‘Who?’ I know as soon as I ask it that he’s not going to answer that.

  ‘It’s no’ enough cash for any serious players. No’ yet anyways.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Means only an idiot would try to cash in right now. But see, if the price went up, mind . . .’ He trails off, eyes focusing past me to something else in the pub. I resist the urge to turn around and look, even though that leaves my back vulnerable.

  ‘Is that likely?’ It’s not often I catch Wee Jock in a talkative mood, so I’m going to get as much from him as I can.

  ‘Mebbe. And mebbe some young loon’ll have a go just to prove hisself.’ Jock lifts his pint, drains it in a succession of deep gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each one. He thumps the empty glass down on the table, wipes foam from his mouth with the back of his hand, then nods towards the bar. ‘I’ve a powerful need to be somewhere else right now, lassie. Reckon you might too.’

  I look around as Jock struggles to his feet and sidles out from the table. A couple of young lads are talking to the barman. He’s taking his time to serve them, and I get the distinct feeling he’s keeping them distracted while the old man departs. Will he keep them occupied until I can get away too?

  ‘You want my advice, lassie? Get out of Dodge. Far away as you can.’ Jock lays a heavy hand on my shoulder as he squeezes past, pushing me towards the opposite end of the pub to where I came in. ‘Back door’s that way.’

  The back way out of the pub’s through a door marked ‘Staff Only’. I take it anyway, and nobody seems to notice as I step through into a narrow corridor piled high with boxes full of bottles of spirits. A fire escape puts me in a dark alley running parallel with the main street, home to wheelie bins and a couple of parked cars. I half expected Wee Jock to follow me, but he must have gone the other way. Not sure why he and the barman are protecting me, if that’s what they’re doing. More likely Jock doesn’t want to be seen talking to a cop, and the barman probably doesn’t need the hassle of cleaning blood off the furniture, or the unwanted attention having someone shot in his pub would bring. Still, I’m not going to look this gift horse too closely in the mouth right now.

  It’s a tense few minutes walking down the alley and round onto the main road. I’m glad of my hoodie and the anonymity it gives me as I join the flow of people going about their business as if none of them had a price on their head. I feel safer in a crowd, but only a bit. Every young man with his hands in his pockets and slouched against a bus stop, a shop entrance or a street bin is a potential killer. I’m sure I’m being followed, even though my training and experience tell me that’s not the case. Paranoia will get you that way.

  The walk home takes longer than it should as I constantly double back, plot a route that will keep me in busy, well-lit areas. I wish I’d paid more attention to the locations of all the CCTV cameras in this part of town, but they wouldn’t be much help if someone decided to attack me. I should really call it in, let someone know what I’ve discovered. Hard to believe they don’t know it already though. If Wee Jock was willing to speak to me, someone else’s informant will have spoken to them too.

  So why aren’t I being given protection? Why have I been fobbed off with a panic alarm and a promise of a patrol car outside my flat once an hour?

  That thought stays with me all the way home, bothering me almost as much as all the other ways I’ve been shafted by my so-called colleagues since Pete’s death. I can’t forget my angry conversation with Detective Superintendent Bailey this afternoon, his none-too-guarded suggestion that I was responsible for what happened to Pete, maybe even pulled the trigger myself. I know that’s not true, so why can’t he see it? Unless he’s protecting someone else. Shit, maybe that’s why I’m being sidelined, because they’re worried I might be onto something. But Bailey? He’s a detective superintendent, for Christ’s sake. He can’t be bent.

  What the fuck have I stumbled into?

  Normally a long walk helps to calm me down when I’m angry, but this time it just stokes the flames of fury. I know the world’s a shit place and fair is just a lie we peddle to children for a second of peace and quiet, but you’d expect a little bit of sympathy from fellow police officers, a little bit of understanding. Get out of Dodge, Wee Jock said. He’s a scumbag criminal, minor gang member and probably responsible for many an unsolved disappearance down the years, but I can’t help thinking he’s right. And he’s been far more helpful than any of my colleagues in the Met. Go figure.

  The expensive car is long gone when I finally make it home, no sign that it was ever even here. Evening has surrendered to night, the sky as dark overhead as it ever gets in the city. I climb the concrete steps slowly, ears straining for any sign that someone is following, or lying in wait. I don’t think anyone is lurking up on the walkway, but then my Spidey sense never fully developed no matter how much I wished it would when I read my brother’s comics as a kid. There’s no point putting this off any longer. If they’re up there, then I’m just going to have to deal with them.

  I thumb the screen on my phone until the camera comes to life, making sure the flash is enabled. It’s dark up there, so a sudden bright light should put me at an advantage over any would-be assailant. Taking the steps slowly, I crouch low and use the concrete rail as a barrier, keeping out of sight until the last possible moment. I needn’t have worried; there’s no one on the walkway, no one hiding in the stairwell to the top floor.

  Relieve
d, I hurry to my front door, shoving my phone in my pocket as I scrabble for the new keys. There’s an odd chemical smell to the air that brings me up short, like industrial solvent. It prickles the corners of my eyes, and for a moment I can’t work out where it’s coming from.

  And then I see it, plain as the day. A wide X painted across my front door in aerosol spray. Still wet, the red paint drips slowly down the faded blue like blood from a slit throat.

  13

  A cat carrier box is surprisingly heavy when it’s got a cat in it. I managed to coax the beast in without too much difficulty; I think she likes the security of it, although it’s equally possible the bullet that grazed her skull did more permanent damage. It didn’t have any effect on her digestive system though, if the empty dinner dish and mound of half-buried shit in the litter tray are anything to go by. I’ll likely regret having left that where it was when I go back to the flat, but at that moment all I wanted to do was gather up a change of clothes and a washbag, get the hell out of there.

  And so I’m lugging this box down the street, heading somewhere I never thought I’d go to ask a favour of someone I really don’t need to be beholden to. At least I’m unlikely to be recognised. Anyone out looking for me’s not going to be expecting a mad cat lady.

  They won’t be looking for me in Elmstead Road either. It’s way out of my pay grade for one thing, and the people who live here put my back up. Rich bankers, hedge fund managers, music industry leeches, people good at making money off other people’s hard work. Most of the houses are huge by London standards, a mixture of semis and detached. They sit close to the pavement, suggesting large gardens at the rear. Somewhere for the Tarquins and Hermiones to play in relative safety. It’s a far cry from the used-needles-and-broken-glass-strewn tarmac yard at the back of my block, even if the two aren’t even a mile apart.