by Ray Banks
“Yeah, you were at the picket, weren’t you?”
She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You a friend of David’s?” I say.
She looks uncomfortable at the mention of his name. “I’m his girlfriend.”
“Right. Shouldn’t you be at the hospital or something? I mean, no offence, but—”
“I’ve just come back.” She holds up the notice: MEETING CANCELLED. “Supposed to be a meeting tonight, but we can’t have it without David.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s in a coma, Mr Innes.”
“I read that.” I show her the newspaper. “But it says some bloke from the ENS talked to him. I just wanted to get my facts straight.”
“The ENS?” She frowns. “I don’t think so.”
“That’s what it says here.”
“You think he’s in any state to have visitors? If they’re not even letting me in …” She shakes her head, then holds out her hand for the newspaper. “Sorry, can I have a look at that?”
I hand her the paper. “Page two.”
She reads the story, a crinkle appearing between her eyebrows. When she’s finished, she folds the newspaper and hands it back to me. “You’re a private detective, right?”
“Investigator, yeah.”
She looks like she’s thinking hard. Then she tacks up the notice to the board, makes a move to leave. Stops.
Looks at me again, cocking her head. Almost squinting at me.
“You want to get a coffee?” she says.
I nod, and let her lead the way.
THREE
ALL YOU FASCISTS ARE BOUND TO LOSE
32
The girl’s name is Karyn. She was adamant about the “y”, dropped the cash to change it legally from Karen. Brought up in one of Chester’s leafier suburbs, a two-car family, mother a stay-at-home, father with his own consulting business that meant they didn’t have to worry about money. What he consulted, I didn’t ask. I wasn’t that interested. But Karyn likes to talk, mostly about her sister. Emma’s studying at Oxford and, by God, are the family proud of her. But Karyn, well, nothing she ever does feels good enough. Not that she cares what her parents think.
All this as Karyn sips a decaf soya-milk tall latte, picking at an apple-cinnamon muffin without any of it actually reaching her mouth. Baked goods as fretwork, building up to something she doesn’t want to discuss.
“You look like you want to be somewhere else,” she says, a small smile on her face.
“Now that you mention it, I thought you wanted to talk to me about something.”
“And your time’s money, is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“What is the going rate these days?”
“For what?”
Karyn stops picking at the muffin, the top of it lying in crumbs on the plate. “I don’t know how to go about this, Mr Innes. It’s not something I’ve had that much experience with …”
“You want me to find out what happened to David.”
She shakes her head and laughs. “Sounds daft now. Forget it.”
“Okay.”
“I know what it sounds like.”
“Sounds like you don’t believe what you read.”
“The paper?” Karyn stabs the newspaper with one finger. “No, I don’t believe that version of events. Bugs me that they can get away with making stuff up like that.”
“Well, he got beaten up. That’s true enough. And if he lives in Rusholme—”
“David didn’t — doesn’t — like Rusholme.” Karyn sighs, resumes picking at her muffin. “He lived there last year, but he told me there was no way he’d go back.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know him then. He doesn’t like to talk about his first year. Family problems, course problems, discipline problems.”
“He likes a drink.”
“There were a couple of nights in the cells, yeah,” she says. Smiling as if it’s a walk on the beach. The smile disappears when she sees the expression on my face. “But that’s pretty normal, Mr Innes. We all have it to a certain extent. No matter how much you might want to leave home, the reality of it is still difficult. And the sudden freedom, nobody telling you you can’t do things …”
“I can imagine. So David went to Rusholme last night and didn’t tell you about it?”
“No. I mean, yes, he didn’t tell me about it, but I’m not his guardian, am I?”
“You don’t live together?”
“No. We’ve only been seeing each other for a year.”
“Right, you didn’t know him before that.” I nod. “You told me that already, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” She looks at me. “Do you think I’m wrong?”
“Wrong how? Like do I think you should believe what the paper says? No. Not if you don’t want to.”
“You must be getting a lot of work from that newspaper story, right? Everyone wants their own PI?”
“I got some work, yeah.”
“A lot of work?”
“Why are we sitting here, Karyn?”
“I wanted to hire you.”
“Then you could’ve said that right at the start and saved yourself the trouble of flattering me. I’m too busy.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Another case entirely. Can’t really talk about it. Thought your boyfriend might be involved.”
“So it’s the ENS,” she says.
“Not necessarily.”
“Got some wanker from the English National Socialists saying he’s talked to David, so you jump to the conclusion that he’s connected.”
“It’s not such a fuckin’ leap, is it? After what you just told me about his temper—”
“What temper?”
“You said he’d had a couple of overnighters.”
“God, just drunk stuff.”
“No, it’s never just drunk stuff, Karyn. If you’re locked up, you’re a fighter.”
She leans forward. “Let’s get this straight, and you can write this down if you feel you have to take notes for your other case. The English National Socialists will latch on to anyone if it means votes.” The trace of irritation in her voice becomes something more militant. “David’s not a person to them, he’s a demographic. In fact, David’s been speaking against the ENS for a long time. If they knew anything about him, they’d know that. He’s been very clear that he’s in no way connected with that kind of political thinking. And he’s not the type to engage in … random violence.”
“Okay,” I say. “That’s all I needed to know.”
“But nobody’s going to hear that because of that stupid fucking story.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You know the Conservatives are telling people to vote Labour or Lib-Dem rather than BNP or the ENS? You ask me, that’s one of the few laudable things they’ve done in the last twenty years, asking people to vote for the opposition.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not really up-to-date. It doesn’t concern me.”
“It should. If you don’t vote, you’re leaving it up to the gullible to make your decision for you.”
“Very socialist, Karyn.”
She shrugs. “I don’t care what it sounds like. A majority of any general public will do exactly as it’s told. And I’m telling you, David would have nothing to do with Jeffrey Briggs. It’d be like Guevara hooking up with Hitler. But I’m worried that people might see it like that, think the ENS is a party to be trusted, you know what I mean?”
“You think David Nunn has that much sway over people?” I say, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice and failing.
“Why not? He’s the one who organised the city-wide picket of the letting agencies. And he did it without the student rep’s permission, because getting them to do anything like that takes forever. And the reason he managed to do that is because David does things. He’s a natural leader.”
“I’m sure he�
�s very charismatic.”
“But it’s not as if David’s in any position to tell anyone what really happened, is it? And in the meantime, those fuckers are going to use him as some sort of mascot.”
I finish my coffee. “Blame a politician for bending the fuckin’ truth. What a novel idea.”
“But you can prove them wrong. Discredit them, make it public.”
“I’m not about to get caught up in any fuckin’ agenda here, Karyn.”
“You want to be a hero, be heroic,” she says, her voice raised. Trying to get attention from other people, trying to tarnish the image she thinks I care about. “I mean, if you’re working on something to do with the ENS, it shouldn’t be too much extra work. Might even help you.”
“You talked to David’s mates about why he was in Rusholme?”
Karyn smiles, as if I’ve just accepted the job. “I haven’t had a chance. As you can imagine, it’s all been so hectic. You could talk to Ben. He might be able to help. Whatever he won’t tell me, he’d certainly tell you. He’s like David in that respect.”
“I met him, didn’t I?”
“Ben? Probably.”
“You know where he lives?”
“Didsbury.”
“He share a house with David?”
“Yeah. I’ll give you the address.” She hefts her messenger bag onto her knee, pulls out an A4 pad and writes down the address for me. “Phone number’s on there too, if you need it.”
I fold the note, put it in my inside pocket. “You know, if this does turn out to be what the paper said—”
“Then I’ll have to accept it, won’t I?” She tucks the pad back into her bag. “I love David, Mr Innes. He has ideals, and he’s working hard to achieve those ideals. Most of the blokes I meet here, they’re interested in booze and tits — David’s interested in people. He’s all about putting things into place that will help them despite themselves. Like this place. You know he was the first to campaign for a campus-wide smoking ban? Not just indoors, either.”
“Really,” I say. “Fascinating.”
“I mean, he got me to quit smoking, which is more than a dozen teachers and my parents ever managed to do. Because he has this way of telling you the truth and making you understand, d’you get me?”
Not at all, but I pull a face that I hope conveys some understanding.
“And it would be a shame if all that work ends up flushed down the toilet because of some bogus affiliation with the ENS.”
“You sold me, Karyn. I’ll see what I can do.”
She smiles, showing both her teeth and her youth. “My number’s on the paper too.”
I promise to give her a ring if anything turns up. As I’m walking out of the coffee shop, I pull out an Embassy and light it as soon as I’m outside. Puff hard on the filter. Fuck the smoking ban.
My back tweaks at me. I take a pill to shut it up. Catch a dirty look from someone as I’m heading off-campus. I don’t know whether it’s the cigarette or the pills that have annoyed this young man, but I’m not going to bother my arse to find out.
I get into the car, dump the filter on campus. Head for Wilmslow Road. And start trying to find out why David Nunn was beaten into a coma.
33
I pull into Rusholme, park outside a restaurant called The Balti King. I’m a white guy with short hair, not quite the skinhead but close enough to draw some glances from a couple of Asian lads across the street. I don’t meet their eyes, look at the ground. Keep walking, try not to look too threatening.
Canvass the shops on Wilmslow Road. The same introduction, a flash of the one business card I have left, and the questions.
“You working the other night?”
“You hear about that student getting beaten up?”
“You see anything?”
A big fat fuck-all from everyone I talk to. Either they know something and they’re keeping quiet because they don’t trust me, or they’re as clueless as they make out. Tell the truth, I’m probably asking the right questions to the wrong people. It’s unlikely those who worked in the mornings would be on the night shift too. But it’s worth a try. I’ve got to do something. Keep my hand in. Hope for a fucking miracle.
One bloke in a place called Plaza Kebabs doesn’t understand English. That’s what he tells me — “No English”. When nobody’s forthcoming in translating for me, I wave my hand at him, tell him it doesn’t matter.
“You want something to eat?” he says as I’m heading out the door.
Yeah, doesn’t speak English. Fucking hell.
I shake my head, step out onto the street. They’re already suspicious of me. And there’s my problem.
I don’t blame them. The last time someone asked these questions, it was the police and the press. Probably pretended they couldn’t speak English then, too. But they don’t want to deal with the same questions again, especially when it makes the entire community look bad.
Can’t say their silence is doing them any favours, mind.
I hit the end of Wilmslow Road, so I start the long walk back up to my car. Meanwhile, the glances have turned to full-on stares. The word’s spread.
I pass a car, a blue VW Beetle. One of the new ones, the old model melted into a more Japanese shape. In the back seat, something bright yellow catches my eye.
A pamphlet reading: GOT PLUMMER PROBLEMS?
David’s car.
There’s something shining on the dashboard. I have to turn back, glance in through the window again.
A brass Zippo, catching the sun. I reach into my pocket, pull out my cigarettes and light one. A campus-wide smoking ban, David managing to persuade Karyn to give up the tabs. I blow smoke, wondering what a militant non-smoker’s doing with a Zippo in his car. I look into the car again, just to make sure I’m not seeing things.
I’m not. It’s a Zippo, the smoker’s lighter. And it’s battered. Now, maybe it’s a family heirloom, but then heirlooms are kept in locked drawers.
I try the driver’s door. Locked.
Figures.
“Help you with something, mate?”
I look up. An Asian guy, about my height, staring at me. Concerned frown on his face, his eyes half-closed. Black T-shirt, biceps pushing against the fabric. Clean blue jeans.
“Nah,” I say, “I’m good.”
“That your car, is it?”
“What car?”
He gestures towards the Beetle.
“Nah.”
“You’re looking at it like it’s yours.”
“I’m just having a smoke, mate.”
“You sure?” He comes closer, his shoulders rolled back. “Because it looks to me like you were planning on nicking it or something.”
I laugh. “Not me.”
“You tried the door.”
“No, I didn’t.” I start walking away, keep the Embassy wedged between my lips. I don’t want to take it from my mouth, my hand’s shaking too much. I can see the bloke in my peripheral vision, moving closer.
“Here,” he says, “do I know you?”
“Nah, you don’t know me.” I walk faster. My car just up ahead. “That’s my car just up there.”
He drops back. I can’t see him anymore, but he says, “Right.”
A Zippo in a locked car. Plummer leaflet in the back. That’s too much not to connect. I unlock the Micra, get in. Watch the bloke cross the road, glancing back at the Beetle, probably wondering what’s so fucking special about it. Then he glances my way. My first instinct’s to duck down in the seat, but I wave and smile at him instead. Roll down my new window and put my arm out. Tap ash.
I dig out my Manchester A-to-Z, look up Wilmslow Road, then pull the list of Plummer addresses from my jacket pocket. I smooth the paper down, suck on the filter. Sure enough, just below the cigarette burn, there’s an address in Rusholme.
Could well be a coincidence. Like I said, a night without decent sleep, the kind of week I’ve had so far, my thought processes are all over the shop. I might be
looking for links where there aren’t any. There’s no proof that David knew about these addresses, never mind that he was visiting one of these houses. Could be, he was down here to get a curry. By himself. And he got beaten up before he got a chance to make it to his car.
His car with the Zippo in it.
The lad made no secret about the fact that he was pissed off at Plummer.
Yeah, but there’s a difference between being pissed off and burning property. Collins might be completely out of the loop when it comes to what his staff get up to when they’re off-duty, but he had a point there.
I flick my smoking filter out the window and reach for my mobile. A bastard of a headache starting behind the eyes, which I put down to all this thinking. I massage the bridge of my nose as I call Dobson & Main. A receptionist answers. I ask for Meg.
“Tell her it’s Mr Innes,” I say.
There’s a pause. Voices in the background, just for a couple of seconds, then the receptionist sticks me on hold. Classical music playing. I don’t recognise the tune. Didn’t really expect to. I stare at the VW Beetle up the street, part of me hoping that I don’t get the confirmation I’m expecting.
“Mr Innes,” says Meg.
“You got a second?”
“If it is a second.”
“Your student pals still picketing outside?”
“No,” she says. “Look, we’re very busy.”
“Why’s that then?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why aren’t they still picketing? They all rallied round David’s bed, are they?”
“You heard the news.”
“Absolutely. Kind of escalating, isn’t it?”
“They’re not here,” says Meg. “Is that why you called?”
“No.” I shift position in the car, straighten my back out a little more than usual. “I wanted to know if you’d managed to get anywhere with that list I asked you about.”
“I told you, Mr Innes, I’m not allowed to give out that kind of information.”
I sniff. “Right. I forgot. Just, I read in the paper that the Manchester University student representative are boycotting all of Plummer’s properties.”