by Ray Banks
Either way, I needed some booze in my system. I blamed Innes. That bastard had a way of killing a buzz.
15
INNES
Five minutes by my watch, and then Donkey's Granada pulls out from the car park in front of Sutpen Court. The car kangaroo-jumps once as he accidentally stalls it, then heads out towards the main road. I wind down the driver's window, lean out to see the brake lights kick in as Donkey approaches a junction.
Then he's gone.
My face hurts. Honestly didn't expect Donkey to punch me like that. I'd get a slap, maybe. A stern word, certainly. I was angling for both, but the jab in the mouth was still a surprise. But then it was my own fucking fault, should've seen from the moment Donkey made his presence known that he was pissed up and spoiling for a fight.
He was following me, though. Must've been. And I didn't see him until he wanted me to. Which makes my gut twitch and the rest of me paranoid.
Of course, that's what he wanted me to think. First I saw of him, I thought that was it, the game was up. But then as soon as he let that punch fly, I realised he didn't know a thing. He was just pissed off that I'd been out of his orbit for so long.
So I should be relaxed about the situation, but I'm still coming down, mopping the last of the blood from my split lip and watching a dead road.
It was a stupid move to tell him what I was doing there. Even dafter to tell him that I'd found Mo dead. But the thing is about Donkey, he's never believed I was much of a PI, so it stands to reason that he doesn't think I'm clever enough to find a body without the police finding it first. I can understand that. But then Donkey wouldn't have found Mo's body with a fucking map, X marking the spot, not without having it verified first by his network of grasses.
And that's the point. Donkey's always puffing himself up about how he can sniff out a liar, and the truth is he's just playing the odds. If most of the people you come into contact with lie to you, then you're not going to believe the truth if you hear it right off the bat. Besides, there's no way Donkey'd climb six flights on a tip from me. But if I'd lied about it, that'd be me in a cell right now. And once that bastard gets you in custody, that's you charged with whatever he can get, no matter how ridiculous. Longer he keeps you in there, the more likely it is he'll find out what you're really feeling guilty about. It's an old tactic.
I pull out my mobile, look at the display, then stare into the middle distance.
Donkey can place me at the scene. And he'll remember what I told him, especially when it proves to be true. When he gets an official whiff of a corpse, he's going to come at me like a fucking bull.
I could walk away right now. It's what I should do.
But I can't. Because if I do, I don't want to think about what'll happen.
I put my mobile back in my jacket pocket. I can't do it on my mobile anyway. They'll keep a log of the numbers, and I wouldn't put it past Donkey to do some extra-curricular investigation as soon as he's convinced that I'm involved.
Start the engine, put the car into gear and pull out. Thinking it through at the same time. Weighing up my options.
He knows I got the last known address from someone. So if he finds out about Mo, chances are he'll come round to twist a name out of me, along with any other information he thinks is necessary. Then it's a question of whether I give him Baz or Rossie. Donkey's always carried a half-on for making me his grass. Might be time to give the bastard what he wants.
But first things first.
I pass a phone box. Carry on up the road and turn off at the first corner, kill the engine. Sit for a moment, psyching myself up, then get out of the car. I look around the street — dead this time of night. Not a light in any of the windows. No witnesses, though there's always a chance that someone around will find me suspicious. After all, you use a phone box these days, you're probably up to something. Otherwise you'd use your mobile.
And if you don't have a mobile?
Well then, there's definitely something the matter with you.
I stop in the middle of the street, light a cigarette. Like everything else, I'm not supposed to be smoking, and like everything else I'm not supposed to be doing, I couldn't give a fuck. What doesn't kill me makes me stronger.
Yeah, says the bloke with the fucking walking stick.
I stroll to the phone box as nonchalantly as I can, get the cold night air in my gills. Then I finish off the rest of the cigarette, flick it out into the middle of the street, and pull open the door to the booth.
Stand in the dark, practising what I have to say. Repeat it in my head, then whispering it to myself. Over and over, until it's less a collection of words than it is a string of connected sounds, like a song with nonsense lyrics. Someone in prison once told me that the secret to forging a signature was to turn it upside down and draw it. Once the words have no meaning, they're easier to deal with. It's same principle I use when I have to say a glut of words in one go.
I pick up the receiver, call the emergency services.
I need to report a dead body. I need to report a dead body. I need to report a dead body.
When the bored operator asks me who I need, I take a short breath and say, “Police.”
I need to report a dead body. I need to report a dead body. I need to report a dead body.
When the police operator answers, I get to say it: “I need to report a dead body.”
This operator also has a bored tone to her voice, like I should've dialled the number they save for bin fires and noisy neighbours. “What's the address?”
I haven't practised this. A punch of panic in the chest, and I can't breathe. Stupid, should've sounded this out to myself. I fumble the address out of my pocket, can't see it properly in the gloom.
“Hello?”
My mouth is open, but sound refuses to come out. And I've got to say something soon, or else I'm sure they'll trace the call. And I'm nowhere near Sutpen Court now.
“Miles. Platting,” I say.
“Right,” she says.
“Sut … pen.”
The word comes out like a wet sheet. I put the receiver down, breathe out. That wasn't good. Should've practised more. The idea was when I called in the corpse, I would pass for a normal human being, that I wouldn't sound like such a fucking spastic.
That I wouldn't sound like me.
I shake my head, fight the rising urge to kick the phone off the wall with my good foot. Then I lean the door open, dig the address into my pocket and grab my cigarettes at the same time. I light one as I pick up the pace back to my Micra. Keeping an eye on the street as I limp along. I don't think anyone saw me, but the way tonight's been going, I wouldn't be surprised.
You can't afford to slip, Callum.
I know I can't.
Not now.
I know.
Too important to fuck up, mate.
I know.
Can't leave anything to chance, not anymore. Did that once, and look where it got me. So I need to plan, I need to wake up, and I need to be clever about this whole thing, otherwise it's going to gut me. And if that doesn't happen, if the truth comes out, even some version of it, I'm sure Tiernan will have some special punishment he reserves for people like me.
I get back to the car, shove myself in behind the wheel. Lay my stick down on the passenger seat and look at it for a long time. Trying to think of all the things I may have fucked up because I was recognisable on the phone. Trying to work it all out when it feels as if my brain's already shut up shop for the night.
It's okay. It'll all be fine. Stick with the plan, and there's nothing I can't sort out along the way. I just need to be more careful in future. Not rely so much on all those handy little things I used to be able to do.
I twist the key in the ignition. The engine shakes into life.
Yeah, it'll all be fine.
That's why I can't see myself getting out of this alive.
TWO
MY BROTHER'S MAN
My mum, for all her pinched
Catholicism, wanted Declan buried. No son of hers, no matter what had happened to him (or, more importantly, what he'd done to himself), was going to be kept from a proper service.
So Kenny lied to the priest, told him it was an accidental overdose instead of a suicide. The priest played up to it, but he wasn't bothered how Declan had died. After all, you couldn't be a Leith priest for as long as he had without burying a few suicides, and he knew the grey areas better than anyone — there were council-owned needle bins on the gates to the graveyard. Like everyone else, as long as he got paid, he was fine.
From the way my brother talked about the people he knew at the Outreach, I expected more of them to turn up. Maybe the overdose scared them away; the few that did attend looked to have been dragged there by Declan's girlfriend, Rachel. I watched her, one hand on her pregnant belly, her head down the entire service.
In all other respects, the funeral was an almost-ran. My mum attempted grief, but only succeeded in pulling a series of tight faces. Kenny attempted to console her, but there was obviously no need. And the sky threatened to break open, drench us all in a traditional funeral downpour, but all we ended up with was the kind of drizzle that prompted a slow, sick feeling to spread through my stomach.
Once the priest stopped talking and we'd finally committed my brother to the ground, Declan's friends started to mill out towards the gates. Talking amongst themselves, noticeably less tense, glad the inconvenience was over. I stayed put, didn't want to draw attention to myself. When Kenny told me that him and my mum were heading back to the house, I nodded. I didn't need a lift. Had my own transport. And I didn't plan on going back to the house. Not yet, anyway.
I found Rachel by the needle bins, a cigarette in her mouth.
“Should you—”
“Don't,” she said.
“Okay.” I dug around for my Embassys. “How are you?”
She blew smoke. Looked at me, one eyebrow crooked. “Better than you.”
“Yeah. Suppose.”
We smoked in silence for a moment. Then she said, “You'll want to know why he did it. That's what you're working up to, right?”
I nodded, but didn't look at her.
“Responsibility.”
I looked up to see her blow more smoke, one hand on her bump.
“He couldn't hack the responsibility, so he went back to the gear.”
“You know where … he got it?”
She smiled a little, but there was no humour in it. “What difference does it make?”
“A lot.”
“What're you going to do about it?”
I stared back at the graveyard. Heard the thin crackle of cigarette paper as I sucked on the filter. “I don't know. Something.”
“Dec told me you were a Scrappy Doo.”
“What's that mean?”
“That you spend most of your time looking for a fight.”
I shook my head, half-smiled. “Nobody … likes Scrappy.”
“Exactly,” she said. “So leave it.”
“I can't.”
A chill breeze moved her hair across her face. For a second she looked almost pretty, but she had a face that could never stay soft. Rachel finished her cigarette, dumped the butt. It bounced once, landed near the end of my walking stick.
“He wasn't perfect,” she said. “In fact he was kind of weak. Probably because every time there was trouble, someone bailed him out.” She breathed out, and for the first time I noticed a sheen on her eyes. “But sometimes, with some people, all that does is postpone the inevitable.”
“Still,” I said. “Someone—”
“Please,” she said. “For me? Just leave it.”
“Why?”
She didn't answer. Instead, she walked away, leaving me to chain another Embassy off the glow of the previous. I watched her catch up with one of the girls who'd come along from the Outreach, and the pair of them headed to a waiting taxi. I thought about going back to the graveside, but people didn't really catch any revelations in the company of corpses, not in this weather. Only thing they caught was a chill.
And what Rachel said made sense. Because sometimes there was no big conspiracy. Sometimes people just couldn't hack it anymore.
But that didn't stop me from looking for someone to blame.
16
DONKIN
Mo fucking Tiernan was dead.
He was dead, and there was bugger all I could do about it right then because I was stuck talking to our DCI. He hadn't said much, but I could feel a volley of shite coming my way any moment. I never bothered learning the bastard's name, because the way things were run around here — the words “piss-up” and “brewery” came to mind — he wouldn't be in the job come next Christmas, so it didn't matter.
Besides, you only needed to look at him to know how he got the DCI position. It wasn't because he was a good copper. More like it was because he was a paki copper. What the yanks called affirmative action; what I called taking the fucking piss. You asked me, it was those bastards causing all the trouble in the first place, but you'd have to ask us somewhere we knew we weren't being earwigged.
DCI Ali was one of the educated ones. Been to university, studied hard like his family expected him to, and ended up with a brass plate on his desk, which was the only reason I knew his name. I stared at that nameplate the entire time he was talking because I got the feeling that if I looked up and caught the expression on his face, I'd lose control and pan it right the fuck in. His voice was bad enough — like one of those sniffy twats on the telly who told people that they were fat and ugly, about to give them a makeover, the “I know what's best for you” spiel. Him tearing me a new arsehole, sounding like he was ordering fucking ice cream.
“I appreciate you've had some issues with some of your colleagues, Iain, but we can't have anyone acting out in the office.”
“Acting out?” I said.
“Demonstrating unacceptable behaviour,” he said. “I mean, besides the fact that it's unprofessional, say it leaked to the press. How would it look for the force if people picked up the Evening News to find you on the front?”
“How likely's that?” I said. “Really?”
“These things have a way of escalating. You know that.”
“It's only Kennedy. Nobody else I have any problems with.”
“Why Detective Inspector Kennedy?”
Shook my head. “Just a difference of opinion.”
“Which is?”
“I think he's a cunt; he thinks different.”
“You see, that's something else—”
“My language,” I said.
“Yes.”
I let out a short breath. “Tell you, if this is just going to be fuckin' random character assassination—”
“No,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I'm sorry, Iain. I didn't mean to sound as if I was judging you.”
“Course you did.”
He steepled his fingers on the desk in front of him. Probably reckoned it made him look important. It didn't.
“I'm not in the business of bringing people into my office to harangue them. But there are a number of issues I feel we have to address, okay?”
“Look, if I'm in here because you're going to bollock us, that's fine. I appreciate that you got a job to do. If someone made a complaint, you have to look into it, else you look bent. We both know Kennedy's a cunt — apologise for the use of language, but, y'know, if the fuckin' cap fits — and I appreciate that what happened yesterday probably got some of that lot's knickers in a twist. So here's what I'll do: I'll stay out of his way, do my job, and everything should be fine. That seem okay to you?”
There was this long silence. I'd said my bit, so I was just waiting on Ali to give us the wave, then I'd be out of there, back on with my day. Which, to be fair, was what I was desperate for, because I had a bit of a hangover and not enough time this morning to get some scran down my neck. So I had stuff I needed to do, and the only thing I wanted out of him sitting op
posite was a thank you, come again.
Ali ground his throat, pulled a face that made his lips disappear. Then he looked at us with big, stupid cow eyes.
“We've had a complaint, Iain,” he said.
“I know. Kennedy complained because I raised my voice at him or something, right? Offended his delicate Scouse sensibilites.”
“No, this isn't internal.”
I kept schtum. I wanted to say, well yeah, of course you had a complaint, then. People complained about coppers who did their jobs, it was a fact of life. You collared them for anything, they all cried brutality and didn't I have any real criminals to be chasing down? Course, when it was their motor that'd been nicked, then it was supposed to be red alert. So I reckoned, fuck it, it was nothing I hadn't already heard a million times before.
Ali grabbed a couple of stapled sheets of paper, frowned at it. “Do you know the name Patrick Reece?”
It took us a moment — must have been the hangover fogging us up a bit — before it clicked and I burst out laughing. “Oh Jesus. Oh man, you had us going there for a second.”
Ali turned the frown on me. “Excuse me?”
“Paddy fuckin' Reece? He's the one that complained, is he?”
“I just told you that, yes.”
I leaned forward, grinning. “Paddy Reece is a fuckin' smackhead. The lad's off his box three-quarters of the time he's awake. The rest of the time he's scratching so bad he'd swear down you were the Milky Bar Kid if it meant he could spoon up.” I held up a hand, swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but. “He's a good grass, don't get us wrong, but the bloke's hardly stable. Or credible, for that matter.”
The DCI's jaw was all knotted up as he stared at us. He looked back down at the paper. “Mr Reece alleges that you accosted him on the street—”
“I talked to him.”
“Just that?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn't engage in a spot search?” He checked the paper again. “Which included for some reason the man's shoes?”