Beast of Burden

by Ray Banks

  Yes, he'd been in. Yes, he'd done what Rossie told us he did.

  “Just come in, son. Grabbed yon young lad and yanked him over the table, like.”

  “Aye, beat shite out of him.”

  “Horrible. I had to have another short.”

  Not only that, but Innes had been in recently, too. Talking to some lad called Baz. Guessed it was the same Baz that Rossie was going on about, one of Mo Tiernan's mates. But this lad wasn't close to being suspect in my mind, despite what Rossie might've alluded to earlier on. Because when they mentioned Baz, again it was in the context of him being at the mercy of Innes.

  Innes was the key. Innes was the fucking dangerous one.

  “Came in,” said this bloke in an anorak that was stained yellow down one side. “And he wanted to talk to Baz. Then they talked for a bit, but Baz wasn't having none of it, because he's a fuckin' miserable cunt sometimes, so he went off to the bog. And when he came back this lad just went mental.”

  A bloke in a tweed jacket barked something at us from the corner of the room.

  “Don't mind Hamish. He's harmless.”

  “I don't,” I said. “How d'you mean, mental?”

  And I got the whole story. Baz ordering a pint, Innes lashing out at him. The mess, the confusion and then Innes shouting that he was working for Morris Tiernan.

  I nodded, took it all in. Bought another round for the barflies before I left the pub. Then I took a nice big deep breath of fresh air soon as I stepped outside.

  If I was pissed off at not being kept in the loop, this was a bit more cheering. There was no way Kennedy'd have this information, and he wouldn't bother his arse to find it out. Which meant I was still working on an advantage.

  Except for one thing: I hadn't looked at the scene.

  On the way to Sutpen Court, I thought about calling Adams, see if he could get us any information on the people interviewed around the scene. Then I remembered that there was no way he'd help us out. No, that avenue was pretty much fucking bricked up as far as I was concerned. There were some blokes out there, they were blinkered to the truth about their colleagues. And it was easier, obviously, for Adams to side with the common view of us, which was that I was a fuck-up and not to be trusted.

  But that was the problem with following majority opinion. It was general, and most times wrong.

  Got to Miles Platting, and I left the Granada out in the open. As I passed the bonnet, I noticed the dirt. I wrote UNMARKED POLICE CAR in the shit. Better than any fucking car alarm round here, because this lot knew better than to fuck with a CID vehicle. Especially mine.

  I took the lift to the sixth floor. When the doors slid open, I was gasping for breath. It smelled like someone had died in that fucking box and the council hadn't scrubbed it out properly. I coughed, sent the lift back to the ground floor. Wiped my nose and looked around at the corridor that led down to Mo Tiernan's last known. There was still tape on the door even though the SOCOs were long gone. I bent under the tape, pushed the door open and onto a crime scene. Typical of Kennedy, he'd left it open apart from the tape. The bastard really didn't care.

  The flat was a four-room shithole: bathroom, kitchen, living room and bedroom, or at least what I thought was supposed to be a bedroom. Mo had brought a mattress out to the living room. What looked like shit smeared on the wallpaper in here, the stink of death and more. The mattress had a deep red stain and indentation where Mo's head had been. I looked closer, saw the splatters on either side, tracked out onto the carpet. I wanted to open the window, but couldn't touch anything, just in case.

  Something wrong about that blood. A lot of it stained deep in one place, the rest light and splattered. Didn't know what it meant, but I did know it looked weird. I knew that Kennedy should've picked up on it, and he had the resources to tell us what happened. But there was no way he'd share, especially if he already had it in his head that this was something other than a fucking murder. He was making his case, not finding out the truth.

  I turned back to the door. Ducked under the tape as I left, heard noises coming from behind one of the doors. Sounded like Jeremy Kyle, the cunt. I went straight up, looked for a doorbell, put fist to wood when I didn't find one.

  Yeah, it was definitely Jeremy Kyle. Chucking shit at some errant dad, or some dirty fat slut who got herself knocked up sixteen times, lived solely on benefits and didn't have no regrets about the way her life turned out.

  Another battery, louder this time. And somewhere inside I heard someone swearing loud. Questions asked in a high, trembling voice that couldn't have been younger than eighty, and then the heavy footsteps of a fat person coming my way.

  “Who is it?” came through the door.

  Held up my ID to the peephole. “Police.”

  “Fuck's sake.”

  “Open up.”

  “Fuckin'—”

  “You want me to kick the door in, son?”

  “No.” There was the sound of someone jerking at chains, smacking deadbolts and generally acting like a pissed off kid. “Hang on.”

  I hung on. A couple more sounds like someone scraping rusty nails together, and the door opened a crack.

  “Let's see that again,” said what appeared to be a fucking toddler, but six foot and morbidly obese.

  Showed him my ID again. He squinted at it, looked like he needed glasses. Then he shook his head.

  “I already told you lot what I seen,” he said.

  “I understand that.”

  “Nowt you can ask us, I haven't already been told.”

  I looked behind him, caught a draught that smelled like pizza. Made us hungry and pissed off at the same time. “You told me personally, did you?”

  “I don't —”

  “Because if I didn't hear it personally, it doesn't matter.” I smiled, but made it obvious that I didn't mean it. “Sorry to tear you away from Jeremy.”

  “My mam likes it.”

  “Bit loud for me, like.”

  He puckered his lips, had dimples in his cheeks when he said, “She's deaf.”

  Then it wouldn't matter how loud it was, but I didn't say it. Instead, I squared my shoulders and gave him my best copper look, made it clear that I wasn't going door-to-door making fucking small talk. “So what did you hear?”

  “Nowt much,” he said.

  “But something.”

  He stuck his head out from the door, nodded it at Mo's squat. “Heard someone go in there.” Back to me: “That's all I heard.”

  “Someone go in? You never heard them come out?”

  “Nah.”

  “When was this?”

  “Thursday night.”

  “What time?”

  “About halfway through First Wives Club.”

  “Which was?”

  “I dunno. Halfways through.”

  “And you just heard someone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were they limping?”

  The toddler tasted his bottom lip, scrunched up his face. “How'm I supposed to know?”

  “It'd sound different.”

  “I don't know. I heard someone.”

  “Not limping?”

  “Here, I don't go looking for trouble, know what I mean? I live here, I can't afford to start worrying about my neighbours, you get me? If he was limping, I didn't hear it, I didn't see it, I didn't have nowt to do with it. And I told all this to the other coppers, so unless you're wanting to take us down the nick, I'm going to close this door on you and get back to my mam before she worries where I am.”

  He looked at us, waiting for a response that he could kick off to. I didn't give him it, buttoned my jacket, said, “Thanks for your time.”

  I headed back to the lift, thought better and switched to the stairs. Then I heard the soft snick of the door closing, and the barrage of locks slamming across that followed. I pulled out my baccy tin, took enough tobacco to roll a thin one as I took the stairs slow.

  The rest of the flats up here were boarded up. Empty.
Squats with people in them that shouldn't have been there. And the only other bastard up there only heard a couple of footsteps, couldn't even confirm that it was Innes. At the moment, all I had was my word against his that he was there. And as much as I didn't want to admit it, it looked like his word would win the day.

  I stopped when I hit the next landing. Lit the cigarette. Didn't know how far up or down I was. Saw blood on the railing. Wasn't necessarily from Mo, or Innes. Dried in what looked like a partial handprint, mind.

  And then it fucking hit us. Hard, like if a freight train and a Mack truck had a fucking baby.

  That was Mo Tiernan's blood. And it had come from Callum Innes' hand.

  Because I remembered the cunt's walking stick, remembered seeing something dark on the handle, smudges down at the other end. The fucker'd used it as a club on something. Not such a stretch to connect a club and the mincemeat that was Mo Tiernan's face.

  Which could only mean one thing: Callum Innes killed Mo Tiernan.

  28

  INNES

  I hear Donkey before I see him. There's the roar of an engine, a screech of tyres, and one of the lads comes barrelling through the doors, yelling about the five-oh like he's a dealer in the fucking projects. Paulo's head snaps up and he looks at the double doors. I'm already at the door to the office with a sick, sinking feeling in my gut.

  This is it. What I've been afraid of. I've run out of time.

  Donkey barges through the doors, red in the face with a full shine of a sweat going. And he's looking for someone.

  No prizes for guessing who.

  “You want me to do something?” says Paulo.

  “No. It's okay.”

  I've got a tonne of excuses that I can hand Paulo, but there's not one of them that'll stick any longer than a second and a half. Which is about the length of time it takes Donkey to make it across the gym.

  I throw up a hand, palm out. “Hang on.”

  He grabs my wrist, yanks it down and twists me round before I get a chance to breathe out. Then it's a short trip into the wall as I feel fingers grab at the back of my skull. I feel the pressure on my chest as Donkey holds me in place, feel my breathing become shallow.

  “Whoa,” says Paulo. “The fuck you think you're doing?”

  I hear Donkey shout, “You back the fuck off, Gray. I didn't know any better I could have you in an' all.”

  “Have me in?” I say.

  He leans close to my ear. “What d'you think, I'm fuckin' daft, Innes?”

  “I don't —”

  “You must think I'm a right fuckin' idiot, eh? That I'm not going to ask questions? That I'm not going to know about what happened up in Newcastle?”

  I'd shake my head, but my face is pressed hard against the wall. “Wait.”

  “I know all about you, you fuckin' bastard,” he says. “You and Mo, and his fuckin' sister.”

  I don't say anything.

  “And I know that I'm well within my fuckin' rights to bring you in on it.”

  He wrenches me from the wall and I stumble forward, my nose almost to the fucking floor. My right leg goes out from under me, and Donkey adjusts his grip, must've put both hands on my collar, because I hear some tearing material and feel myself skimming the wood floor. He hauls me to the double doors, kicks them open and throws me into the small foyer. I throw up my hands again. Glance behind him, and I see my walking stick lying on the floor in the gym.

  “Wait,” I say. “Please.”

  He kicks me in the face. Once and hard, but once and hard is all it takes. I hit the deck, stare at an upside-down sky for a few moments before he shouts something at me that I can't make out through the ringing in my ears, and then he starts planting his shoes in my ribs.

  I black out for a second. I think it's a second, anyway. Could well be an hour. And suddenly the blows give out, only the pain remaining. I open my eyes, and the sky has gotten a touch darker, looks like it's going to rain. As the whoosh in my ears gives out to shouting voices, I turn my head in that direction.

  Paulo has Donkey cornered against his Granada. Donkey's pointing at me, Paulo's in his face. I blink and squint through my roiling vision, pull myself over onto my side and get a punch of agony when I try to breathe, praying that Donkey hasn't broken a rib with those cheap fucking shoes of his. I manage to get onto my hands and knees, blink away the tears, bring one scuffed hand across a bleeding nose.

  Then I realise that I'm not the only one bleeding here. As I focus on Donkey, I realise he's holding a hand to his face, and there's that brown opaque stain running over his mouth and chin that means Paulo's planted a hard right on him. I struggle getting up to my feet, have to use the wall as a guide.

  “Get the fuck off my property, Sergeant.” Paulo's pointing at Donkey, and I can see the blood on his knuckles. “I see you around here again, I'll beat fuck out of you.”

  “Can't do that,” says Donkey.

  “I can do whatever the fuck I want to do.”

  Then Paulo drops his finger, moves in closer to Donkey. For a second, I think Paulo's going to kiss him, the way he smiles. But then he says something quietly to Donkey, and Donkey's face goes even paler under the bloodstain. Paulo backs off a couple of steps, the remnants of the smile still pulling his lips tight. He raises both eyebrows at Donkey.

  “You get me?” he says.

  I lean against the wall, press a knuckle to one nostril that refuses to stop bleeding, wheeze through battered lungs. Then something rattles that I have to cough up. The sound brings Donkey's attention. We stare at each other.

  “Go home,” Paulo says to Donkey.

  Donkey snaps back a glare at Paulo, then gets into his car, slamming the driver's door as he gets behind the wheel. There's a brief swell of muffled music as Donkey turns the ignition. Sounds like Annie Lennox, which would be weird if it wasn't Donkey at the wheel.

  I watch him roar off, spit blood at the ground. The gob hits and splatters, and I'm reminded of Mo Tiernan again. Paulo turns away from the road, heads my way, shaking his head at the state I'm in.

  “You hit him,” I say.

  “It's okay.” Getting a closer look, he says, “Jesus Christ. That fuckin'—”

  “It's not okay.” Shake my head. “He's a copper. He's a cunt. The two don't mix … with a punch.”

  “Really, it's fine. Let's get you indoors.”

  Paulo puts my arm around his shoulders and hunkers down, puts his arm around my waist. He squeezes my side too hard and I flinch away from him, grunting in pain.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “He'll be back.”

  “No, he won't.”

  I cough and it hurts like fuck. What's the point in me doing everything I've done, if Paulo's just going to plant one on Donkey and ruin it all. “He will. I know how—”

  “He's not going to do anything, Callum.”

  “He won't stay … scared.”

  “He's not scared.” We reach the office. Paulo nudges open the door and eases me over to my chair. Then he goes to retrieve my walking stick.

  “Then how?”

  He appears in the doorway again, breathes out. “I had my suspicions.”

  “About what?”

  “He's not on duty,” says Paulo.

  “That doesn't matter—

  “I called the police station, thought it was odd that he backed down so quick when he was around, y'know. And I was going to put in a complaint, anyway.” He hands me my walking stick. “Fucker's been suspended, hasn't he?”

  I look at Paulo. Doesn't look like he's pulling my leg, and this would be a weird fucking joke if he was. But it can't be right, either. Donkey's never been suspended his entire career. Doesn't matter what heinous shite he's been accused of through the years, nobody's ever had the balls to call him on it, or do anything about it.

  “What for?” I say.

  “Don't know, they wouldn't tell me.”

  No, they wouldn't, right enough. I shake my head, still can't believe it. There'
s me, willingly giving Donkey information when he's not in any position to do anything about it. Not officially, anyway. Which makes him fucking dangerous to my situation. Extremely dangerous.

  “You going to be okay?” says Paulo. “Look like you could use a once-over at the hospital.”

  “Nah, I should be … alright.”

  “He break anything?”

  “Don't think so.”

  “You sure?” Paulo's pulling that old familiar face again. The worried look, the one he reserves for whenever I get my arse kicked. I'll admit, it's been a while since I've seen it. Not since he saw me the first time in the hospital after the stroke. And I'll admit this, too: I've kind of missed it.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I'm fine. A brew … would be good.”

  “Course, right,” says Paulo.

  And off he goes. Soon as he's out the door, I pick out my mobile. Turn it on, and it seems like it still works, which is good. I stare at the display, scroll through my contacts and think about what damage Donkey's already done.

  Time to put an end to it.

  Used to be, you wanted to speak to Morris Tiernan, you had to call the Wheatsheaf and wait for Brian the landlord to get his arse in gear, pick up the phone. Then you had to put up with him swearing blind that Tiernan wasn't on the premises when it was patently fucking obvious that wasn't the case. Then, once you'd managed to threaten your way into a conversation with the man himself, Tiernan would be full of hell, because the last thing he liked doing was talk on the phone. His mood was a throwback to the party line days, when they were still trying to pin the scally Godfather tag onto him.

  But I'm above all that now. Now, I have a direct line to the man. And as I punch the numbers, I don't know if that's a sign that it's already too late for me.

  “Yeah?” he says after two rings.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Urgent?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Northside tonight. Seven sharp.”

  And he hangs up.

  29

  DONKIN