by Ray Banks
I hold my hands up. “I didn't know the guy from Adam.”
“You hadn't heard of him,” says Wallace.
“I'm not a fight fan.”
“You know how to use a computer, don't you?”
The cop's got a point. A quick search would've turned up nothing on Nelson Byrne.
“Mr Innes, would you answer the question?” says Munroe.
“What question?”
“When you first met Mr Byrne, who instigated the conversation about the amateur competition?”
“I don't know,” I say. “How the fuck am I supposed to remember that?”
“Calm down,” says Wallace.
“I am calm. Obviously the guy was a fuckin' con man or … deluded or something because he wasn't who he said he was. I think that's a fact now, yeah? I mean, we've got that particular fact nailed down, Detective Munroe?”
“Yes.”
“So there's no need for me to answer that daft fuckin' question.”
“You broke into Mr Byrne's house,” says Wallace, moving from the wall. He's heading for me. “You want to tell us about that?”
“I told you about that,” I say.
“You went in through the front door. Seems like an odd way of breaking into someone's house.”
“You want to get the cab driver in here to corroborate?” I say. “And I think I had a bloody good reason for doing it, don't you?”
“We're not here to judge,” says Wallace.
“Course you're not.”
Munroe taps on the pad, leans back in his chair, his chin up. “And then you found Liam, that's correct?”
“Yeah, that's correct.”
****
I found Liam on a single bed. He was fully clothed. Looked like the same clothes as the day before, but I couldn't be sure. He was coming out of something that resembled a deep sleep, but he let out the groggy moan of a lad either drunk out of his mind or on a severe downer. I talked to him, said his name, tried to pull him out of it. When that didn't work, I dragged the lad out of bed and shook the fucker till he sat up. His head lolled on his shoulders, eyes half-closed, the whites visible.
“Liam, we've got to go, son,” I said.
He didn't seem to hear me.
“Snap out of it, man. C'mon.” I kept talking to stave off the panic that I knew would be coming up the pike. “C'mon, Liam, snap out of it. Snap out of it. Get up, man.”
And there it was, creeping in.
“What we're going to do, Liam, we're going to get up, we're going to walk outside, we're going to get into a cab and we're going back to the hotel.”
What the fuck was I thinking, a hotel? A hospital. The kid was drugged. If it'd been booze, I'd have smelled it. No, this was a whole prescription of something fucking serious.
I threw Liam's arm over my shoulder, wrapped my arms under his ribs and tried to stand up with him. Grabbed the money from the bedside table — I'd need it for the cab ride back. The lad was stringy, but he was a dead weight, not the easiest thing in the world to drag to the door. I had to adjust my grip, kept my mantra going, kept talking to him even though it was more for my benefit. “Going to get you to a hospital, Liam. Going to get you out of here.”
Nelson had a gun. He came in now, he'd kill us both.
I managed to get Liam into the kitchen, then into the living room before I gave up. I couldn't carry him anymore, had to ease him onto the couch with shaking arms. I rubbed at my face. I couldn't do this by myself. I needed help.
And help had just hightailed it out of there. When I got outside, the cab was gone. The driver'd obviously had enough with waiting, or else got himself a fare that was peachier than mine. Or didn't want to be an accessory to a housebreaking.
Fuck.
I shouted it.
FUCK.
Sheer panic now, all the mantras in the world not going to hold this back, tearing through me. Giving me the all-over sweats when the temperature was way down. Back into the living room, staring at Liam. The lad had thick drool in the corner of his mouth. Christ, what if he was having a reaction? I needed help, but there was no one I could trust.
Except maybe Shapiro. The guy might've been corrupt, but he wasn't going to let a lad die, was he? I crossed to the phone, picked it up and rifled through my jacket pockets for the comp invitation Shapiro'd sent to Liam, see if there was a phone number on it. There was. I punched it in, waited.
Thinking, call a fucking ambulance or something. Don't drag Shapiro into this.
Also thinking, yeah, call an ambulance, get the authorities involved. Kid's drugged up, who's the first person they're going to point the finger at?
“Shapiro's Boxing Center.”
“Phil there?”
“Who's this?”
“Is that Reuben?”
“Who's this?”
“Reuben, get Phil.”
There was a loud cough at the other end. “This Innes?”
“Yeah, Reuben, how many other Brits you know? Get Phil. I need to talk to him now.”
“Phil's busy.”
“This is a fuckin' emergency, Rube. Get him.”
“What'd I say about—”
“Fuckin' now. Fuck's the matter with you, you fuckin' twat? English your second fuckin' language?”
Reuben grumbled, dropped the receiver onto a solid surface. I looked across at Liam. It didn't look like he was breathing. I moved closer. He was, but only just. Jesus Christ.
“Mr Innes,” said Shapiro.
“Phil, I need help. I'm at Nelson Byrne's place—”
“Who?”
“It's in Palm Desert. How quickly can you get here?”
“Nelson Byrne?”
“It's Liam, Phil. He's … I don't know what he is, but it's not fuckin' good.”
“What happened?”
“Drugs or something. I don't know. I need help here, man.”
“What's the address?” he said.
I gave him Nelson's address, moved the phone to my other ear and wiped sweat from my palm. “You know what to do?”
“Yeah, I know what to do. I'm calling a paramedic.”
“I can't wait that long.”
“And you can wait a couple hours until I get out there?” he said.
Shit.
“I can call,” I said. “I'll call an ambulance.”
“No, you call, you'll have to pay for it.”
“Pay?”
“Let me call,” said Shapiro. “You hang tight. I'll see he's okay.”
And that's when the shouting started.
****
“You have a way of making an entrance, I'll give you that,” I say.
And they did. A bluesuit with a gun in his hand, yelling that he was armed police. I should put the phone down slowly and then put my hands behind my head. I almost shit myself, got it arse about face.
“Put the phone down,” he'd shouted.
His partner cuffed me.
“You were on private property,” says Munroe. “We could bust you for that.”
“But you're not going to, right?”
“We haven't decided yet,” he says.
“Hey, I came quietly.”
“Yeah,” says Wallace. “You've been very cooperative.”
“You being funny?” I say.
“You haven't asked for a lawyer.” Wallace points at me. “I'd say that was cooperative.”
“Or dumb,” says Munroe.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“You haven't been charged,” says Munroe.
“I hope I'm not, too.”
“If you don't have one, legal counsel can be arranged,” he continues. “You know, there's no shame in asking.”
“You what?” I lean close. “Are you reading me my rights?”
“No,” says Munroe. “Just telling you the way it is.”
Munroe gets out of his seat. Wallace moves to the other corner of the room.
“I'm telling the truth,” I say. “I was there to help the
lad.”
Munroe's behind me when he says, “You know what he had in his system?”
“No,” I say. “Something strong.”
“Flunitrazepam. Did I pronounce that right?”
I watch Wallace nod.
“What's that?” I say.
“Roofies,” says Wallace. He scratches the palm of his hand. “Rohypnol.”
“Date rape drug.” I take a deep breath.
“You know it.”
“We've had it in Britain for a while.”
“Then you know what it does,” says Munroe.
I twist in my seat. “Liam wasn't …”
“Doesn't look like it,” says Wallace, bringing my attention back to the front. “Kid was fully clothed, like you said.”
“Where is he now?”
“In hospital.”
“How's he doing?”
“We don't know,” says Wallace. “We'll find out, but it's not our concern at the present time.”
“You know roofies aren't prescription medication over here, Mr Innes,” says Munroe. He crosses back in front of me.
“They're not in Britain.”
“But they're a sedative. Like diazepam.”
Wallace frowns. “A lot stronger than diazepam.”
“I don't follow,” I say.
There's a pause. Munroe takes his seat again, sorts through my notes. Wallace regards the palm of his hand. He scratches it again. Something must've bitten him.
“Where do you think Nelson went?” says Munroe.
“I told you, I don't know.”
“Guys don't just vanish into thin air when they get pushed out of a car, Mr Innes.”
“I didn't see him out there on the road. He must've walked somewhere. Or he had another car waiting.”
“Pretty precise spot to have a car waiting. How do you hide a vehicle in a flat landscape? It's all brush and dirt. You see any cars?”
“I didn't notice any,” I say. “But it doesn't mean there wasn't one.”
“You're saying Nelson walked,” says Wallace.
“Yes.”
“In that heat?”
“He wasn't in his right mind,” I say.
“You didn't see any evidence of him walking,” says Munroe. “And you didn't see any evidence of another car.”
“I wasn't looking for it. I was busy trying to work out how the fuck I was going to survive.”
“Guy hits the road from a moving vehicle, he's going to break something,” says Wallace. “Or he's going to smash his nose, skin his knee, leave something.”
“There was blood on the road. I did tell you that.”
Munroe checks my statement, pulls a surprised face and nods. “Yes, you did tell us that.”
We sit in silence. Munroe gathers up his notes. “I think we'll take a break.”
Wallace nods.
“Could I have my pills back?” I say.
“Which pills?”
“The codeine.”
They look at each other. Munroe says, “We won't be long.”
“Don't go anywhere,” says Wallace.
“I won't.”
They leave. And it feels like the walls are closing in on me.
36
Nelson Byrne and Rohypnol. I'd ask why the hell Nelson had a date rape drug knocking around his house, but I don't think I'd want to know the answer.
Liam's okay, though. He didn't touch Liam. As far as they know. Liam's at the hospital now. He's in good hands.
As the over-excited bluesuit ducked me into the back of the car, I watched the paramedics turn up. They hurried into the house. But I didn't see them bring Liam out. By that time, we were on the road to the station. At least he's being seen to. That's the main thing. And he'll be treated better. Victims of crime tend to be treated better than your average drug-induced coma case, I'm sure. There's the question of who's going to pay for the ambulance. Of course, I've got cash, but I don't know. Maybe the travel insurance'll take care of it. I can't be thinking about the fucking red tape at a time like this.
I lean on the table, rub my eyes.
They've left me alone for a reason. They know I'm lying. They know Ed and Marie came in probably just after I did a runner. There was me thinking Ed would take it on the chin and carry on his way. After all, he didn't want to get involved. Why should he, if he's got a perfectly good reason to mind his own business? Especially if it's going to put a crimp on his holiday.
I should've seen this coming.
Who the fuck could see this coming?
Me. I should've. I should've called Nelson on what I saw. Told him to offer up some credentials. Asked him about the uniform. Done something instead of take a back seat while it all conspired to blow up in my face.
I swear to God, if he's touched Liam …
No reports filed, no charges brought against me. Which means I'm here of my own free will, telling my story and trying to get it over with. But they keep pausing this interview to go dig.
Wallace is surprised I don't want a lawyer. He's on my side.
Munroe thinks I should have one. Makes me think he's got something on me.
I thank God I've signed off on my probation. Something like this could've meant a recall. Just being pulled in by the police makes some POs skittish.
I lean back now, wishing they hadn't taken my pills. Doesn't look like they're going to give them back to me, either. I mean, they're prescription, it should be in my rights to have them. Doesn't matter that I stole the prescription. Still my medication.
The door opens and Munroe steps into the room. He's carrying a cup of coffee, looking at me with a new expression on his face. I can't work out if it's pity, disgust or just plain confusion.
He stands there, takes a sip of his coffee and pulls a face. I don't think it's just the taste, either.
“Did you hear about Liam?” I say.
“No.”
“Is he okay?”
“I didn't hear about him,” he says. “I didn't ask.”
Wallace enters. He's wearing a jacket now.
“Look, I'd kind of like to see Liam, make sure he's alright,” I say. “And I appreciate you guys've got questions to ask, but I think I answered them all as well as I could. I've given you my statement. And if there's no charges being brought against me, then I'm a free man, right? I can go?”
“We got a couple more questions for you,” says Munroe.
“What?”
“Something came up,” says Wallace. He tugs at the lapel on his jacket.
“What?” I say.
“We found Nelson Byrne.”
“And you brought him in? What, he telling you a different story to me? I'm the fuckin' victim here. He shot me.”
“He's dead,” says Munroe.
****
The way it played was this. At least, this is the best I could come up with in the resulting two hours' worth of questions, answers, running around.
Nelson didn't have a back-up plan. He took it spur of the moment. That's why he grabbed the steering wheel. He didn't want the Metro spinning out of control. He wanted that car on the road so he could dump me and drive back to his place. It was just me he wanted out of the way. And he couldn't control that impulse. Thinking back to the way Nelson looked at me outside the hotel, the way he surveyed the street, I realise that if he'd had his way, he would've shot me right then.
When he fell out of the car, he fell on his head. He was lucky his neck didn't break. But there was concussion, according to preliminary medical reports. Crime scene indicated he hit the road, lay there, then got up and walked back to the car.
I listen to that and my mouth goes dry. Because I start thinking all the things I'm supposed to think. What if I'd come to when he was staring at me through the shattered glass? He'd probably have put a bullet in my head as I lay there. Or what if the car hadn't gone into the ditch? He'd have dumped me out, probably done the same. But with the Metro fucked and me half-dead, Nelson realised he'd have to get a wriggl
e on if he wanted to walk.
“You're lucky to be alive,” says Munroe.
“Uh,” I say.
Nelson walked past the car, checked the damage, decided he couldn't get the Metro out of the ditch by himself. That kind of concussion, he'd have thrown up, been dizzy as fuck. And so he decided to walk it. Munroe seems to think it's entirely possible he was trying to walk back to the city, but he didn't know which way he was going and ended up lost. The throwing up dehydrated him, the concussion slowed him down, the blood leaked from him and the heat did the rest.
I have a vision of Nelson dropping to his knees and choking out. For a second he's David Caruso in Miami.
I shake my head. This isn't right.
“What?” says Munroe.
“He's not dead. You can't die from the heat.”
“Mitigating circumstances.”
“Somebody picked me up. They must've seen him on the road too.”
“You said they thought you were dead. And there's no guarantee they even saw him. Only reason they saw you was because of the car.”
“Believe us, Mr Innes,” says Wallace. “He's dead.”
“You've seen him?”
“Seen the preliminary.”
“There's no chance it could be a mistake.”
“No,” says Munroe. “We don't make mistakes.”
I lean back and stare at the ceiling. “So are you going to try and pin this on me?”
Wallace laughs. I lower my head and look at him. Munroe has a half-smile on his face.
“You want to tell us something else?” says Munroe.
“I told you everything I know.”
“Then I don't see how we can charge you,” he says.
“What about the breaking and entering?”
“You had a good reason,” says Wallace. “Could be, you saved that boy's life.”
Munroe raises his coffee cup. “Yeah, you're a hero, Mr Innes.”
I snort a laugh.
37
“Fuck's sake.”
Wedged into a booth, the phone stuck between my ear and shoulder, and I'm trying to figure out just exactly how much change I've got in my hand. Coins in this country don't follow any pattern, like bigger's more valuable. Nah, that would be too easy. So I have to hold the coins up and squint at what's written on them.
That there's a dime.
Okay, now what the fuck's a dime? Five, ten? A quarter's twenty-five. That makes sense. Quarter of a dollar. My mam didn't raise any stupid kids.