by Ray Banks
‘Clever boy.’
‘I’m not fuckin’ daft. And what’s the story with PC Haddock over there? You going to arrest me for something?’
Donkey’s tone changes. He looks at the floor as if he’s trying to remember the correct phrase. ‘If you’d be more comfortable in custody
‘You got fuck all on me, Donkey.’
He’s out of the seat and at me before I know it. Hits me hard in the gut. The breath shoots out of me. I tumble to the floor, mug of tea tipped all down my front. I don’t feel the burn until I try to sit up. Then it’s like my chest’s on fire.
‘Fuckin’ wanker.’
‘You watch your mouth, Innes.’ He’s standing over me.
Looks like he’s ready to put the boot in if need be.
I pull my shirt away from the skin. Look down and my chest is lobster red.
‘Call me Donkey, son, I’ll kick like a fuckin’ donkey.’
‘That’s police brutality,’ I say. ‘I’ll have you suspended.’
‘It’s not police brutality, mate. You’re not in custody. And you keep talking like that, you won’t be until I’ve broke your fuckin’ skull.’ Donkey crouches by me. His breath smells like wet tobacco. ‘You know better than to play funny buggers with me, Callum.’
He rips the plaster from my nose, takes the scab with it. I start bleeding again.
Christ.
I turn over, get to my feet. The uniform still stands there.
Taking it all in like a good boy. No wonder the Met’s in such a state.
‘Fuck do you want, Detective?’
‘Where’d you get the nose job?’
I remember the line: ‘Your wife got excited. She crossed her legs a little too quick.’
Donkey sighs. ‘Constable, if you’d do the honours.’
The uniform wakes up and pulls cuffs from his belt. Starts on with reading me my rights. Which he doesn’t have to do, I don’t think. Unless this is more serious than I thought.
“I know my rights. And one of them is that I’m allowed to get cleaned up before you two go to work on me, okay?’
I walk into the bedroom, change my shirt, grab some jeans.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Those bruises on my throat have turned nasty. My nose prickles. My tooth throbs in sympathy. I’m a wreck. Grab another plaster from the bathroom and press it onto my nostril. This is bullshit.
Donkey’s got nothing on me. If anything, he’s heard that I’m working for Morris. He’ll bring me in, sweat me down and hope that I spill whatever I’m supposed to spill. He used to do it with Declan all the time. But my brother was weaker than I am. He had a habit and a fear of dying in a dirty police cell.
I return to the living room with my arms out. The uniform obliges by cuffing me. Not too tight. Look in his eyes and there’s a glint of sympathy. Yeah, mate, you probably had to endure a whole morning of the fat bastard. I hear Donkey likes Dido. And he would have insisted it was played constantly.
So yeah, I pity that uniform something rotten.
‘Who’s grassed me up?’ I say. Smiling through it all. What the hell.
‘You don’t get it, do you, Innes?
‘I get it. You hear that I had a barney at The Denton, you come round here with Dixon of Dock Green and slap the cuffs on me, think I’ll grass up anyone to stay out of jail. Bring it on, Detective. I’ll be out in time for Come.’
‘And I’ll see you right back in the ‘Ways, you little wanker.’
Something doesn’t sit right. That didn’t sound like an idle threat.
‘Shit, that smackhead didn’t die, did he?’
‘Your wrestling partner? Nah. But Dennis Lang might cark it before the day’s out.’
‘Who’s Dennis Lang?’
But I don’t need Donkey to tell me; it clicks into place quick enough. The landlord at The Denton. ‘That bastard?’
‘That bastard. And his wife says you did it.’
Shit.
FOURTEEN
We know the steps to this dance, even when there’s no music playing.
The uniform leads me outside to Donkey’s Ford Granada, a car that looks like a prime candidate for a mercy killing.
Someone’s written unmarked police car in the grime on the bonnet. It was probably Donkey. He’s weird like that.
I get into the back of the Granada, the uniform sitting next to me. Donkey pulls himself behind the steering wheel and ‘White Flag’ starts playing. Knowing full well that anyone with a pair of ears is likely to crack with that deaf bird twittering her way through three-minute chunks of shite.
Above the whine, Donkey starts to hold court on how to subdue a suspect with minimum force.
Minimum force, my arse. Donkey’s a batter first, make up excuses later kind of copper. You know the type. They’re the ones that end up getting the boot or hitting the top of the ladder. One of these days, DS Donkin’s going to go too far.
He’ll beat the shit out of the wrong guy, or end up in stir himself. Then he’ll be fair game to any con with a grudge.
Hope springs eternal.
We arrive at the nick and I’m bundled out of the car.
Brings back sore memories of the last time I was here. Then I had puke on my shirt and shaking legs. Now I’m shaking, yeah, but it’s anger.
We go into reception, Donkey too close for comfort. He pops a Polo to hide the smell of booze on his breath. He cracks the mint between his teeth, knowing it irritates the hell out of me.
The duty sergeant looks bored and tired at the same time.
One of those guys who shave their head to make up for a receding hairline. There’s a scar in the right crook of his widow’s peak. I stare at it.
Donkey finds a vacant interview room, hauls me towards it.
I’m innocent, but it’s a small consolation. If I remember rightly, I was innocent the last time. Lot of fucking good it did me, too. Donkey’s obviously done his homework, but maths was never his strong point. He’s added two and two, come up with me. I have an alibi for last night, for what it’s worth. I don’t know if I want them to call the bar to check up on it, though. Assaulting a customer probably isn’t the rosiest light that could shine on my situation.
So Dennis Lang’s in critical condition. Brenda Lang thinks I did it. Why? Because we talked about it. And I said no, didn’t I?
It wasn’t the first time she’d talked to strangers. I got that vibe straight off the bat. She had that drunk storyteller thing going, probably spent most of her nights getting slurry and talking to anyone who’d listen. Mine can’t be the first ear she’s bent. So what happens? Her hubby gets done over, the police go to the wife, and who does she think of?
The person who told her no. The person who upset her.
Never talk to wannabe widows. That night is starting to have a rulebook of its own.
But Donkey doesn’t have a leg to stand on. No evidence, no holding cell, at least not for long. When I finally get myself settled in an interview room that stinks of Mr Sheen and sweat, I try to relax. Donkey leans against the wall, his arse dangerously close to the panic strip. From his face, I can tell he loves every second of it. The first bona ride investigation he’s had in a long time. The only reason he got this is because he knows me, reckons he’s the best man for the job. The constable stands behind me, his back to the door. There in case I try to make a run for it.
The tape turns.
Donkey clears his throat. It sounds thick. ‘So,’ he says. ‘You were in The Denton Bonfire Night.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you had some trouble in the toilets.’
‘Correct.’
‘What happened?’
‘You know what happened, Detective Donkin.’
‘For the benefit of the tape, Mr Innes.’
‘Ah, well then. For the benefit of the tape, I was due to meet a client at The Denton.’
‘A client?’ There’s a hint of sarcasm in Donkey’s voice.
‘That’s right.’
‘What kind of client would you meet in the gents?’
‘He wanted some privacy.’
‘You renting your arse these days?’ He looks over at the constable and winks.
‘I run a private investigation business,’ I say. It sounds so weak.
Donkey grins, then: ‘You licensed?’
‘No.’
‘Then you shouldn’t be running any kind of business.’
‘I didn’t start like that. People ask me to look into things for them.’
Donkey pulls a roll-up out of his tin, lights it. As the flame from his Zippo catches, his lips pucker. Smoke streams into the air.
I reach for my cigarettes. Donkey shakes his head. ‘Nonsmoking station, Mr Innes.’
Oh, I get it.
‘So you’re a private detective,’ he says. ‘And you meet a client in the toilets.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You don’t have an office?’
‘He didn’t want to come to the office.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he was a smackhead,’ I say. ‘And he wanted to score.’
‘This a sideline of yours?’
I glare at him. ‘You know it’s not.’
‘But you agreed to meet him anyway.’
‘I thought he was a real client. He didn’t tell me what he wanted over the phone. Junkies don’t tend to be that fuckin’ open about their hopes and dreams. And when I met him, and he said what he wanted, I told him I wasn’t in that business. Which I’m not.’
‘And then?’
‘Then I showed him the door.’
‘Huh.’ Donkey flicks ash onto the floor and sniffs. ‘See, that’s not what I heard. What I heard was that you beat the shit out of him and dumped him in the street. Quite a tumble, by all accounts.’
‘He pressing charges, is he?’
‘Nope. Haven’t found him.’
‘Then why are we talking about this?’ I say, but I know exactly why we’re talking about it. Donkey’s trying to make me look like a scally thug. Get it all down in Dolby Digital, then black-and-white: Callum Michael Innes is a piece of work with a sideline in drug-dealing. Oh, he says he’s a private dick, but the truth is he’s still Morris Tiernan’s errand boy. Morris says jump, Cal asks how high.
I could calm down, stop playing the hard case, but I’m so riled, it’s difficult.
‘I’m establishing a context,’ says Donkey.
‘You’re wasting my time.’
‘You talked to Brenda Lang that night,’ he says.
‘She talked to me. She was piss-drunk, came over and sat next to me, starting talking about me killing her husband for money. I told her I wasn’t the bloke she was looking for.’
‘You told her that.’
‘After she’d finished talking. Took a while. You know how drunks like to talk, Detective.’
‘And then what? You just got up and went?’
‘She told me to get out.’
‘And you did what she said. This drunk woman intimidated you that much.’
‘Her husband was a mean-looking guy. I didn’t want him throwing me out. Besides, I’d had enough of that place.’
‘Again, not what I heard.’
‘Then tell you what, why don’t you tell the fuckin’ story?
Obviously you know more about it than I do and I was there.
Fill me in, Detective. What did I say?’
Donkey kicks the free chair. It scrapes against the floor.
‘You want to sit down, Mr Innes?’
‘For the benefit of the tape, I am sitting down. Jesus, Donkey, what next? You going to throw that chair across the room so it sounds like I put up a fight? Get to fuck.’
His eyes flare. Donkey leans across the table, glances at his watch, and says, ‘Interview suspended at three-oh-six.’ He shuts off the tape. Then: “I told you to watch your fuckin’ mouth, Innes.’
‘Yeah, you told me. And I heard you the first time. Now how about you do me a favour and admit you’ve got nothing on me?’
‘You got a mouth on you, lad.’
‘And you’ve got brass balls to try and set me up for this.’
‘I’m not setting you up for anything, Innes. You’re fucked enough without my help.’
‘Charge me or let me go.’
‘We can hold you.’
‘Charge me or let me go.’
He looks at the uniform. ‘Broken record.’
‘You know I don’t have it in me,’ I say.
“I know plenty. I know your brother’s a junkie grass, I know you’re working for Tiernan right now, and I know you didn’t get them bruises pillow-fighting. So stop the karaoke, son. Having a drink problem doesn’t make you Mike fuckin’
Hammer. And you might not have had it in you when you got sent away, my lad, but that’s not to say you didn’t learn a few tricks when you was inside, just like that phoney fuckin’
Mane accent you picked up.’
Blood in my mouth. Feels like I’ve been punched. I fold my arms. ‘Charge me. Or let me go.’
Donkey straightens up, crushes the rollie under his shoe.
We’re not going to charge you, son. Not yet. But if you think you’re free as a bird, you got another thing coming. You’re a scally, Innes. No brains. And you’ll fuck up sooner or later, mark my words. When you do, I’ll be there.’
‘I’ll look forward to that.’
‘One word from me, and you’ll be recalled,’ he says.
‘Christ, are you finished?’
‘For now, yeah. Think on.’
FIFTEEN
I tapped the Clipper on the table and stared out the window at Piccadilly Gardens. We was in this caff what did a good fry up, but I weren’t hungry. Had a bacon harm sitting in front of us, smelled so strong it made me want to throw. So I got out my seat, pushed past Baz and went to take a shite in the bogs.
Hadn’t had one in three days, all backed up. When I managed it, it were a knee-trembling buckshot blast and the smell told us me guts was rotten.
Summat up in me head. Should’ve been cool with it, like, this whole Innes thing. But the cunt were a thorn in me side.
He buzzed about. Couldn’t shake him no matter how hard I tried.
Just like when he were going up in court that time.
Dad told us to leave off that time an’ all, but I weren’t about to let that lie. I said to Dad, I said, ‘Here, c’mon, that cunt gets a deal, he’ll fuckin’ grass.’
Dad said, ‘Leave him.’
‘He’ll grass us up.’
‘Maybe it’s what you deserve, son. Leave him.’
Leave him. Always fuckin’ leave him.
Never fuckin’ look after your own, eh? Keep it in the family, and now Innes were part of the fuckin’ family? More trusted than me, just ‘cause he kept his mouth shut. And who were that down to, eh? Who made the cunt keep it zipped?
Me.
When we did that job, me and Rossie and Baz and Innes and his smackhead brother, that were me what saved the fuckin’ day. Swear to fuckin’ God, that security guard, that fat piece of shite, I never hit him hard. Tapped him. Supposed to be a judo-chop ‘cept I used me torch. You know, like you seen in the pictures. One quick hi-ya- whop and the fucker were out cold. And he would’ve been, except he twatted his head off the floor. I couldn’t have seen that one coming, could I?
Dad went off it. Called us all the cunts under the sun. Like it mattered to him. I were the one up for the fuckin’ charge if Innes spilled it. He were the one what got caught. Him and his smackhead junkie fuckin’ brother. And I sweated big time on that one. Got so’s I had to track him down and have it out with him man to man. But then he got uppity and I reckoned, what the fuck. Let him rot.
I made my point, know what I mean?
I wiped and looked in the bowl. I’d pebble-dashed the cunt, so I flushed and left it. What didn’t go could fuckin’ stay. Let the Paki bog cleaner deal with it.
&
nbsp; Washed me face and looked at meself in the cracked mirror. Yeah, Innes were a problem. He’d have to be dealt with, but I didn’t know how to do it. It were like the fucker had the luck of the devil. And it were like Dad liked him more than he liked me.
Well, fuck the pair of ‘em.
I got out into the caff and punched Baz in the shoulder. He made out like it hurt more than it did. ‘Fuck’s up with you?’
‘Bored, fuckin’ bored is what’s up with us, mate.’
‘You wanna go down the amusements?’
‘Amusements? What am I, twelve?’
‘You want to call that blonde piece?’ said Rossie. He had a mouthful of sausage.
‘You what?’
‘That blonde piece from last night. She gave us her number for you.’
‘You never said that.’
‘You want to?’
‘Nah, she were dog rough.’
‘Dog rough, but nineteen,’ said Rossie. He raised his eyebrows.
Baz shook his head. He rubbed his shoulder. ‘Nineteen’s too old for Mo.’
Silence then. I stared at him. ‘Fuck’s that supposed to mean?
‘You like ‘em younger is all,’ said Baz. He smiled.
Always smiling, that fat fuck.
‘Aye, and fuck’s that supposed to mean?’ I had a grip on me cuppa. Some spilled onto me hand, and it was hot. I felt the burn, but it were nowt compared to what were inside. A fuckin’ volcano, just waiting on that shift.
‘Baz didn’t mean anything by it, Mo,’ said Rossie.
‘Let Baz talk for his fuckin’ self, Rossie. Fuck were that supposed to mean, Baz? Calling us a fuckin’ paedo or summat?’
‘Nah ‘
‘Nah, what? You call us a fuckin’ paedo, I’ll put your head through that fuckin’ wall, how’s about that?’
Baz were laughing like he always did when he weren’t sure about summat, the simple fuck. Rossie put his knife and fork down. ‘C’mon, Mo,’ he said.
‘Fat cunt’s got summat to say, let’s hear it,’ I said.
‘Hey,’ said Baz. He didn’t like being called fat. Which was unlucky, like, because he were the fattest cunt I knew. ‘I was just messing.’