Runaway Town (An Eoin Miller Mystery Book 2)

by Jay Stringer

  FOUR

  Just one word.

  That was all it took to turn my world around. Words have power. I grew up being cut by them, reacting to them in pain or anger, at people who infused them with venom because they were scared of me.

  Pikey.

  Gyppo.

  Scum.

  Those slurs meant nothing to me now. I’d grown tough enough to shrug them off. Connolly had used one, though, that still came precharged.

  He read my mind. “Yes. Years ago, I heard the confessions of a woman, a girl, who had been forced to…raped. She had been raped. I counseled her, comforted her. I said nothing to anybody. If you lock something like that up, if you don’t speak out, you become a prisoner to it.”

  “You want me to find the guy?”

  “No, he’s long dead.” He stared up at the cross for a second, lost in memories. “We all have some pain to carry, you know?”

  Did I ever. I smiled and waited for him to continue.

  “I’ve been doing this for a long time. Too long, maybe, I don’t know. At my age it makes you think. What have I done? Really? Wearing the collar and doing Mass, that’s not enough. That’s just a job, but what difference have I made? You hear things you never wanted to. I’ve heard just about everything. But to be honest? There are some things I’m sick of hearing. Sick of carrying. Sick. I want to retire having gotten something done.”

  The way he hit the word sick made me wonder if there was something else going on. If it wasn’t just his age that was wearing him down. We were interrupted by a gentle buzzing sound. It took me a few seconds to realize it was a doorbell. Churches have doorbells. Amazing.

  “Ah, there she is.” Connolly rose to his feet and hurried away. “There’s someone else I wanted to join us. I’ll be right back.”

  He was already out of sight as his last words reached me. I could hear him unlocking all the doors he’d locked after I’d arrived. Lots of banging as he moved heavy locks, and then a muffled greeting, followed by the banging again as the locks were put back in place.

  Connolly walked back down the aisle, followed by a woman a few years younger than me. Clearly of Muslim extraction, she was dressed for an office job, and she had the “young professional” thing down pat. She looked familiar, although I couldn’t place her.

  “Eoin Miller, this is Salma Mina.” Connolly introduced us as I stood up and held out my hand, almost embarrassed by the fact that I was trying to act like a gentleman.

  We shook hands, and I became very aware that my hand smelled of ginger biscuits. When she spoke, her voice sounded as familiar as her name.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Miller.”

  There was a slight edge to her voice. She’d obviously done her homework on me. It didn’t take much digging to find dirt in my past. I said she could call me Eoin, and she smiled, but her guard stayed up, like a sheet of glass between us.

  Her smile finally tipped me off: I’d seen her face on billboards around town. She was a local celebrity with a popular radio show, the flavor of the month in the regional media. Her local accent was stronger in person. Connolly motioned for us to sit. The pews hadn’t been designed for a conference, and I had to twist round in a way that made my scarred insides hurt. I had some painkillers in my coat, but I left them untouched. I didn’t like taking them in front of people.

  The three of us exchanged looks for a second, and then Connolly coughed and spoke. “We run—well, Salma runs—a local community charity.”

  “Women’s group?”

  Salma shook her head, but it wasn’t a fully committed denial. “No. It’s a support group for immigrants. We’ve sort of started an old-fashioned community center: we help newcomers connect with people from their home country, provide them with work contacts, arrange events so they can mingle…”

  She trailed off and looked to Connolly for support, clearly wanting help in finishing her description. He nodded. “We help them get settled in the area. It’s mostly Muslim women, to be honest, but we do get some Poles and some Kurds. We help them get jobs, meet people. The ones from more traditional families, well, they have strong incentives to keep to their own, you know?”

  “I would imagine it’s not easy.”

  “We keep it as low-key as we can. We’ve managed to keep the story away from the media, so there’s nothing for the right wing to dig into. But you’re right, there are plenty of bigots out there who don’t like the idea. They’re not shy about it, either.” There was a hard look in her eyes.

  “I was talking about the families of these women. I imagine that not everyone is pleased by your offer to help.”

  “Oh. Well, yes. Some of the families don’t like it, you’re right.” She shrugged. “Some people just want to be with their own, and that’s fine. Some people find me too Western—they don’t like the way I dress or talk—and I can understand that. Some don’t like having David involved. We try and make it work.”

  They were talking to the wrong Miller. This was exactly the sort of stuff my little sister had turned into her life’s work. She always talked about immigration and race relations like she was standing on a podium. Even in private conversation she acted like she was holding a microphone. Look at me, look at how noble and right I am.

  But I wasn’t my sister. I looked at the woman and the priest. I’d had enough nice talk.

  “Okay. Now tell me what you’ve been working up to.”

  A church is the best place for an awkward silence. I’d never thought about it, but the stone floors and high ceilings really let the emptiness of the moment echo. Connolly and Salma shared a few glances before Connolly put the conversation back on track and answered my question.

  “It started with a young Polish girl. Her family has been in England for years now, but they’re still an active part of the group. She goes to the local high school. She came to me in tears one day, asking about—” He paused. When he spoke again, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. “Pregnancy and abortion.”

  Salma took it up. “We both talked to her, tried to get her to go to the police or her parents, but she wouldn’t. What happened changed her. She’s a different girl now.”

  I’d seen that before. It reminded me of a song lyric—something about how you spend half your life covering up, waiting for the kick.

  “I—well, there’s always something else, you know? Paperwork, meetings, people who need something.” Salma shook her head. “You keep pushing the problem back down under the pile, for when you have more time to deal with it. Then another girl changes.”

  “Did this second one talk to you?”

  “No. She’s from one of the more traditional families. This isn’t something she’ll talk about. We probably wouldn’t have noticed it if we hadn’t already seen the emotional withdrawal in the other girl first.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  Connolly spoke. “If you can figure out a way to do it, please let us know.”

  Fair point.

  “And then there was a third. This time, it was a girl from a Kurdish family that just came over from Turkey. Her mother knows, but they don’t want to report it to the police.”

  “Why not?”

  Connolly pulled a face. “Too many reasons to go into.”

  “What kind of reasons? This is what the police are for. You know who I am. I find thieves and runaways. I find stolen drug money. And yes, I work for the people who can’t go to the police. But this?”

  Connolly stood up in the aisle next to me and stretched his legs.

  “Have you seen how the police handle rape cases? They don’t even try, let alone get convictions. Even worse, how the press dives right in? It’s a circus. And that’s for white women. That’s for people the public likes. I can only imagine the backlash if the victims were asylum seekers.”

  Salma spoke quietly, with a purpose that rocked me. “We don’t trust them. Do you watch the news? Anytime some government official panics about terrorism, they drag everyone with
dark skin and beards out into the street and put it on TV.”

  It was true. There had been a lot of damage done in the wake of the London bombings. I’d seen news broadcasts on TV talk shows where cops bundled Asians into the back of police vans at gunpoint, and at the press conference afterward, they didn’t even bother to differentiate among Muslims, Sikhs, and Hindus. The men were nearly always released without charge; the Brazilian student who’d been shot dead simply for being the wrong shade of brown when he ran away from armed police had not been so lucky. So, it looked like Gaines had been right. The real police would be useless. This job had me written all over it.

  “They don’t know who’s doing it? The girls, I mean?”

  “No.” Connolly shook his head. “Two of them talked to us, and neither knew the attacker. We think he was wearing a mask, but we haven’t pressed them yet.”

  “What links the victims? Were they at the same meetings?”

  “Yes. There’s a youth group, an afterschool thing. All three of them are part of that. Or were, anyway, before this.”

  “Have you come across any hate groups? Heard of anyone out to get immigrants?”

  Salma had come prepared for that question. She handed me a folded piece of paper. I opened it enough to see a brief list of names, and then I folded it again and put it in my pocket.

  But even now that I had more details, there was one question I needed an answer to.

  “Like I said, you know who I am. What is it you’re wanting? What can I give you that the cops can’t?”

  When Connolly answered, it was with a coldness that hit me like a punch to the gut. “Stop the bastard.”

  I thought of Veronica Gaines at the club, her words to me.

  When the time comes, don’t hesitate.

  FIVE

  I had arranged to meet Terry Becker that evening to see the Wolves match. Becker was my best friend by default, and the only person who would sit through a football match with me. He was also the only guy who’d been stubborn enough to stand by me through every stupid decision that I’d ever made—which was saying something. Since he was still a cop, we had an unspoken agreement not to talk shop. It had been well over a year since I’d left the force, so we’d had plenty of time to work out our little dance. During the match, we managed it beautifully. But I blew it on the drive home.

  “What would you say about a rape investigation where you couldn’t get physical proof and the victim wasn’t talking?”

  “You’re looking into a rape?”

  Shrug. “I didn’t say that.”

  “This Gaines-related?”

  A lie, but only a small one. “No.”

  “Would you have proof that it happened?”

  “No statement from the victim, no medical.”

  He shook his head and slowed down the car. “You mean no actual proof?”

  I had to give him that point. I shrugged and said yes.

  “Then there would be no case. CPS wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole, so neither would we.”

  “I thought that’s what you’d say.”

  He pulled over and gave me the look, like we were five-year-olds and I’d just accused him of stealing my chocolate. “Don’t say that, Eoin. You know what I mean.”

  “That you’re not interested? Don’t worry about it.”

  He let that go for a minute and stared ahead, his fingers drumming on the wheel. I thought he was going to leave it be and drive on, but he sighed and turned to face me.

  “I see the stats on these things now. I know how it goes.” Becker had swapped his job at CID for an analyst gig on a new intelligence unit, part of a reshuffle by the new commissioner. “Something like one in twenty rape cases goes to conviction. And that’s with evidence. Rapes make the brass shit their pants, and when the people above you take a dump, guess where it falls? Nobody wants a piece of it.”

  “Then who could I take it to?”

  He thought about it as he pulled the car back into traffic.

  “Why not Laura?”

  My sorta-wife. We were technically still married because the divorce paperwork never seemed to turn up. She’d been promoted to DCI ahead of time after taking credit for the same drug bust that had landed me in the hospital.

  I shook my head.

  “You said the brass wouldn’t touch it, and she’s brass now.”

  “Yeah,” said Becker. “But she’s—”

  A woman.

  I understood the unspoken words as if they’d appeared in a speech bubble. As we pulled up outside my flat, I gave Terry a chance to redeem himself.

  “Hey, listen, did you know Ned’s Atomic Dustbin have a gig coming up? At the Wulfrun, next Tuesday. Fancy it?”

  He looked at me with a bored expression. “Eoin, I never went for that grebo shit when it was trendy. Why would I go for it now?”

  Grebo. There was a word I hadn’t heard in a long time. It had been a great music scene. Unless you liked cleanliness. Ned’s was a group that was both loud and local. Becker had never been a fan of either of those qualities in music. In fact, one look at the CDs on his backseat could tell you he wasn’t really a fan of music at all. More than once I’d caught him singing along to Coldplay on the radio.

  “Come on, man, it’ll be great.”

  “I’m sure. Have fun with that.”

  We sat in silence for a while before he tried again. “Look, Eoin, a person goes missing, you’re good at finding them. If someone steals something or owes someone money, you’re the guy. But this? Is this a Gaines thing?”

  I stayed silent again. To deal with Becker was to deal with his inner five-year-old. Once you understood that, you were in control. Give him the silent treatment, and he caves.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, starting the engine.

  I watched his taillights disappear before turning to my front door. Tomorrow, I would have to start looking for someone who didn’t want to be found. I would need to ask for help from the last woman in the world who would want to give it to me. And I’d have to win the trust of a group of strangers who wouldn’t want to confide in me. Maybe this was my chance. I’d heard that anyone who could pull off three miracles could officially be declared a saint.

  But first I needed to try to get some sleep.

  My flat was above a photography studio in Wednesbury, seven miles outside Wolverhampton. I’d thought moving out of the city would get me away from all the bad memories of a failed job and marriage, but I was finding out memories tend to stay with you wherever you go. The flat had two bedrooms, two floors, and a brand-new shiny kitchen. What it wasn’t supposed to have was a pissed-off-looking man with a cricket bat.

  I saw him as soon as I switched the light on in the hallway. He had dragged one of my cheap armchairs into the middle of the living room so that he would be facing the front door when I walked in. The cricket bat leaned against the side of the chair. He didn’t move to touch it, but his hand rested near its handle so the threat was clear. He was in his early forties and dressed immaculately in a charcoal suit. His fingers were covered with rings that gleamed almost as much as his balding head. His goatee was a darker shade than the rest of his hair, an obvious dye job.

  If I hadn’t known better, I would have taken him for any number of small-time local businessmen, first-generation immigrants from Pakistan or India. But unfortunately I did know better. This was Channy Mann, the other side of Wolverhampton’s criminal cold war. And I had been responsible for the death of his little brother.

  I doubted this was a social call.

  SIX

  I stood in silence. He sat in the chair and grinned like a cat that had just swallowed a bird whole. After beating it to death with a cricket bat.

  “Um…can I get you a coffee?”

  I wanted to get into the kitchen where the knives were. I have good, sharp knives.

  “I’ve already made it.” He pointed to my coffee table, where two mugs were giving off steam.

  “Milk? Suga
r? I have both if you—”

  “Miller, get in here.”

  I took the final cautious steps required to reach my living room. As ordered. Once there, Channy’s air of menace dropped away. He beamed and stood up, taking my hand in a strong welcoming grip between both of his.

  “Man, it’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s been, what, five months? Ever since—” Way to go. Bring up the dead brother. Miller, you are a star.

  “Yes, ever since Gaurav was taken from us.” He shook his head slowly. He looked me dead in the eye as he continued. “But at least they caught the bastard who did it, eh?”

  Was he testing me, or was I testing him? The man convicted of killing Gav Mann was innocent. Well, innocent of that crime, anyway. He’d committed plenty others. I’d gone from working for Channy and his brother to working for the opposing team. He had to know I was involved. His grip tightened, and he pulled me in closer. His grin twisted into something nasty, and it was wide enough for me to see his missing molars.

  “We both know who killed my brother, eh?”

  I pulled away as politely as possible and tried to stay calm. My heart was beating far harder than the smell of coffee would give it reason to. I glanced around the room, trying not to make it obvious that I was looking for something to pick up. I had a Les Paul Junior guitar in the corner. I had made a few unsuccessful attempts at learning the folk and punk songs that my mother had sung to me as a child. I knew it had a nice heavy weight to it. I just had to get there.

  “That Gaines cunt.” He spat the words out. “She walks around with her protection, thinks she can take the whole fuckin’ town. She’s never had to step up. She wouldn’t know how. My day? We had to prove it first. If you couldn’t hit, you couldn’t talk. You didn’t get a say.”

  I nodded. Looked encouraging. Please, go on. Keep talking and don’t kill me.

  He was working up a full rant now. He put his hand on my shoulder. “She just walks around like she’s on The Apprentice or something, like this shit we’re into is something for fucking corporate suits. The whole world, man, the whole world is run by accountants and cunts now.”