by Jay Stringer
I stared down at the black liquid and opened my mouth to tell him I’d quit coffee. But then I came to my senses and sipped at it, feeling the warmth roll across my tongue and hit the back of my throat; I wondered how I’d been strong enough to deny myself this basic joy of life.
“You feeling okay?”
“I’ll live, yeah. How did you know to come find me?”
“I just wondered what was happening. I mean, it’s only what, twenty minutes’ walk from Mum’s house? You’d been gone an hour. I was going to get the car, but I heard what sounded like a fight and figured it would be you.”
“Cheers.”
“Let’s face it, you’ve always had a way of pissing people off.”
“Are you the pot or the kettle? I seem to remember we threatened to kill each other once.”
“Twice.”
“I had them right where I wanted them, by the way.”
“Oh, I could see that.”
“Seriously. Another couple of minutes and I would have made them crack.”
He smiled and ducked back into the kitchen. My gaze settled on a flyer for the PCP that sat on the coffee table, Rick Marshall’s smiling face beaming out from the front. I picked it up and looked over the checklist of campaign pledges inside.
More police on the street.
Freeze on applications for asylum.
Smaller classrooms.
I looked for a pledge to deliver the moon on a stick, but I couldn’t find one. No creativity, some people. Noah came back in with a sandwich of his own and sat down opposite me.
“Where did this come from?”
“I found it outside. Those crazies were out in the town center bright and early today; saw ’em when I went out for eggs. They’re passing out leaflets and giving speeches to anyone who will listen. They spotted me as a gyppo straightaway, so I asked for a leaflet just to piss them off.”
I pointed to the picture of Marshall on the cover. “Is he down there?”
“Oh yes. Got a TV camera following him round and everything. You might get famous if you go and have a word with him.”
I pulled on a coat, wincing as I did so, and left Noah with the breakfast dishes. Out in the town center, it was a normal Saturday. The traffic was flowing steadily, and there was loud singing coming from the pubs. Drinking starts early in the Midlands. The main shopping street was full of pedestrians.
The rally was right smack in the middle of the action, its tables anchored just below Wednesbury’s historic clock tower, which dated to the previous century. I tried to imagine this site as it had been back then: a place for public markets, public floggings, and wife selling. Those were the real glory days of this town. I took a closer look at the setup. PCP had put so much work into it, and it struck me that a rally like this had to be expensive. There were several large displays showing an enlarged version of the campaign flyer, and there was a raised podium, where I guessed Rick Marshall would be speaking later.
Spotting the man himself wasn’t hard; he was followed by a TV cameraman and stopping to kiss babies.
“There are laws against that, you know,” I said as I pushed in next to him.
I could see his brain spinning behind his eyes, trying to place me. But he gave me a huge smile and clasped my hand straightaway. Good old friends. He patted me on the back and turned us away from the camera.
“Did you find what you were looking for the other night?”
“Maybe. Maybe. Tell me, what’s your connection to David Kyng?”
He frowned and pulled me farther away from the camera, waving a couple of times at passersby to keep the illusion going.
“Mr. Kyng? He’s a member of our party. He’s a valued contributor.”
“Really? I thought you’d worked hard to remove his kind from your party. Wasn’t that what you said the other night?”
“Look, Mr. Miller, David Kyng is a trusted member of our team, and I promise you that he is in no way—”
“You might want to watch what promises you make. I mean, as a politician, you know? David Kyng loans money out to people who can’t pay, and then he takes it back in broken bones. You don’t have to believe me; you can just ask around.”
“Are these maybe like your connections to Veronica Gaines? You don’t seem to take kindly to someone asking you about that. Perhaps you can empathize?” He sensed a victory there and eased off. “Look, I don’t know anything about what Kyng does outside of the party.”
“Oh, I really hope not. Because if you do, I’ll come looking for you, Mr. Marshall.” I stepped back as I said that last line, so that the camera would pick up the look on my face. I wasn’t going to be used as a clip for a happy meet and greet.
I needed to talk to Connolly. I walked away from the town center and up Church Hill. Once upon a time, the site had been a pagan hill fort, dedicated to the god Woden. The town had been built around it, which was why you could see the two churches from miles around.
Don’t be fooled, though. The town had its priorities straight; there were more pubs on the hill than there were churches.
I paused at the entrance to the church, startled by the stillness. It was a calm that seemed to grab something in me. I stood in the doorway and thought about how it seemed like the best place for me—if only religion wasn’t involved. I took a few steps inside and saw Connolly deep in conversation with someone. The conversation broke up before I got to them, the other party moving away before I could get a good look. Connolly looked around the church and then came straight at me.
“You seem to like it here,” he said.
“I like places that understand quiet. It can take hold of you far more than noise, if that makes any sense.”
“It makes a lot of sense.”
I sat at a pew, same one as last time. He sat next to me. I panicked for a moment that he was going to offer to hear my confession or give me some sage advice. He started to cough, something that came from deep inside and shook his whole frame, followed by a hollow hacking sound. He waved away my concern and then breathed deeply a couple of times before changing the subject.
“Your father was religious?” he asked.
How best to explain the culture I was brought up in? I took the shortcut. “Yes.”
“I thought so.”
Standing in a church on my own, I usually feel respect and grace. Held in the grip of a quiet power that comes from somewhere I can’t explain. Standing in a church with company, however, I always go looking for fights and arguments. Perhaps that’s why we pray alone and get married in a group.
“I need the name and address of the second victim.”
This caught him by surprise. He struggled for words for a moment before he shook his head.
“No, Father, stop right there. If you expect me to do this, you have to give me her name. I need to know where she lives, to look around, to see who visits.”
“And I will arrange that, but I cannot give—”
“What? Did you watch Quincy when you were young and decide all it takes to find a criminal is a grumpy bastard with a limp? There’s something you’re holding out on. I mean, I get it. I get why the families won’t go to the police. That’s fine. But there’s no reason to hold it back from me, is there?”
He left me alone for a few moments while he slipped into a side room. He came back shortly afterward and handed me a folded piece of paper. He told me his mobile number was on there, too, but the tone in his voice made it clear he wasn’t asking for a call. I felt my own phone vibrate in my pocket, but I left it there.
“I met Robin, by the way. Ruth said he’d been with her the night she was attacked. But he seemed genuine when I spoke to him.”
“He’s a good lad. Please, Eoin, show tact in this.”
“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”
He sized me up.
“I notice you came to me for the address, not Salma. I guess it’s easier to bully an old man than a woman?”
If he’d been stor
ing that up, it was worth it. Home run. Out of the park and air out of my lungs. I had no suitable answer, nothing at all that would do. If in doubt, aim low.
“I’m still curious as to why the Gaines family took an interest in all this.”
He was walking away from me now. He’d had enough of the whole thing. It was what I deserved for lobbing a cheap shot at an old man.
He paused and turned back for a moment. “I asked them to, that’s all.”
“And I get the impression Salma’s holding something back as well. What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.” He was already turning away again as he spoke, but that didn’t disguise the fact that he was lying. He turned back to me for a second. A mean smile played on his lips. “You’re just like your father.”
He walked away.
I pulled out my phone, and the screen told me I’d had three missed calls, all from a landline number I didn’t recognize, but I returned the call. A woman answered, and I didn’t place her voice straightaway.
“Is this Mr. Miller?”
“Yeah, who is—Mrs. Boswell? Is that you? What’s up?”
“Thanks for calling back. I was—God, this sounds awful. I was looking through Marcus’s room. He was in a really strange mood this morning and wouldn’t look me in the eye. After he went out, I had a look through his things and—”
The line crackled for a second.
“What did you find?”
“Bullets. He’s out there somewhere with a gun.”
TWENTY
Finding Boz was pretty simple. First I checked the spots where I knew Mann’s crew would be operating. I saw Letisha; I saw Marv. And, again, I saw Birmingham gang colors. Channy was keeping interesting new company. But there was no sign of Boz. Once I’d ruled out those spots, I called Becker and gave him a brief rundown of what I wanted to do. I drove into the center of an industrial estate and parked the car. I sat in silence for a moment and tried to plan what I would say if he did have the gun on him, but the moment was shattered when I heard gunfire.
A single shot.
I jumped out of the car, not shutting the door behind me, and ran in the direction of the shot. I already knew where it was coming from because I was the fool who’d shown Boz the location in the first place. I cut through a clump of trees and skidded down a muddy slope, coming out onto the towpath along the canal. My momentum almost took me over the edge, into the water, which might have been a fate worse than death, judging from its murky color.
Boz was a few yards farther along, standing by an old graffiti-covered bridge. His gun hung at his side, and I saw a row of bottles on the opposite bank, the middle one smashed. He turned to stare at me as I walked toward him. The fact that he hadn’t led with his gun as he turned meant there was still hope for him.
“What the hell are you doing, cob? Target practice? We’ll have the police here in a minute.” He shrugged, and I carried on. “Where did you get that? Was it your brother’s?”
He didn’t answer.
“Come on, Boz, talk to me.”
“What’s the point, man?”
I stood and waited. His tough facade cracked, and he was a kid again.
“They let me go.”
“Letisha?”
“Yeah. They said they didn’t want me working with them no more. Said Mr. Mann had ordered it, didn’t want me cause I was trouble like my brother.”
He raised his gun and fired another shot. It went wide of the target and buried itself in the grass somewhere. Gunfire was never quite what I expected. In the limited experience I’d had, it seemed to vary dramatically from gun to gun. This one was a modest sound, a loud pop with a bass rumble.
“Come on, man, seriously. The police will be here soon. We gotta move.” I put my hand over his gun, but he pulled away. “You just want to wait here till they arrest you? What’s this going to solve?”
“Solve? Like a mystery? There aye no mysteries, man. School knows I’m thick, my mum knows I’m shit, Mann knows I’m no gangster, and the guy who killed my brother? Shit, he knows I aye nothing, too.”
He lifted the gun again.
“Stop it. Now.” It was the most like an adult I’d ever sounded. He lowered the gun and turned back to me. “Grow up, okay? So you can’t shoot somebody. So fucking what? You’re a bright kid, and you know what? You’ve got a woman at home who needs you. She’s lost her son, and now you’re dead set on making her lose another one.”
I almost had him, right there. His lip wobbled for a second, and he looked like a child. Then something inside him grabbed the reins, and his adult mask slipped back into place.
“The fuck do you know about us?”
“You really want to ask that? Who stood here and saw Bauser’s body? Who found the guy who killed him?” I lifted up my T-shirt so that he could see the scar. “Who took all of this to get the guy locked up?”
That was playing with the truth quite a bit, but he didn’t need to know that. A siren cut through the moment, followed by another. Two police cars were almost on top of us.
“Give me the gun.”
“What?”
“Look, shots have been reported, and you’re a black kid with ties to a local gang. You’re going in either way—give me the fucking gun.”
He looked confused and didn’t move. Then we heard slamming car doors and footsteps approaching from behind the trees.
“Give me the gun. They’ll take you in, give you a scare. Then you go home to your mum and figure out how to fix things, okay?”
He hesitated one more moment, and I was afraid the police would see him with the gun. In the instant before the uniforms burst through the trees, he handed it to me and I slipped it into the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back. Stepping through behind the two uniformed officers was Becker, and I sent up a silent prayer to friendship. The script played out predictably because it was all for show anyway. Becker gave us both a grilling. He eyed up Boz, made mention of his gang connections, and told the uniforms to take him back to the station. As Boz was led away in cuffs, Becker turned to me.
“You think this will work?”
“Man, I hope so.”
“Where’s the gun?”
I trusted Becker, but I still didn’t want to give up the evidence. I didn’t want there to be any chance that Boz’s hour in the cell could be turned into a real arrest.
“It’s in the canal.”
Becker squinted at me and then at the water. Sometimes the best thing a friend can do is not call you on your bullshit. He nodded and turned to follow the uniforms.
Channy had let Boz go.
That meant he’d delivered on his part of the bargain. I stared at the ground, at the exact spot where I’d seen Boz’s brother lying dead. It was just another obligation that hung round my neck.
TWENTY‐ONE
I was never a big reader. Books were my father’s thing, and he was always trying to push them onto us. I preferred comic books, and much of my knowledge of classic fiction had come from TV and movies. I remembered Goofy in the Disney version of A Christmas Carol, all tied up in chains and locks, bound by the mistakes he’d made.
Obligations.
Memories.
Debts.
We let them wrap around us and tie us up in knots until we lose sight of who we are and why we do the things we do.
I was standing over a modest plaque at the crematorium, a gravestone by any other name. Beneath it were the ashes of an old man I’d once failed. I’d found him wandering in the street, on my way home from work. The last day I had felt like a cop, the last time I felt I could make a difference. He’d died without a name, without family or friends at his bedside. Somehow in the modern world we still let people slip through the cracks. Welfare stumped for the cost of his cremation, but I chipped in to give him a decent spot and a marker to show that he’d lived. The plaque was inscribed with the only name I could think to give him:
Joe Hill.
One of my earliest memories was my mother singing that song to me, over and over. The words didn’t mean anything to me, but I could tell they meant something to her.
Takes more than guns to kill a man.
Well, for my Joe Hill it took old age, Alzheimer’s, pneumonia, and cancer. Life had really not wanted him around any longer. I guess I’d pinned any hopes of saving myself on being able to save him, and when he went, a piece of me went with him.
“This was never on you, you know that?”
I turned to see Becker standing behind me, staring down at the plaque. He was one of only a handful of people who knew about the grave and its importance to me. I shrugged and turned back to my thoughts. Becker waited me out.
“How did you know I’d be here?” I asked when I finally turned to face him.
“I’m a detective.”
“What can I do for you?”
He looked hurt, and for the first time in a long time it occurred to me that Becker was my closest friend. Was it too hard to believe he’d turned up to look out for me?
“Boz has been released,” he said, putting on a professional face and changing the subject quickly. “I wouldn’t hold out hope, though. How many breaks did we cut his brother?”
“Not enough. Boz is a good kid.”
Becker nodded. “He’s an angry kid. I guess you understand that more than I do, right?”
I started back along the path toward the car park. My brain was whizzing off in too many directions: Kyng, my mother, Gaines, Connolly. Becker said something, but it didn’t register until he touched my arm and said it again.