No More Heroes (20 page)

“Ben? Probably.”

“You know where he lives?”

“Didsbury.”

“He share a house with David?”

“Yeah. I’ll give you the address.” She hefts her messenger bag onto her knee, pulls out an A4 pad and writes down the address for me. “Phone number’s on there too, if you need it.”

I fold the note, put it in my inside pocket. “You know, if this does turn out to be what the paper said—”

“Then I’ll have to accept it, won’t I?” She tucks the pad back into her bag. “I love David, Mr Innes. He has ideals, and he’s working hard to achieve those ideals. Most of the blokes I meet here, they’re interested in booze and tits — David’s interested in
people
. He’s all about putting things into place that will help them despite themselves. Like this place. You know he was the first to campaign for a campus-wide smoking ban? Not just indoors, either.”

“Really,” I say. “Fascinating.”

“I mean, he got me to quit smoking, which is more than a dozen teachers and my parents ever managed to do. Because he has this way of telling you the truth and making you understand, d’you get me?”

Not at all, but I pull a face that I hope conveys some understanding.

“And it would be a shame if all that work ends up flushed down the toilet because of some bogus affiliation with the ENS.”

“You sold me, Karyn. I’ll see what I can do.”

She smiles, showing both her teeth and her youth. “My number’s on the paper too.”

I promise to give her a ring if anything turns up. As I’m walking out of the coffee shop, I pull out an Embassy and light it as soon as I’m outside. Puff hard on the filter. Fuck the smoking ban.

My back tweaks at me. I take a pill to shut it up. Catch a dirty look from someone as I’m heading off-campus. I don’t know whether it’s the cigarette or the pills that have annoyed this young man, but I’m not going to bother my arse to find out.

I get into the car, dump the filter on campus. Head for Wilmslow Road. And start trying to find out why David Nunn was beaten into a coma.

I pull into Rusholme, park outside a restaurant called The Balti King. I’m a white guy with short hair, not quite the skinhead but close enough to draw some glances from a couple of Asian lads across the street. I don’t meet their eyes, look at the ground. Keep walking, try not to look too threatening.

Canvass the shops on Wilmslow Road. The same introduction, a flash of the one business card I have left, and the questions.

“You working the other night?”

“You hear about that student getting beaten up?”

“You see anything?”

A big fat fuck-all from everyone I talk to. Either they know something and they’re keeping quiet because they don’t trust me, or they’re as clueless as they make out. Tell the truth, I’m probably asking the right questions to the wrong people. It’s unlikely those who worked in the mornings would be on the night shift too. But it’s worth a try. I’ve got to do something. Keep my hand in. Hope for a fucking miracle.

One bloke in a place called Plaza Kebabs doesn’t understand English. That’s what he tells me — “No English”. When nobody’s forthcoming in translating for me, I wave my hand at him, tell him it doesn’t matter.

“You want something to eat?” he says as I’m heading out the door.

Yeah, doesn’t speak English. Fucking hell.

I shake my head, step out onto the street. They’re already suspicious of me. And there’s my problem.

I don’t blame them. The last time someone asked these questions, it was the police and the press. Probably pretended they couldn’t speak English then, too. But they don’t want to deal with the same questions again, especially when it makes the entire community look bad.

Can’t say their silence is doing them any favours, mind.

I hit the end of Wilmslow Road, so I start the long walk back up to my car. Meanwhile, the glances have turned to full-on stares. The word’s spread.

I pass a car, a blue VW Beetle. One of the new ones, the old model melted into a more Japanese shape. In the back seat, something bright yellow catches my eye.

A pamphlet reading: GOT PLUMMER PROBLEMS?

David’s car.

There’s something shining on the dashboard. I have to turn back, glance in through the window again.

A brass Zippo, catching the sun. I reach into my pocket, pull out my cigarettes and light one. A campus-wide smoking ban, David managing to persuade Karyn to give up the tabs. I blow smoke, wondering what a militant non-smoker’s doing with a Zippo in his car. I look into the car again, just to make sure I’m not seeing things.

I’m not. It’s a Zippo, the smoker’s lighter. And it’s battered. Now, maybe it’s a family heirloom, but then heirlooms are kept in locked drawers.

I try the driver’s door. Locked.

Figures.

“Help you with something, mate?”

I look up. An Asian guy, about my height, staring at me. Concerned frown on his face, his eyes half-closed. Black T-shirt, biceps pushing against the fabric. Clean blue jeans.

“Nah,” I say, “I’m good.”

“That your car, is it?”

“What car?”

He gestures towards the Beetle.

“Nah.”

“You’re looking at it like it’s yours.”

“I’m just having a smoke, mate.”

“You sure?” He comes closer, his shoulders rolled back. “Because it looks to me like you were planning on nicking it or something.”

I laugh. “Not me.”

“You tried the door.”

“No, I didn’t.” I start walking away, keep the Embassy wedged between my lips. I don’t want to take it from my mouth, my hand’s shaking too much. I can see the bloke in my peripheral vision, moving closer.

“Here,” he says, “do I know you?”

“Nah, you don’t know me.” I walk faster. My car just up ahead. “That’s my car just up there.”

He drops back. I can’t see him anymore, but he says, “Right.”

A Zippo in a locked car. Plummer leaflet in the back. That’s too much not to connect. I unlock the Micra, get in. Watch the bloke cross the road, glancing back at the Beetle, probably wondering what’s so fucking special about it. Then he glances my way. My first instinct’s to duck down in the seat, but I wave and smile at him instead. Roll down my new window and put my arm out. Tap ash.

I dig out my
Manchester A-to-Z
, look up Wilmslow Road, then pull the list of Plummer addresses from my jacket pocket. I smooth the paper down, suck on the filter. Sure enough, just below the cigarette burn, there’s an address in Rusholme.

Could well be a coincidence. Like I said, a night without decent sleep, the kind of week I’ve had so far, my thought processes are all over the shop. I might be looking for links where there aren’t any. There’s no proof that David knew about these addresses, never mind that he was visiting one of these houses. Could be, he was down here to get a curry. By himself. And he got beaten up before he got a chance to make it to his car.

His car with the Zippo in it.

The lad made no secret about the fact that he was pissed off at Plummer.

Yeah, but there’s a difference between being pissed off and burning property. Collins might be completely out of the loop when it comes to what his staff get up to when they’re off-duty, but he had a point there.

I flick my smoking filter out the window and reach for my mobile. A bastard of a headache starting behind the eyes, which I put down to all this thinking. I massage the bridge of my nose as I call Dobson & Main. A receptionist answers. I ask for Meg.

“Tell her it’s Mr Innes,” I say.

There’s a pause. Voices in the background, just for a couple of seconds, then the receptionist sticks me on hold. Classical music playing. I don’t recognise the tune. Didn’t really expect to. I stare at the VW Beetle up the street, part of me hoping that I don’t get the confirmation I’m expecting.

“Mr Innes,” says Meg.

“You got a second?”

“If it
is
a second.”

“Your student pals still picketing outside?”

“No,” she says. “Look, we’re very busy.”

“Why’s that then?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why aren’t they still picketing? They all rallied round David’s bed, are they?”

“You heard the news.”

“Absolutely. Kind of escalating, isn’t it?”

“They’re not here,” says Meg. “Is that why you called?”

“No.” I shift position in the car, straighten my back out a little more than usual. “I wanted to know if you’d managed to get anywhere with that list I asked you about.”

“I told you, Mr Innes, I’m not allowed to give out that kind of information.”

I sniff. “Right. I forgot. Just, I read in the paper that the Manchester University student representative are boycotting all of Plummer’s properties.”

“That’s correct.”

“So how do they know which ones to boycott?”

Silence at the other end. It goes on so long, I think she’s hung up on me.

“Hello?” I say.

“Bear with me just one second.”

“Take your time.”

Meg doesn’t hear me. She’s stuck me on hold again. That same music, and I realise they’ve only bought a section as hold music. After a minute, the music loops back to the beginning. And after six minutes by the clock in the dash, I can feel sweat prickle the sides of my face. I’m about to hang up and call again when Meg comes back to the phone.

“Mr Innes,” she says.

“Still here.”

“Looks like I owe you an apology, but we really didn’t—”

“You gave a list of Plummer’s properties to the student representative, didn’t you?”

“Not me, no. My boss. And direct to them, yes.”

“That’s all I needed to know. Thanks, Meg.”

She starts to ask me something, but I hang up on her. If the student rep have a list of properties, it’s not entirely implausible that David Nunn could get his hands on it. But it’s still not enough. If I want to push this further, I’ll need more than a handful of coincidences.

I call Plummer at his office. He picks up on the fourth ring. The gravel in his voice makes me think he’s either just woken up, or he’s hammered already. Could be both.

“What?”

“Don, it’s Cal. Look, do me a favour—”

“Where the fuck is Frank?”

“He’s off sick.”

“You heard from him, then?”

“Yeah, I saw him.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s not well, Don.”

“I’m sick of this taxi shit. I don’t have the money or the fucking patience. You see him again, you tell him I want my car back. He doesn’t want to come to work, that’s fine. You two go off, go play whatever the hell you want to play at, but I want my car back. It’s my car. I deserve—”

“Don, shut up for a second. I need you—”

“Who the fuck d’you think you’re talking to, telling me to shut up? I’m telling
you
, Callum, you’re still in my employ. And so’s Frank. I know he’s your mate and everything, but he needs to understand that he has certain duties. I’m skint, alright? I can’t afford to keep taking cabs. Christ, I might even have to sell the Merc. You know what kind of blow that’s going to be?”

“You want to find out who torched your property or not?”

There’s a pause. Plummer seems to sober up a little. He clears his throat. “You know who did it?”

“I have an idea, but I still need proof.”

“Who did it, Callum?” He coughs, then shouts down the phone at me. “Who started all this? I’ll have their fucking legs broken.”

“You’ll have a job. The bloke I think did it, he’s in the hospital already. But I need you to check something for me. You ever rent to a David Nunn?”

“David Nunn? Why’s that ring a bell?”

“Did you or didn’t you?”

“Whoa, wait a second — David Nunn’s that fucking student, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He burned the Longsight house?”

“I’m not getting into it, Don. Just do me a favour and see if you’ve rented to him. You said you’ve got records of your tenants. Nunn would have rented last year, probably. Guessing at a place in Rusholme. He’s a second-year student, and he doesn’t live there anymore.”

“I can’t go through those files, Cal. You saw them. They’re all over the place.”

“Well, you need to get your arse in gear and do it anyway. If you find anything, let me know.”

“Christ,” he says.

I start the engine. “What is it?”

“That break-in—”

“You said it was vandals.”

“But I’m thinking now, I’m thinking—”

“That it was a bunch of students. Fuck’s sake, Don. Look through the files anyway, I’ll see what I can dig up at my end. There’s light at the end of the tunnel, that’s the important thing.”

I hang up on him, stuff my mobile into my jacket pocket. Head down Wilmslow Road to the property on the list.

I try to tell myself that this lead, it’s probably nothing. My fucked-up perception, coupled with Don’s, everything’s thrown out of whack. But then another voice rages that I’m onto something here. And I don’t know what I’m going to do if I manage to prove this, but I’ll deal with that when the time comes.

First, I need to get someone to tell me what I think is already the case. That David Nunn, for all his left-leaning politics, was down here in Rusholme to set fire to a house.

Parked outside 16 Viscount Road, another nondescript terrace in what seems to be a city of them. A short drive from Wilmslow Road, but I’ve taken it slowly. Watching for any miraculous clues to make themselves apparent. You never know, I might be on a roll.

There’s a gang of kids, up and about early to make the best possible use of the last of their summer holidays. They’re banging a football against a garage door, making a hell of a racket. The kid in the makeshift goal tries to grab at the ball, but the other kids delight in kicking too hard for him to risk a catch.

I get out of the Micra, lean against the car and stare at number 16. The house doesn’t look like one of Plummer’s properties. It’s well maintained for a start. Whether that’s down to Plummer, the letting agency or the tenant is another matter. Then again, as Meg said, Dobson & Main aren’t in the business of letting slums.

I push off the side of the Micra, open the small front gate and head up the short garden path to the front door. Press the bell. I can hear it sound inside the house, so I step back and wait.