Beast of Burden (18 page)

“Derek, you got anything for us yet?”

“Iain, is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“I just said. Wondering if you had anything for us.”

“I'm sorry, I thought I made my position clear. I can't help you out here, Iain.”

“I need you to check on something for us, then. Might change your mind.”

“No.”

“Buy you a drink next time I see you, alright? Check to see if anyone picked up on a long hair on the body. Then let us know what Kennedy's thinking about it.”

“You're joking.”

“I'm fuckin' not.” I got to my feet, nodded at the landlord as I headed for the door. “Listen to us, Derek. You check into that, I guaran-fuckin'-tee you he's dropped that evidence, still playing this like it's a robbery.”

“And it's—”

“Can't be a fuckin' robbery, alright? First off, who the fuck robs junkies except other junkies?” I let the doors swing shut behind us, pulled at my jacket as I headed out to my car. “Second, who the fuck beats the shit out of someone who's just lying there? Something else you might want to check — his fuckin' blood work. Got a feeling that Mo was nodding at the time, so check for smack.”

“Wait a second—”

“I'm telling you, check this stuff, I bet Kennedy's doing fuck all with it.”

“Iain, hang
on
a moment.”

I reached the Granada, unlocked the door. “What?”

“Do you even realise what you're asking me to do here?”

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

“And what in God's name makes you think I'm going to do it?”

“Because you know as well as I do that Kennedy's a bad copper.” I put one hand on the roof of my car, felt the cold fade. “You know he's bent. I told you he was bent. And I'm telling you now that he's fucking this case up on purpose.”

“You don't have any proof, though.”

“That's what you're going to get me.”

Adams let out this long, noisy sigh into the phone. “No.”

“The fuck you mean, no?”

“I mean, you're already suspended, Iain. You're not a copper. You're a civilian who's looking to get arrested if you keep on at this. And even if you were a copper, you don't rank me, so I'm not duty bound to do whatever you tell me to do.”

“Alright,” I said. “Okay, maybe my tone was a bit—”

“I don't give a fuck about your
tone
,” he said, and he was a fine one to talk because he came off right snippy just then. “I'm warning you. Stay away from this case. Stay away from
any
case.”

“Come on, Derek, don't play that game.”

His voice dropped in volume. “There's people at this nick who're
waiting
for you to fuck up, Iain.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

“No,” he said. “You don't know. Because if you
did
know you wouldn't be acting the way you are. You're fucking
this
close to losing your job, did you know that?”

“Thanks to you, you fuckin'—”

“You think that's it? You think the brass haven't been keeping an eye on you all this time? The only thing you should be worried about right now, Iain, is preparing for your meeting with Ali. Because you'll be fucking lucky if you just lose your job. There's whispers around the nick that Reece is going to press charges.”

I looked at the ground, suddenly dying for a fucking ciggie.

“Right,” I said. “I get you.”

“You understand what I'm saying, Iain? Don't be bullish about this. I mean, I appreciate you've got problems at home—”

“I don't,” I said. “Everything's fuckin' dandy round mine.”

“I meant the divorce,” he said.

“I know what you fuckin' meant, and it's not a problem.” I scratched the back of my neck, felt the cold creep in under my jacket.

Fuck it.

“Look, you're right,” I said, as convincing as possible. “I need to get this thing with Ali sorted first. Makes sense to put a pin in that, right? In the meantime, all I'm asking is keep an eye on Kennedy.”

“I can't.”

“Then do what you can.”

I disconnect, pop the phone back into my jacket pocket. Then I get into the car, crank the heater up until I can feel my fingers again.

Didn't know they were pushing Reece to press charges. Adams was right; there were plenty of wankers at the station who'd happily see us on the dole or, even better, in prison. But I never reckoned they'd be so fucking proactive about it.

Well, they weren't the only ones who could turn the fucking screw.

I drove out to where I cornered Paddy the last time, cruised around the estate. By the time I got there, it was already getting dark. Paddy had a mate who lived round here, and I wouldn't have been surprised if that mate happened to be a fucking dealer, judging from the company that Paddy used to keep.

As I drove, I pulled out my phone. Called a grass I knew, Coldfeet. The lad was like a Yellow Pages for dealers. Gave him the area I was driving around, he gave us three addresses.

“You know these people?” I said.

“Like, am I bothered if you nick 'em?”

“No, as in have you ever bought from them before?”

“Yeah. Off and on. You know me.”

I did know him. He had a habit as long as the A1. “Any of 'em have a lady friend?”

“Funny question, that.”

“Just fuckin' tell us.”

“Just funny you should mention it. Daryl Goines. His missus is something fuckin' special.”

I already had the address, and it all fit together perfectly. See, Daryl Goines was a black bloke, moved up from Birmingham because he thought he'd have plenty of easy trade routes further north. Stood to reason that his missus would be a black girl, and she was. A fucking looker, too, by all accounts.

I parked outside the house, watching the front from across the road. Paddy, as long as I'd known him, was a sucker for the dark meat. And if this woman had even been slightly nice to him, that would be him thinking he had a fucking chance. Even though, from what I could find out about Daryl Goines, he was a nasty piece of shit who'd rather cut you up than shoot you. There were stories of pig farmers and plastic bags, people going missing and ears turning up in the post. And yet, there was Paddy, still reckoned he could what, get his end away? It explained why he wasn't off his tits when I grabbed him on the street. Explained why he didn't want to tell us where he'd been, too.

So, what was the plan? I could sit in my car, listen to my Dido CD, and wait until Paddy showed his face again. But there was no real certainty of that happening. For all I knew, he'd been and gone. Or I could get out of the car, march up to the front door and kick it in. Announce to Goines and his woman that if they saw Paddy Reece again, he better give us a ring. Then, course, there'd be the chance that Goines would carve us the fuck up, or else expect to be arrested. Because who the fuck was I but a fat bloke with a temper right now?

I dug into my jacket, pulled out my wallet with my identification in it. Stared at the picture of myself.

A good copper would have left it well enough alone. But then a good copper wouldn't have found himself in my position.

I snapped the ID wallet shut and looked out at the house again. If I collared Paddy, what was I going to do? Beat fuck out of him? To be fair, that was what'd got us in the shit in the first place. So, what, then go in and maybe get Goines to do my dirty work?

Shook my head. I was headed for a dive if I did either one of them things. They had us on Paddy; no getting around that. Better I kept it filed away, get the fucker later when he wasn't expecting it. Right now, the best thing I could do was carry on with the investigation, act like the copper I knew I was and not get fucking sidetracked by personal errands.

So I turned the key, started the engine, headed home.

Because after all, Paddy Reece wasn't the target here, was he?

Nah, that role belonged to Innes.

INNES

My hand shakes as I pour another drink.

Even now, when I'm at home, with four or five good stiff vodkas inside me, half a pack of Embassys smoked and ground out, there's still a tremor that's not a side effect of the stroke. I'd get up and walk it off — probably the closest I could come to home physiotherapy — but there's the chance that moving around might make it worse. So I keep parked on the sofa, drinking. Light another cigarette. Wonder why the fuck Morris Tiernan just called.

On the face of it, I already know — he wants to see me again. Yeah, I saw him this morning, he wants to see me again. For an “update” he says. I don't know how much of an update I'm likely to give him, to be honest.

Which gets my mind rolling on other things.

Like, he's picked up some information I don't want him to.

Like, he's suspicious.

The way he was talking to me this morning, all that shite about loyalty, hypothetical situations, my brother. He's got other things on his mind, definitely, not sure if he can trust me yet.

Fuck it, not sure if he can trust
anyone
yet.

My mobile rings. I put down the glass of vodka, check the display.

Paulo.

“Y'alright?”

“I'm okay,” I say.

“Where are you?”

“Home.”

“Doing much?”

I tap ash. “Going out soon.”

“Right. Look, there was something—”

“How's Frank?”

I hear him shuffling on the other end of the line. “Yeah, he's fine.”

“Still working?”

“He's out every night, keeping an eye on the Sadler house. You know what he's like, thinks he has to keep the place on a twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

“Nothing happened yet?”

“Not according to Frank, no. Any day now, he says.”

“Right.”

“You ask me, he needs help. He can't be sitting out there all night by himself.”

“He's a grown up.”

“That's not what I mean. He's not sleeping. You know how he's like.”

“Like I said … he's a grown up. He can handle … himself.”

“Wouldn't hurt for you to help him out, though, would it?”

“I'm busy.”

“On what?”

I blow smoke. “You know what.”

There's a long silence at the other end. A year ago, I'd have been scared of that silence. It meant Paulo was thinking, probably about my situation. Now, though, he's not thinking about me. He's thinking about himself.

“That paying, is it?” he says.

“Not yet.”

He sighs down the phone at me. “Look—”

“Doesn't matter.”

“It fuckin' does matter. I want you to—”

“No.”

“Callum, I know what you're doing here. And, y'know, I've been thinking about it. You have to stop it. Right now.”

“You don't … make that choice. Not for me.”

“You're doing it for all the—”

“Leave it, mate. I talked to … Tiernan.”

“When?”

“The other morning. It's a case.”

“You don't have to do this.”

“I do.” I shift position on the sofa, stretch an aching leg. “When this is … finished. I'll help Frank. You're right. It's not fair.”

Silence at the other end.

“How's it going?” he says.

“Fine.”

“Donkey was here.”

“I know. You gave him … my number.”

“I had to.”

“I know,” I say, nodding despite myself. “It's fine.”

“You talk to him?”

“Yes. It's sorted. He's fine.”

Another sigh. “You're not going to tell us anything, are you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's not … in your best
in
terests. To know.” I check my watch, and get a sick, fluttery feeling against the pit of my stomach. “I've got to go.”

“Okay,” he says.

“It'll be fine. Don't worry.”

And I kill the call, put my mobile back on the coffee table. Stare at it, then finish my drink. I probably shouldn't be driving, not with all this alcohol in me, but what the fuck. There's a good chance I'm going out to the Wheatsheaf to my fucking death anyway, right?

I struggle upright, grab my stick. Look down, and I can see the dried blood still on the handle. I bring the stick closer, pick at the blood furiously until it's all gone. I've got to be more careful. You never know what disparate things people like Morris Tiernan is likely to connect, and even if they're just thrown together, there could still be a grain of truth in there that I can't possibly deny. And if that happens, I'm fucked.

I close my eyes for a moment, concentrate on taking deep breaths. I can't go in there nervous. It won't look right. I'll look like I have something to hide, which won't be good. When it feels like my heart rate is back to a normal level, I open my eyes again, limp across to the door, and then I'm gone.

INNES

The Wheatsheaf looks different when it's dark and the place is locked down. Nobody on the streets when I pull up in the Micra, which just adds to the desolate look of the place, broken by a single light in the lounge bar, burning yellow. I finish my cigarette in the car, watch the light cut out as someone moves in front of it.

Tiernan's in there. He's not alone.

I try to swallow. Can't, because my mouth is too dry. I flick the cigarette out onto the road as I struggle out of the car.

When I get to the front doors, Brian's already there waiting for me. He stands to one side to let me in, and I see the bloke, size of a fucking house, standing in front of the door to the lounge bar. The house looks at me evenly, then nods to where Tiernan is waiting.

“You want to leave us alone,” says Tiernan to the big guy, in a voice that sounds like he's gone through a pack and a half.

The house leaves, closes the door quietly behind him.

We're alone in the lounge bar, right enough. The shadow must've been Tiernan himself. Now he's settled, watching me, and looks like he's aged five years in twelve hours.

“What do you have?” he says.

“It's been a day.”

“And?” He doesn't take his eyes off me now. Already used to my face and what happens to it when I speak.

“And … nothing.”

He remains still. “You were talking to your copper friend.”

I close my mouth. Rethink my current situation. I can't lie to him, can't say that nothing's happened. So I have to step this up, tell him stuff
has
happened that he needs to know about, that I didn't want to tell him before I had all the facts. Also, I need to watch my fucking back from now on, because he's got people out there following me.