Cleaning Up (11 page)

That night he hit the Crown and sat down with his old man to listen to the muscular sound of the house blues band, four local blokes, three tradies and an IT guy, who were all competent musicians. The lead guitarist was the star man. He could play alright but, for Tommy’s taste, he tended to overdo the string bending solos. Still, Mick was happy enough in the midst of the cacophony, toe tapping and head nodding along. Mick loved the band and the boys in the band loved him. The old bugger was a local icon right enough.

Mick commented on the lightness of his mood in the set break.

‘Yeah well- it’s spring in’t it Dad?’ Playing with the old fella a little bit.

‘Spring uh?’ Mick snorted into his Guinness and took a big swallow of the brew. Mick looked back at him as he licked his lips, his eyes shining in the gloom of the pub’s lounge room.

‘That’s my boy.’ Mick told him.

On the Sunday he took the old man for a drive over the tops, they were booked in to have Sunday lunch with Wayne, his missus and the kids. The drive was long enough to feel like a pleasant event but short enough to not be too arduous for the old man. Despite the sunshine and warmth, pockets and slivers of snow still lay in the upper reaches of the north facing hills.

The meal was a gargantuan affair and his old man made a point of eating more than he would have done if it had just been the two of them. His dad was a sucker for a generous hearted woman and Debbie was all that and a little bit more.
Mick even played and interacted with the kids for an hour or so.

After a while, a little look told him that the old man was ready to return to the ranch and Tommy stood up and initiated the farewells. Debbie gave the old man a piece of cheesecake wrapped up in foil and Mick looked for all the world like a kid who’d been given the perfect birthday present.

They listened to the radio for a while on the way back, enjoying the ride and the ease of the silence between them. His old man didn’t bother asking him in for a brew and Tommy was fine with it, Mick needed his time alone, that was a long established given.

As he sat in the car he watched the old man juggle the cheesecake over to his right hand as he reached for his keys to open the front door. After he unlocked the door Mick turned and gave him a one figured salute. Tommy gunned the engine and pulled out into the road.

She called him that evening and they confirmed it for Thursday - a pub situated on the leafier side of the city - a smart joint and given the local real estate, inevitably pricey.

Tommy played music until it was time to crash and revelled in the anticipation. He wondered about the boy and how that side of it would go but, what the hell, life couldn’t always be gift wrapped with a pretty bow. The kid would have to learn to get along, just like the rest of us.

Darrin was finding that working on the Marshall case was proving to be very frustrating, lots of shoe leather being used kicking up dirt and looking under rocks on the Barrington whereupon all and sundry professed to know fuck all about Matthew and any of his movements - a complete fucking
stonewall. Liaison with the cops down where the body had been found had drawn a blank too. It was half a mile from the boy’s last resting place to the nearest residencies and a quarter of a mile from the skip to a nearby trading estate. Nobody had anything for them - it looked like the detective work on this one was going to mean somebody leading them to where they had to go by the nose - the Mozzer principle.

It was the crystal meth found in the boy that was keeping the heat on the case but the Drug Squad, according to Moz, were just as bereft of leads as they were.

‘Fishing trip this is son - like trying to pin the tail on the bleeding donkey.’

There was overtime going around it though, they had finally put an op post on the Coleshaw. It was located in an empty flat in one of the three God forsaken mid-rises that looked down in their sallow misery over the estate’s small shopping precinct, that and the local boozer, The Admiral, and right on down the full length of Oak Road. It was a grand vista that afforded them a bird’s eye view of the local, low level bell-end dealers and their impressionable young acolytes who compulsively hung around them in shiftless clusters. Plus, there were a couple of bigger players living up on the estate, mid-level operators who, reputedly, had contacts with the higher end of the city’s criminal fraternity. It was a perfect spot really.

So, that was his week sorted, his regular shift then a change of clothes and off to the Coleshaw in his battered but functional Triumph to take up position at the lounge window of flat 18c Windsor House, the Coleshaw.

Big Ged Keegan had popped into the musty dump on the Wednesday of his first week there, his ursine frame filling
up the doorway that was between the small hallway and the lounge. As far as he knew Keegan hadn’t been co-opted on to the op but he was renowned for having his fingers in lots of pies.

‘Neighbours not too noisy for you then young un?’

Keegan had nodded across to the flat next door where-in there lived a permanently ripped, middle-aged Rasta.

Darrin grinned and shook his head, it was company of sorts - a bit of bloody life at least.

Apart from the Rasta man there was only an elderly couple living on this landing, which was the third floor of the block. Home for Fred and Doris was the flat nearest the stairwell. He felt for the poor old buggers, they had to be in their mid-seventies and they were stuck in this crumbling dump, washed up on an unloved, polluted beach surrounded by the jetsam and flotsam of Coleshaw life.

Big Ged had joined him over at the widow, he took up a lot of space did Keegan and Darrin immediately felt that familiar sense of unease in his presence, aware of the ticking of his pulse in his throat.

Keegan jerked his chin over towards the precinct, ‘owt doing down there then Dazzer lad?’

‘Just the usual shit Sarge – pure scroteville.’

‘Any of the older lads been out and about - clocked ‘em?’

‘Yeah Keiron er.’

‘Prendegast?’

‘Yeah him and Dwayne, er Dwayne Wilson.’

Ged nodded at that, ‘any dealing?’

‘Hard to say nothing obvious - they’re smoking, weed probably, but…’

‘Yeah I know son, it has to be dog balls flagrant to nail
them. Any sign of Chris Johnstone and that meathead brother of his?’

Johnstone was the closest thing the Coleshaw had to a drug baron. And he was a large part of the reason why he was stood in this shitty flat. He lived down off Oak Road, in Linden Avenue. Johnstone was known to regularly hold court at The Admiral - King Chris surrounded by his indolent, hard-nosed, blotch-skinned coterie.

‘You collared him once, didn’t you Sarge?’ It was his turn to ask a question for a fucking change.

Keegan looked at him with an irritating wry amusement.

‘Been checking out my scrapbook have yer young Dazzler?’

Darrin smiled a stiff smile back at him, the fucker had to have three inches and eighty pounds on him - he was a definite four be two job.

But Keegan was fucking with him. He laughed and patted Darrin on the shoulder.

‘Yeah, over ten years ago now- must be. Prick got off with a slap on the wrist too. A couple of witnesses pulled the pin - shat themselves when they got the hard word. That and that fucking slick Jew lawyer of his.’

Big Ged tutted in disgust at the memory.

‘They need to raze this place and start again Darrin.’ As he said it the Rasta guy yelled something out and then laughed, maybe he concurred.

‘Johnstone connected to the lads in the city?’

Keegan smiled at him again, this time a little patronisingly. They weren’t mates yet.

‘The lads in the city eh Daz! Well he’d like people to think that he was, but, bottom line, he’s a scrote and those particular 
respectable businessmen - well, let’s say they don’t break bread at the same table.’

‘Fucking needle in a haystack all this then, Sarge?’

‘Fraid so young fella, that’s why a good snitch is worth more than their weight in gold - right enough. Save you a lot time breathing in mould and listening to jungle bunnies getting stoned through a plasterboard wall.’

Keegan laughed and slapped him, again, on his shoulder.

‘How’s your dad by the way?’

Darrin failed to hide the surprise.

Keegan flicked his wire brush eyebrows, getting obvious pleasure at Darrin being knocked off balance.

‘Known him for years, your old fella, I have. Used to organise some charity nights with him.’

‘Shit I didn’t know that.’

‘Stick around, it’s all a learning curve son.’

He let his guard down a little and told Keegan about his old man’s present worries.

Keegan rubbed his jaw as he listened and looked down towards the sluggish activity on the Coleshaw.

‘Hmmm be a pity to lose it, right enough, been a beacon for a long time your old man’s gym. Kept plenty of lads on the straight and narrow has Dougy. Look at those little fuckers.’ Ged sprayed a plume of saliva in disgust across the still grimy window.

‘They could do with some of that. No discipline, no ambition, no fucking future and no fucking hope.’

Keegan grunted.

‘Anyway young fella, that’s enough of all that bollocks. Let’s leave that crap to those candy arsed social workers eh? I’ll get off then, better keep the little lady happy. Later eh
young un?’

Big Ged turned away from the window and ambled over to the flat door, Keegan turned at the door and gave him an airy wave goodbye.

Darrin looked out of the window for a few moments then he turned away from what was not going on and went into the kitchen to grab a cloth to wipe the spray of saliva from the window.

On the Monday Pasquale had managed a few moments of clarity and concentration with Tommy but then he’d met up with Junior rather than go on to school. They’d cycled up to the Coleshaw and Junior had scored some smoke from the older black guy Dwayne. Dwayne had given him a brief second or two of the hairy eyeball and then quickly turned his attention back to Junior - a smooth palm slap and presto! The money had turned into a foil.

He had toyed with the idea of going back to his place and smoking it there but she was all fucking born again about that now and she had a nose like a bloodhound so they headed down to the canal instead and found a spot they’d used before. Out around the back then, on inside what had probably been a huge cotton mill. It had three and a half standing walls and a corner with some roof on it - good enough.

Junior talked about moving down to London, he didn’t fancy putting up with the disruption when his older brother hit home - no fucking way man. Junior had grown used to being the oldest male in the house too, all that would go out of the window when Wes lobbed up and plenty of shit would be likely to come pouring back in.

‘Where do your folks down South live Joon?’

‘Haringey bro, why?’

‘Fancy a change of scene myself - get out of this shithole like.’

‘I could try ‘em I guess - pass you off as my adopted brother.’

They had had a good giggle about that.

They chatted for a while about the cage fighting show. Junior had a bit more work with his uncle coming up and pretty much had his ticket sorted.

‘You going to go then P?’

‘If I can persuade Mum to get it for my birthday I will.’

‘Be fucking mint - eight fights the boys said - mad as.’

They settled into silence for a while and it was Junior who eventually brought it up.

‘You think the cops will let us be now?’

Pasquale shrugged, ‘dunno - maybe.’

Junior nodded, ‘wonder where he went - that night like?’

Pasquale looked at Junior, ‘don’t know, Bazzer…’ He shrugged his shoulders. That was as far as he felt like taking the speculation, even with Junior.

Junior looked around the gutted building then he coughed and looked up at the grey sky.

‘He told me summat - M like.’

‘What?’

‘He reckoned that there were these mad parties down at the Quays, Dougan and little Henry had told him about it.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, do you reckon he went there?’

Pasquale shook his head - he didn’t want to know.

‘Hard to believe he’s not here eh P?’ It was said in a tone he had not heard from Junior before.

Pasquale looked across at him. His friend’s eyes were filmed with tears.

Pasquale felt it in his throat, that and something that he normally associated with loneliness, an unmoving lump that constricted his chest.

Junior roughly wiped his eyes with his sleeve and then stood up and walked to the centre of the building looking up at the exposed crossbeams. He stood there for a few moments his back turned towards him.

When he came back he was smiling.

‘Got a fiver left P- yer fancy a kebab?’

He did, he was starving - they grabbed their bikes and took off down to the Turkish joint.

Mozzer took over from him just after eight, he still had half an hour to get down to the lesson - plenty of time. Moz had offered him a pastie, which Darrin had declined. Through the wall the juggernaut bass rumbled and rolled on.

‘You thinking of putting in a bid for this gaff young fella? As far as I know you’ve been here every bloody night this week.’

Darrin shrugged, ‘how much overtime you claiming on the op then Moz?’

Moz stopped chewing for a moment and then exhaled a couple of pieces of short crust.

‘Six hours - they’ll cop that.’

‘I’ll do the same then.’

‘Free fucking work Darrin! You must be fucking mad - don’t let the union rep find out he’ll have your goolies.’ Mozzer rolled his eyes at him then glanced towards the grimy window.

‘Owt doing down in the pit?’

‘Quiet again - pub’s a bit busier than usual.’

‘Must be pay day for the lazy fuckers - they’ll all be out the back there in that piss stinking so called beer garden.’

‘Been down there have you Moz?’

‘A few times back in the day, had a good snout that drank in there too.’

‘Jesus, that would be pushing it a bit wouldn’t it?’