Cleaning Up (13 page)

He collared Moz the next day about the new face and the fat detective gave him a couple of ruminative nods.

‘Hmmm- yeah, I think I know who our man is young Daz, sounds like it’d be Keithy Dalton, Gypsy Keith no less.’

‘Yeah go on Moz - more info please.’

Moz snorted at the terse prompting.

‘From what I remember, his mum lives on Sycamore. He’d be seeing her Darrin, a good son up to see his mum.’

‘But gassing with the young scrotes Moz, why would he be bothering with them?’

‘Dunno son - maybe asking them to keep an eye on the car.’

Darrin nodded but he was a long way from convinced by Mozzer’s blithe explanation.

Moz noted his disappointment.

‘It’s good you clocked it son. You’re right enough, he is a person of interest. An old school villain connected to Johnny Tibbs and the O’Briens and that’s a world away from these scrotes, up to and including blokes like Chris Johnstone. Don’t jump to conclusions PC May. Remember, it’s patience that makes for a good D.’

He thought about it in the canteen on his break, Moz was probably right; he’d pull Dalton’s record though, have a gander and get some background on him.

Trish got the file up for him and she did a print out for him too. He took it over to the corner desk and gave it a long, thorough once over.

There was plenty there but it told him little really other than the fact that the guy was a sleaze bag and a nasty one at that. Dalton had a GBH conviction as a young guy in the late seventies, a procurement of minor’s charge which had been dropped, an extortion charge ditto, there were a few lines about whispers re the smuggling of women from the Baltic States for the purpose of prostitution and then the glassing incident, which had seen him do another stretch. So, apart from the two book-end acts of incontestable violence he was the Teflon Man. There was no current address and it was believed that he’d been living down the smoke for the last few years. Next of kin was his mum and a sister who also had form. She’d been busted for dealing in the city clubs nearly twenty years ago now - both of the women presently living at 13 Sycamore Drive.

Darrin folded up the paper and stashed it in his pant’s pocket. Trish looked over and gave him a little wave and signalled going out for a bevy. Why not - he felt like he’d earned it.

They had managed a nice evening together, swapping a little bit about their respective pasts, Donna unaware that he had been away from the UK for such a long period of time. She was also very surprised to hear that he’d lived with Aboriginal people for the last ten years of his time in Oz. He told
her a little about it and she was a lot better informed than he would have expected. Aware of Australia’s assimilation policies, land rights, the Stolen Generation, all the markers of ‘modern’ Australian Aboriginal history. Most people in England, if they ever thought about it, assumed that Aboriginal people were still walking around in loincloths hunting kangaroos.

She teased him a little about his tastes in women - ‘like ‘em dark do you Tommy?’ He didn’t deny it - generally, he did.

They’d also talked about his work at the Centre, he gilded it a little with no mention of his ambivalence with regards to future plans. The ‘should I stay or should I go’ stuff.

They went onto a nearby pub after the restaurant and did more of the getting to know you. He didn’t mind because that was exactly what he wanted to do. The kid had sent her a text at about half past ten and, immediately, a look of ineffable exhaustion had come over her face. She had a quiet moment and then he watched her visibly will the weariness away. She took his hand and squeezed it tightly a few times.

‘This is nice Tommy, I’m glad we made the effort.’

‘Me too, be nice to do more of it.’

She leaned in and gave him a light kiss on the lips that felt like an electrical charge, a palpable mutual exchange of energy. And, for the briefest of moments, that was all that there was, everything around them fell away - gone.

She pulled away and nodded, more to herself than to him.

‘Fancy a nightcap Tommy?’ She said it levelly - her eyes alive, maybe even a little hungry.

‘Sure, sure, you mean yours?’

She nodded again.

‘He’s home but a drink would be nice.’

Tommy felt his ardour cool a little at that, but if it was going to be done better sooner than later? Get the kid used to the idea Tommy thought, why not.

‘Well as long as…’ He didn’t finish the sentence, she was opening a door that was hers to open, as simple as.

They finished their drinks and made the short drive over to the house.

Pasquale was sat in the lounge when she ushered him through. The kid was no poker player, surprise plastered all over his face, no obvious resentment though and a pleasant enough hello.

Tommy gave him a smile and took the armchair next to the sofa while Donna went to the kitchen to grab them both a drink.

The kid was quiet, his eyes fixed on some late night chat show on the box.

‘You OK Pasquale, been out have yer?’

The kid nodded and briefly looked over at him.

‘Yeah - mates.’

Donna returned with the drinks and the kid got up off the sofa with a barely suppressed sigh.

‘Stay Pasquale, have a drink and a chat with us.’

‘No it’s OK Mum,’ a nod to the TV, ‘fucking bobbins this anyway.’ The tone was harsh, the kid engaged in some passive-aggressive chest beating.

Tommy kept his eyes neutral but felt a slight tightening in the shoulders.

Donna didn’t let him get away with it.

‘OK Pasquale - no need to swear is there love?’

The kid didn’t respond to that, he brushed past her and said a terse goodnight to him. Tommy returned the favour,
as did his mum. Pasquale trudged off upstairs as morose as fuck, like he’d just found out that somebody had nicked his bicycle.

Donna made off to the bathroom, which gave him the chance to squiz the room. Clean modern furnishings - an expensive leather sofa with two matching chairs and an expensive looking sound system with plenty of neatly placed CD’s. She had told him in the restaurant how much she liked her music. Tucked into a corner was a six-seat dining table, which was near the entrance to the kitchen.

The TV was sat in a large mahogany display case the colour of which gave the room plenty of warmth. Its shelves, to his taste, were over filled with framed photographs. He stood up and had a closer look at them, quickly noting that Pasquale’s smile seemed to dim with age. She looked great in all of them though. There was only one photograph of her without the kid, what looked like a professional picture of Donna at her graduation, she looked as proud as punch in the mortarboard and gown.

A few minutes later she returned to the lounge room and sat on the sofa next to him, her thigh resting lightly against his and they held hands as they drank. He could hear the kid walking around a bit upstairs and directly above them. A fanfare of sound as the TV went on in his room quickly followed by both silence and stillness.

They made plans for another meet towards the end of the week and Tommy idly speculated about the notion of what it would be like to wake up under her (and the kid’s) roof.

They’d see, he thought, nice and easy does it - he could wait.

The next day he hit the local beer garden with his old man
after a tidy Sunday lunch together (a takeaway curry from the Shaheen). It was warm enough for a couple of bumble bees to be busying themselves around an early blooming azalea bush.

His dad had taken a swill of his bitter then he’d let out an unprompted rasping snort.

‘Guess what I read yesterday Tom?’

This is why he came, he thought. He nodded to Mick, go on then, give it to me.

‘The latest thing for men - fucking cosmetic six packs!’

‘What - you mean like boob jobs for blokes?’

‘Yeah,’ Mick liked that - fodder for him. ‘Boob jobs for blokes - fucking la la land, I tell yer. Plastic body parts for plastic people in a plastic fucking age.’

‘How much then - did they say?’

‘Nah no word on that son - probably cost a lot more than your gym membership though.’

Tommy laughed and shook his head while Mick played out his indignation.

‘Times have changed, hey pop?’

‘That, my son, is an understatement.’

Fred popped his head out of the pool room door and called Mick to the pool table. Mick would be gone a while, he specialized in grind-a-thons, an uncompromising rake of snookers until his numbed opponent felt like gouging out his own eyes with the cue.

Tommy stretched his legs and picked up the scents of the blooming azaleas - at least everything wasn’t fucking plastic.

She’d invited him over for a meal on Thursday and the kid was going to be there too - see if they could get it off to a good start. Life, he thought, never simple and looking like it
was about to get more complicated.

He and Junior hung out up the Coleshaw early in the week, edging into Dwayne’s group of arse kissing hangers on. They were kids his own age and younger, a few snot nosed preteens amongst them. A raggedy arsed bunch and all full of braggart bullshit. One of them, a goofy off white kid named Danny had mentioned M’s name loud enough for him to hear it, but not clearly enough for him to make out the context. It was smart arsey though, he could see it on the kid’s face. Dwayne had quickly hushed the kid, telling him to shut the fuck up.

A little later on Dwayne had pulled Junior over to the side and, while they talked, he had taken off for a little lap of the estate. He had no wish to engage with the chav numb nuts and he was still pissed off at the mention of M.

On his return Junior was still chatting to an animated Dwayne, Junior called him to come over to join them.

After a few moments of belt tugging and nut hugging Dwayne addressed him directly.

‘J here says you’re a pretty fuckin’ smart young un, that fuckin’ right then?’

Pasquale looked at Junior and then at Dwayne, he nodded, ‘smart enough.’ He told him.

‘Fuck me dead right on, smart a fuckin’ ‘nough eh? Well, that’s fuckin’ good blood, just been telling J here that we need a couple of new fuckin’ lads on the fuckin’ team. Shift some smoke around for us - J here is havin’ it like and says you and he run close together - that fuckin’ right young un?’

Pasquale glanced at Junior again and nodded, again - sure.

‘OK then - sorted. I’ll have a chat with the crew, check out
your fuckin’ resume like, I know Junior has the goods, we’ll see if you fuckin’ do too.’

‘All well, you two get back up here on Friday right, and we’ll get you fuckin’ started then.’

Dwayne reached into his pocket and handed Junior a foil.

‘That for fuckin’ starters - you can have money or weed if you bring it, either fuckin’ way - no fuckin’ fuss to me.’

Junior and he exchanged a look and Junior gave Dwayne the smiling thumbs up.

Dwayne got business like again.

‘Mouths fuckin’ shut though yeah? You stepping up to the fuckin’ big boy stuff now?’

And that was that, Dwayne offered a bony palm to the pair of them and with that they rode off to the canal to have a puff down in the lee of the old mill.

As they smoked they excitedly talked business; cash projections, maybe as much as £250 a week each - ‘real fuckin’ dough for fuckin’ once,’ said Junior, taking the piss out of that knuckle dragger Dwayne.

During the conversation they reminded each other to be careful and not to blab. If M could keep that part of it quiet then they could too.

The mention of his name took the edge off the giddy high for a little while but still, Pasquale thought, he could do a few more things now - maybe even save up for a flat.

Pasquale and Junior blew their smoke up to the sky as the pigeons roosted on the exposed beams above. The birds cooed, ruffled their feathers and shat on the old mill floor, indifferent to it all.

Jolika had asked him if he was interested in having a weekend
away. Next week, she, Stuart and a few of their crew were heading down to Birmingham to a big ‘too hot to miss’ salsa bash that was happening down there. They checked out the website together during the lunch break, hot shot Cuban instructors would be doing lessons and workshops over the whole of the weekend - you could dance for eighteen fucking hours a day if you wanted to. He was rostered on for the Sunday but, with the approval of Sergeant Thomas, he quickly sorted out a swap out with Johno. The Sarge had looked at him for a few long hard seconds when he had told him why he had wanted the swap and, for a moment, he thought the prick was going to knock him back. The Sarge had finally given him the nod of approval and then went straight back to his Sudoku with a tuneful accompanying whistle of La Bamba.

He did a couple of hours up the Coleshaw, had a lateish work out at the old man’s gym and then stuck around to help his dad close the joint up. Numbers were still down, the old man chewing on his bottom lip, which was an old, old sign of worry and stress and, when the old man had been much younger, a warning portent of impending bad temper, a sure fire sign for Darrin to keep well out of the way.

Dougy had a couple of the older boys competing over the weekend down on Humberside. One of the boys was particularly promising, a heavy shouldered kid with a good right hand and reasonable footwork. His old man had hinted more than once as they put away the gloves, mitts and ropes, at him coming for the trip in order to help out. Darrin finally nipped it in the bud, telling the old man about the trip away without telling him exactly why he was going. He’d get a bit more shit than a whistled La Bamba from the old man.

Doug took the knock back pretty well though, confirmation that the space they now had between them was becoming, for him at least, a much more comfortable one.

Thursday and he was back in the Coleshaw flat - there was no booming bass from next door and not much action down below either. He was itching for something to happen and nothing much was, though a kid had been hospitalized through drug use over the weekend and that had reignited all the hoo ha in the press. A photo of Matthew Marshall had been slotted in next to the news story. So, it was all still on, and press bullshit apart it was a real concern. There’d been a bit of talk around the station about pulling in all the known faces just as a matter of course, but that was unlikely given the fact the brass had now committed to the costs of the op.