Cleaning Up (15 page)

Darrin drove on past the entrance, tracking the car over his right shoulder as he did so. It looked like Dalton was looking to park up as close as possible to the pool of light, which marked the lobbied entrance of one of the blocks of units. He kept driving for a couple of hundred yards then made a measured turn to pull up fifty or so yards before he got back to the arch. He got out of the car quickly but quietly, just resting the door against the jamb. He stilled himself and listened intently for a minute or two - nothing! The prick must already be inside the building.

He gave it a couple more minutes, leaning against the driver’s door and gazing over towards the city lights that lay a couple of miles to the east. Then he made his way over to the lobby nearest to Dalton’s car.

There were eight buzzers on the wall plate, no names next to them, just the flat numbers. He started with number one, no answer, there was a woman at home in two, he asked for Irene and she irritably told him no, ‘no Irene,’ he had the wrong flat, she snarled a parting ‘God’ in his ear. There was nobody responding in three or four either and then he got a
pissed sounding guy in five - who told him with some slur and no little bonhomie that he couldn’t help him, ‘sorry chief.’ He rang six a couple of times and waited again, nothing, he reached for seven and the intercom crackled, number six was home.

‘Yeah’ - deep voice, local accent.

It was him alright, he could feel it, in an instant he was as alert and erect as a meerkat. He did his Irene spiel.

‘She’s not here son,’ number six responded, ‘but if you do catch up with her say goodnight from me.’ That was followed by a rich sounding chuckle. A real fucking joker was Keithy Dalton.

Darrin stood in the light for a while nodding to himself, number six. He’d got it, 6/4 Gloucester Mews, the Quays - a current address for Mr. Keith Dalton and a sizeable gap in the op now filled.

Tommy had planned to meet with the two of them on the edge of Chinatown on what was a lively Saturday afternoon down in the bustling city centre. He’d got down there early giving himself the time to take a walk through the heart of the city for a detour on over to the old red brick Victorian railway station. Just for old time’s sake and to look briefly at the commemorated gate that his Grandfather had marched through on his way to Flanders. He was down there a little longer then he had intended and he bumped into Lenny Cole. Lenny was an old work mate of his dad’s and was now only a year or so from retirement himself. They chatted for a while about all the changes both on the railways and beyond. Len was a big picture man and as hard-core militant as Mick. Time and old age hadn’t softened Len’s feelings about what he viewed as a betrayal of the men who had given their time and energy to the British railway industry.

‘I remember your old man on the picket line back in the eighties, for that local strike like. The rum bugger had borrowed your steel toecaps han’t he? Two sizes too big for him they were, curling up at the front like a pair of bloody bananas!’

They had a good laugh at that.

Tommy had been concreting at the time with an Irish crew that had a hand in motorway maintenance work, hence the work boots.

He remembered that his dad had asked him for a borrow of the boots on the Friday evening, as they were getting
ready to go out for what would be a well earned piss up at the end of the working week.

‘Sure Dad, what’s happening, fancy dress is it?’

‘No you daft sod, they reckon the SPG are coming down to the picket line temorra to sort out the picket. If any copper puts their hands on me they’re getting one of those in the knackers.’

Tommy had grinned at that but he knew that there was no bluster there - Mick’s bite could be a lot worse than his bark.

‘They’re out there in the kitchen - all yours, with my blessing.’

Mick had only received meagre strike pay during the dispute and as the strike had dragged on he’d bunged his old man whatever surplus he’d had and they’d economised too; more nights in, no benders at the weekend and plenty of scrag end stew for a while.

They had been out on strike for nearly six months Tommy remembered, up until the combined forces of a splintering in the ranks and the privations of a tough winter had forced them back in. The rifts from the strike had created plenty of rancour in the community and there had been more than the odd punch up in the local boozers over it.

He looked at his watch, it was time to shoot off. He wished Lenny well and Lenny clapped him warmly on the back.

‘Say hello to the old goat for me.’

‘I will Lenny, get your arse up there some time - he’d love it.’

Lenny promised that he would and they made their separate ways. Lenny strolled off to the far end of the station to catch a train home and Tommy made his way back to the bustle and sway of the city centre.

They were waiting for him at the entrance to the restaurant, Donna with a smile but the kid looked as cloudy as a wet Wednesday.

He felt an inward sigh but kept the smile on his face.

Tommy gave the kid a present, a best of Gil Scott Heron CD. Hopefully it would help to school the little fucker a bit beyond the reading and writing lessons he was receiving at the Centre. At least the kid remembered his manners and brightened up slightly at the gift and gesture, although Donna seemed to appreciate it more than the kid did.

The place, a Chinese eat as much as you can joint, was busy and the food was better than average and the prices more than reasonable. They ate in a semi-comfortable silence that Donna regularly punctuated with questions that were directed to both of them. He’d never been a big talker while eating but he thought he’d help her share the load a bit. He asked the kid the right questions and Pasquale came alive for a while, talking about his plans to apply next year to the local art college. Tommy knew that they would look at school attendance when considering his admission and, unfortunately, that was going to make it tough for the kid. Over the last couple of years he’d been scarcer than the Scarlet Pimpernel.

She asked him if he’d like to come back to their place to have some cake and a cuppa with them. He didn’t particularly want to, he was finding the sub-current brittle, but he said yes, trying to keep it all on a nice footing, give her the moral support, show her what a decent cove he was. They had a little moment at the car, the kid had moved quickly to the front passenger door but Donna had evenly told him to get in the back. Tommy wouldn’t normally have been that bothered but the kid’s rudeness irked him and he made a point of
reaching around him, opening the door and swinging himself robustly into the front seat. As he did so, the kid swore under his breath just loud enough for Tommy to hear it. It wasn’t really directed at him but, all the same, he felt the heat rise up in his face.

Donna fired up the engine and immediately turned the radio on, some Hall and Oats spilled out,
Sara Smile
, which led to an almost involuntary shared look between them. Maybe the kid caught it maybe he didn’t, maybe Tommy didn’t really give too much of a fuck either way. They settled into the journey, she was a good driver, smooth and relaxed and she made it back to base with a slick reverse park just a little downwind from their front door.

The kid made to go straight upstairs but she called him back. She wanted to give him the presents she’d bought him. She went into the lounge and came back with three neatly wrapped parcels. The first one, which the kid opened with no great enthusiasm, was a book on fine art. Thankfully, the kid had brightened at that.

‘Might be good for college,’ Donna said, Tommy did the right thing and nodded supportively along.

Next up was an expensive looking hooded red top, which got a slightly surly thumbs up although his eyes gave away his pleasure and then, finally, a pair of jeans. He wasn’t so happy with those.

‘I’m not wearing these things Mum.’

‘You don’t like them love?’

The kid looked at the ground and truculently shook his head.

‘Gay they are Mum, gay as fuck.’

Donna looked at Tommy, wide-eyed with embarrassment,
Tommy felt as neutralised and useful as a marble statue.

‘Alright love we can replace them, no need to swear though - is there?’

That set the little fucker off.

‘Swearing, what’s the matter with fucking swearing! You swear, he fucking swears!’

‘Pasquale,’ Tommy said, but Donna had already taken a little half step between them.

‘Maybe your room is a good idea Pasquale.’

‘Right,’ the kid said and he threw the jeans at the dining room table. They skidded across the table surface and knocked off a glass, which bounced soundlessly on the carpet.

The kid glared at the unbroken glass then back at Donna.

‘I’m going - leave you in fucking peace, with him.’

Then he was gone - Tommy glanced at her, conscious of the rhythm of his breathing, slow and heavy through his nose. He looked at Donna and saw that she was close to tears, angry, embarrassed and maybe even temporarily defeated. They sat together on the sofa for a while and she rested her head on his shoulders while his mind churned.

He looked up at the photos on the fine mahogany cabinet. He was already becoming a little more familiar with their various moods and poses. Donna kitted out as a lady cop with the kid as a pantomime villain - a bag of swag, stripy shirt and painted on moustache, mother and son happily hamming it up for the camera. The two of them in tourist mode standing together against a backdrop of the milling crowds at the St. Peter’s Basilica. The centrepiece was a large framed picture of Donna’s university graduation, both of them were smiling widely in that one.

After a while, he gently freed himself from her and stood up and stretched, he felt old and more than a little jaded.

‘I’ll go and have a chat with him Donna.’

‘You sure Tommy - you think that’s the right thing?’

‘I am, be good I think.’ He knew that the kid was in the front bedroom over the lounge, she had the en-suite at the back of the house.

After his first gentle knock got no response he realised that the kid was on the headphones and he had to knock hard until he heard the kid spring from the bed.

The kid came to door and stood in the entrance, his long light brown hand resting on the door handle, a brief look up at him then his eyes wandered restlessly over no fixed points.

Tommy felt like chinning him but he took the metaphorical deep breath.

‘Listen Pasquale, I know that this is your home and I’m not here to cramp your style or, whatever. But gee mate, talking to your mum like that, it’s not on. Have some respect eh? She’s a good woman is your mum.’

The kid looked up at him then, the little fucker, angryeyed, ready to pick up the glove.

‘Respect, you don’t know her mate, respect, I could tell you things about her.’

He looked at the kid levelly.

‘Well, tell me then.’

‘You don’t know her mate, you don’t know.’

‘Well tell me and then I’ll know, wont I?’

The kid mouthed something unintelligible down at the carpet, then turned back inside the room.

Tommy wanted to say more but, what the hell, it was just pure fucking psychodrama and angst.

She was in the kitchen when he made his way back home, busily unstacking the dishwasher.

He hadn’t intended to stay, thankfully, and they said a slightly peremptory goodbye, both of them feeling unbalanced and out of whack.

Fuck did it feel good to get back to his place - sanity.

Darrin asked Trish if she could run the Quay’s address through the titles registry and she had the information waiting for him when he returned to the station after three hours of foot patrol. The flat was owned by a company no less - Saltt Shipping, whoever the fuck they were. He didn’t know whether that was strange or reasonably commonplace. His mind whirred around it but he couldn’t join the dots. He found Moz in the D’s office pensively reading the
Daily Star.
He edged up to the desk and sat on the corner at a right angle to him. Moz exhaled slightly and lightly threw the paper down.

Moz gave him the beady eye. His thumbs were rubbing against each other in a kind of podgy mating dance, forearms nestling comfortably on the upper slopes of his big round gut.

‘Social call is it Darrin? Moz reached up and rubbed his eyes as he spoke.

‘Not quite Moz.’ He waited a couple of beats, ‘I’ve got an address for Dalton.’

That snapped him up a fair bit. The fucker even swung his feet off the desk.

‘Well, fuck me dead - how?’

Darrin told him how, in detail, he even mentioned the fact that the prick had been talking on his mobile for most of the
drive.

Moz chewed on his lower lip and digested the info.

‘He definitely didn’t see you?’

‘Nah - I’m certain.’

‘And you even spoke to the prick,’ Moz grinned at him. ‘Constable May, you intrepid fucker. Not that it proves a damn thing of course, other than the fact that a dishonest living can pay off.’

‘You check out that company name yet?’ Mozzer asked with a slightly odd, knowing smile.

Darrin shook his head at him, ‘I asked Trish but she told me to fuck off this time, too busy, she said.’

‘Well young Dazzler, let’s have a squiz shall we? Leave it to your Uncle Moz.’

Darrin moved around the desk and stood behind Mozzer as he went into the Companies House Database.

There it was, Saltt Shipping and Imports - four directors named; Cal, Leo and Niall O’Brien and a John Tibbs.

Moz snorted at that, ‘hmmm, yes indeedy, the boys eh, you up to speed with this young un?’

He was - four names that were synonymous with the city and its conurbation’s organised crime scene.

Mozzer leaned back and sighed, ‘well it still doesn’t really add anything to the pot, I’m afraid Daz.’

‘No, how the fuck not?’

‘Nah - he’s connected. But he has been for decades now. They’ll be shop front legit, the company. It means fuck all really and it means nowt in the context of the drug op.’

‘Nowt! You can’t see them being involved, even hands off like?’

‘Proving it son, proving it! Those fuckers are enmeshed
in this city’s tangled web. In fact they are the fucking web. We’re better off focusing on the scrotes, believe you me at least then we’ll keep our numbers up.’

Darrin nodded but felt underwhelmed and more than a little pissed off.

Mozzer shrugged his shoulders and gave him some avuncular soft soap, ‘you’ll be surprised how much of life is about appearances Darrin - sad but true that.’

That didn’t help much either, in fact he didn’t even know what the fat fucker was talking about.

Darrin stood up and walked out of the office, he knew that Barnesy would be looking for him, they should have been out patrolling more than ten minutes ago.

Sarge Thomas called out to him at the dog end of the shift.

‘PC May- Chief Inspector Stone wants to see you in his office - right away that’s a good lad.’

Barnesy gave him a look and told him that he’d handle his little bit of paperwork. Darrin gave Barnesy his thanks and headed up to the second floor - a little uncertain, a little nervous but feeling energised too.

He knocked on the door and heard a cough and a ‘come in’.

He walked into the office and Stone nodded at him to take a seat.

Stone was the top D in the station, a no-nonsense
hard-nosed
fucker with a jaw line like the prow of a battle cruiser and disconcertingly still eyes. He was also very much the man with a quote when he needed to be and, as such, Stone handled most of the station’s media stuff.

‘You like detective dramas do you then Constable?’

‘Sir?’

‘You know the story; lone wolf copper gets his man, screws the hot looking stripper - that kind of thing.’

Darrin shook his head at him. Everybody was talking in fucking riddles today.

Thankfully, the prick cut to the chase.