Something Hidden (7 page)

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t tend to go around weeing in pots, let alone for strangers.’

‘I can tell you where Joe with the shoes is.’

Andrew glanced both ways along the alley, almost considering it for a moment. If Jenny was here, she would have almost certainly gone for it – probably while giving him a lecture about why
refusing to do it showed that he was a suppressive person.

‘Why do you need it?’ Andrew asked.

Joe tried to pull his coat tighter but the collar caught on his hair. He stared at Andrew’s shoes as he replied. ‘You have to do a test if you want to get into the
shelter.’

What was it with the emotional blackmail today? If it wasn’t a shivering young girl, it was a bawling woman and her cats, a charity mugger, or a homeless man wanting some wee in a pot.
February had sent everyone loopy.

‘I really can’t do that,’ Andrew said.

Joe gulped, nodding acceptingly. ‘Fair enough, man, I just thought that if you help me, I help you.’

‘I’m not sure we share the same definitions of help.’ Andrew took a step backwards. ‘I could really do with knowing where the other Joe is.’

‘Who’d you say you were after?’

‘Joe with the shoes.’

‘No, the other guy.’

‘Luke Methodist.’

Joe nodded again, finally putting the jam jar down and pointing a thumb towards the canal. ‘Joe got a housing ‘sociation place out Ardwick.’

Dusk was now an aspiration, the dark bleeding across the sky, leaving a bright white moon to light the city. Andrew could have returned to the office for his car but by the
time he’d collected it and negotiated the rush-hour traffic, he could’ve walked to Ardwick. He figured a person could only get so cold anyway and he was pretty much there.

Bloody February.

He walked past Piccadilly Station and kept going, sticking to the main road until the housing estates began to swell on either side. When he saw the spark of a cigarette, Andrew passed through a
gate onto a football pitch, treading carefully across the frozen turf and heading towards a graffiti-covered, run-down play park. Sitting on the roundabout were half-a-dozen teenagers, wearing
thick coats, beanie hats and trainers so white that they glowed in the moonlight. Some god-awful music was seeping from one of their phone speakers, like a drowning cat trying to escape from a sack
but with more howling.

Their chatter quietened as Andrew approached, leaving him wondering if he’d miscalculated the situation. He didn’t think young people were any worse than they’d been in his day
– but there were six of them and one of him. Plus they had shocking taste in music, which was always a worry.

The tallest of the lads was sitting in the centre of the roundabout, smoking with one hand and sipping from a can of Stella with the other. The others looked to him for guidance as Andrew came
closer and started to cough nervously.

‘A’ight?’ the teenager said, with a flick of his head.

Andrew nodded, trying to look more confident than he felt. ‘Do you know which block is the housing association one?’ Six bemused sets of eyes stared at him before the taller lad
answered with a thumb-point behind him.

‘I’m looking for someone named Joe who lives there,’ Andrew added. ‘I think he moved in recently. Does anyone know him?’

‘We know everyone, mate.’

‘Right, er—’

‘You a fed?’

‘No.’

‘So why’d you want to know where he is?’

‘It’s a friend of a friend thing.’

The six of them exchanged unconvinced looks until the one in the centre nodded towards the almost empty crate of Stella at their feet. ‘Beer’s kinda expensive round here.’

Well, it was better than pissing in a pot.

Andrew dug into his wallet and plucked out a crumpled ten-pound note, holding it up into the light.

The tallest lad looked on disdainfully. ‘We’re not buying bloody Carling.’

‘All right, ten quid now, ten quid when you find me the right bloke.’

The teenager took a long drag on his cigarette, before sending the plume spiralling into the air as he used the tip of his trainer to nudge the lad sitting in front of him.

‘Deal. Bumfluff here will do the honours.’

Bumfluff scrambled to his feet, scowling at Andrew and then at the lad who’d kicked him. There was no doubting where the nickname had come from – his chin was peppered with wispy
light strands of barely there nothingness. There was scarcely enough hair to make a blanket for a bee. He adjusted his baseball cap, scragged the money from Andrew’s hand and then slouched
his way around the roundabout without a word, scuffing his feet along the crisped grass.

Andrew followed him towards the lengthening shadows. Beyond the hedge that looped around the play park was a three-storey cream-brick glorified outhouse that could probably be improved by losing
a fight with a bulldozer. The walls were more dirt than rock, with strings of graffiti tags running along the side, plus a spray-painted allegation that someone named Sonia liked ‘it’
in a place that most people wouldn’t.

Bumfluff kicked his way through a supposedly secure door, not bothering with the buzzers, and then waited at the bottom of a military-grey concrete slab of stairs. The whiff of cannabis hung in
the air, just about masking the smell of urine. He pointed towards the next floor. ‘Up there.’

‘
Where
up there?’ Andrew replied.

‘God’s sake . . .’

The soles of Bumfluff’s feet couldn’t have lifted more than a millimetre or two from the stairs as he skidded his way up, one step at a time, moaning under his breath. After four
flights punctuated by crying babies and too-loud televisions, he stopped in front of flat eleven and held his hand out expectantly.

‘That one.’

Andrew knocked on the door and waited, ignoring the accusatory stare. After another thump, the door swung inwards, catching on the chain and revealing an eye and half a cheek. A gnarled voice
growled from inside: ‘Who are you?’

‘Are you Joe?’

‘Who’s asking?’

Without turning away from the door Andrew pushed a ten-pound note in Bumfluff’s direction and offered his friendliest smile. ‘I’m Andrew Hunter and I was hoping I could talk to
you about Luke Methodist.’

The man started to close the door but Andrew was quicker, shuffling the toe of his boot into the gap and standing firm. ‘It’s not what you think – I’m here on behalf of
Luke’s daughter.’

The pressure from the door on Andrew’s foot abated as the eye continued to stare at him. ‘Luke’s daughter?’

Andrew glanced sideways to where Bumfluff was disappearing down the stairs, before he turned back to the man and removed his foot from the door. ‘Can we have this conversation in there or
out here, rather than through a door?’

There was a pause and then the door shunted forward before the chain clicked off and it swung inwards.

‘Are you Joe?’ Andrew asked again. Better to check.

The man nodded, turning and pointing to the flat beyond. His dressing gown hung to his knees, revealing a pair of stick-thin pigeon legs. He led Andrew into what could loosely be described as a
kitchen. The cooker didn’t appear to have been used in years, with a dried pool of something brown sitting between the rings on top and a grimy haze of filth covering the glass of the oven.
The microwave fared little better, with something green having dribbled along the front panel at some point before setting into a spattered mask.

Joe sat at the table, which was covered in coffee-mug rings and had a saucer overflowing with ash sitting in the centre. He reached into his dressing gown pocket and plucked out a crinkled
packet of cigarettes, offering it to Andrew.

‘Want one?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

He stretched across to the cooker, fiddling with the knobs on the front until the smell of something burning started to fill the kitchen. When the sizzling began, he pressed his cigarette to the
front ring, waited for it to spark, and then turned the cooker off again.

Joe’s face was even thinner than Fiona’s, the skin on his cheeks sucked in between the bones, with a succession of razor nicks sprinkling his chin alongside a spread of uneven
pepperpot stubble.

He nodded towards a single chipped mug on the draining board, which was propping up a lonesome plate. His voice had a sandpaper-chewing quality to it. ‘I’d offer you a brew but . .
.’

‘It’s okay. I wanted to talk to you about Luke.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m a private investigator. Luke’s daughter came to me, wanting me to prove it wasn’t him who shot those kids.’

Andrew hoped for a reaction but there was nothing other than a puff of smoke that disappeared towards the ceiling.

‘How’s she doing?’ Joe croaked.

‘Not well.’

Joe nodded. ‘She’s a good kid – came down to say hello to her dad a few times. Tried to get him away but Luke was Luke. Bloody stubborn.’

‘How well did you know him?’

Another puff, another shrug. Joe’s voice was getting lower the more he smoked. ‘Dunno.’

‘I heard you were his best friend on the street.’

‘I s’pose.’

‘What was he like?’

‘A’ight.’

‘Just all right?’

‘Aye.’

Andrew paused – this was like a bad date: one-word replies, nothing in common and no sex at the end. He needed a reaction.

‘Tell me about Kal Evans.’

Joe held the cigarette in his mouth, sucking deeply until he coughed slightly. The accompanying puff of smoke dribbled from his nostrils and corners of his mouth as he winced.

‘He’s a bad man.’

‘He’s also in prison – he can’t do anything to anyone now.’

‘Don’t wanna talk ‘bout him.’

‘Did Luke know him?’

Joe’s head shrunk into his dressing gown as he focused on the ashtray, splattering the remains of his cigarette into it. ‘Luke was my friend. We’d sit and talk.’

‘What about?’

‘Things. He didn’t like talking ‘bout the army so we’d go on ‘bout being kids; ‘bout our kids.’ He twirled his hand to indicate the room.
‘It’s different now I’ve got this.’

‘No alcohol?’

Joe snorted a pained laugh. ‘Right – just coffee, fags and daytime TV.’

‘Sounds like being a student.’

Joe laughed properly this time, sending a spray of saliva across the table but seemingly not noticing. His eyes screwed into tiny dots, with the too-loose skin around his sockets sagging
limply.

‘Were you ever a student?’ Andrew asked.

‘Aye, they were the days.’

‘So tell me about Luke.’

A sigh, shuffle and crotch-rub before, finally, eye contact. ‘You need a pal on the street, someone to keep an eye out for you. We’d sleep in shifts: I’d have a couple of
hours, then he would. Because of his jacket, he used to get more money and food but he’d always share.’

‘His army jacket?’

‘It’s a symbol of respect, innit? That you’ve done your bit for the country. I was just some tramp on the street – he was the ex-army guy.’

‘I need you to tell me about Kal Evans.’

Joe began rifling through his pockets again, yanking out another cigarette and reaching for the cooker.

‘Joe . . .’

‘What?’

‘Kal Evans. The police connected him to Luke Methodist because they said Luke owed drugs money. They must’ve got that from somewhere. Did you tell them that?’

‘No.’

‘So who did?’

As the smell of burning filled the kitchen again, Joe stretched his cigarette towards the cooker’s hot ring. Andrew saw everything in slow motion as the chair leg scraped across the floor,
ripping the cheap lino and sending Joe sprawling to the ground face-first in a flurry of swearing. Andrew was on his feet too slowly to prevent him falling but did manage to stop Joe from reaching
onto the top of the scorching oven to haul himself up.

Joe continued muttering obscenities under his breath as Andrew helped him into a sitting position, lighting the cigarette for him and switching off the heat.

‘Do you want me to buy you a lighter, Joe? Or some matches?’

‘What?’

‘You’re going to burn the flat down.’

‘Bah.’

‘Come on – I know you care. There are babies living downstairs – I heard them on the way up. It’s not just you that lives here, there are families.’

Joe didn’t move from the floor, resting his head against the filthy oven door. He reached up and tried to open the drawer under the sink. Andrew did it for him, finding five boxes of
matches and at least a dozen lighters inside. He passed a lighter down to Joe, who pocketed it, slumping lower against the oven.

‘Joe.’

‘What?’

‘Kal Evans. What did you tell the police?’

‘Nuffin’.’

‘You must’ve told them something.’

‘They already knew – well, thought they did.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘They showed me Kal’s picture and asked if I knew him. I said no but they knew I did – they knew everything.’

‘What’s everything?’

Puff, puff, puff. Joe was two-thirds of the way through the cigarette already. ‘It’s different now.’

It was like they were having two separate conversations.

‘
What’s
different?’

Joe slammed his free hand onto the floor, not wincing, despite the fleshy clunk. ‘He’s a bad man.’

‘You said that.’

‘He’d bring around bags of . . . stuff . . . give us some for free, then others would come around to pick things up and leave us money.’

Andrew could feel his brain grinding, trying to find the answer. ‘He’d give you drugs to pass on to his street dealers?’

A shrug.

‘Then the dealers would bring back the profits for you to hand over to Kal?’

A bigger shrug this time but also something close to a small nod. In a weird sort of way it made sense for all sides. Kal and the dealers were never seen together and their homeless handlers got
a bit on the side.

‘Was Luke involved?’ Andrew asked.

‘No.’

‘But you were?’

‘The police knew me and Luke hung around together, so assumed he knew Kal.’

‘Did he?’

‘He didn’t want anything to do with it but he’d cover for me.’