Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (21 page)

The final entry on
the first page is a payment from the garage where I worked before I was sent
down. I look from the notebook to Paul then back down at his entry once more. I
shake my head.

‘I
knew the jobs they took on were illegal but it never occurred to me that they’d
been paying MacIntyre to keep the police off their radar. But hang on a minute,
if that
was
the case what went wrong?’

Paul
shrugs, ‘Ye mean how come you ended up in chokey?’

And
then it dawns on me. ‘Nothing did go wrong.’ I say slowly, ‘I always suspected
my mate’s excuse that his dad had had a tip off that didn’t get passed on to me
in time was a lie, it was far more likely that I was a scapegoat so it didn’t
look like they had someone on the inside in their pocket. So…it was MacIntyre
who warned the garage owner there was going to be a raid. What’s the betting
there was a condition to his blindness - he’d give them a tip off if a raid was
planned - as long as they left me in place to take the blame?’

‘Wouldn’t
put it past him.’ Paul admits.

And
there was me thinking I’d been collateral damage.

‘Jeezo,
that bastard’s been waiting to fit me up long before I even knew he existed.’

The
same question occurs to both of us at the same time:

Why?

‘Paul,
you need to help me.’ I say slowly, ‘I mean,
really
help me
.
’

Paul
looks sympathetic. ‘Look, I’ll do as much as I can, we can probably prove that
he’s treated you unfairly but I can’t see how that’ll make much diff-’

‘-I’ve
not told you everything yet!’ I butt in, staring at Paul’s face, waiting for a
reaction. ‘MACINTYRE’S the killer, not me.’

Paul
stares back at me. He looks confused, as though I’ve asked him to work out a
really difficult puzzle.

‘What
are you saying?’ he says slowly and it’s the wrong answer. I hold his gaze:

‘Y’already
know, don’t ye?’ I demand.

Paul
shakes his head. ‘No!’ he says quickly, ‘I mean, I knew something wasn’t
right….but…but not murder. Christ,’ he runs his hands over his bum-fluffy chin,
‘he’s bent, not a killer.’ Yet the way he says it is though he’s trying to
convince himself of that.

‘I
was there when he killed my aunt! I saw it with my own eyes. I was in the same
room but I couldn’t fucking stop him.’

Paul
stares at me.

‘Why
would I lie about something like that?’ I ask him.

‘Well,’
he begins, ‘apart from avoiding a life sentence….’

‘I
didn’t fuckin’ do it!’ I yell, ‘They were my friends, Jude was like a second
mother to me; I loved the bloody bones of her.’

Paul
shakes his head. ‘I can’t believe it.’ he says simply, ‘MacIntyre’s a mean
bastard right enough, but a killer?’

‘He
had sex with her.’ I tell him. ‘His DNA will be inside her, maybe even on the
sheets.’

‘There
was no sheet on her bed.’ Paul admits, moving his head from side to side as

though
checking it still works. ‘Christ’s sake, I shouldn’t even be telling you this.’

My
stomach churns. MacIntyre would have needed to lift Jude to move that sheet. To
touch her and move her while she lolled about like a rag doll. What a bastard.
Even in death she wasn’t left in peace.

‘He
told me he was going to fit me up for it straight after he killed her.’ I tell
him, ‘When I came out from the twins’ bedrooms I saw him leave with a bin bag.
It probably had the bed sheet and anything else in it he needed to remove.’

I
should have stayed with Jude, protected her in a way I’d failed to when she was
alive. I don’t think it’s possible to feel more ashamed. I lower my head as
something inside me contracts. Then it occurs to me: ‘Aw shit, he’ll have used
a condom, won’t he?’

Paul
clears his throat. ‘The PM report - that’s post mortem - identified there’d
been sexual activity, consensual, a couple of hours before her death.’ He looks
away.

‘Ye
mean ye didn’t look into if further because she was a prozzie!’ I say sourly.

Paul
moves his head slowly to deny this, ‘I’m sorry but I can’t get my head around
it. It’s a big leap from winding someone up to committing murder. I still don’t
see it.’

I
try to explain it to him as best as I can: ‘You were with me when he saw Jude
and the girls for the first time. When you smirked at them because you thought
they were rough.’

Paul
reddened. ‘I wasn’t smirking!’ he denies hotly, ‘I was just winding you up,
that’s all….’

‘Ah,
that’s OK then.’ I say sarcastically. I remember something else: ‘After you’d
dropped me off, you know, where the girls live,’ I force myself to swallow, ‘
lived
,’
I correct myself; I have to remember that everything about them is resigned to
the past now, ‘you and MacIntyre stayed parked at the end of the road for a
while. Why was that?’

Paul
shrugs. ‘No reason. We were supposed to return to the station but he was in no
hurry. Made no difference where we were, really, we were just killing time.’

‘No,’
I insist, ‘he was already planning how he was going to come back later.’

I
recall MacIntyre’s face when I looked back at him before going into Jude’s
house. It had been cold, calculating.

The
face of a killer.

‘He
was watching to see who I was closest to.’ I gasped. Jude had held on tightly
to me as she helped me up the steps into the house. MacIntyre must’ve loved
that, deciding there and then to kill her in front of me.

‘What
was he like the next day?’ I ask quietly.

Paul
looks at me impatiently as though I’m asking too much of him. ‘I don’t know!’
he snaps, running his fingers through his hair, ‘normal, I suppose.’

‘“Normal?”’
I mimic him, ‘What’s fuckin’ normal?’

He
thinks for a moment: ‘Sarcastic, unhelpful, a bit of a bell-end really.’

At
least we agree on something. Suddenly he screws his face up in disbelief before
turning to me: ‘He was sat beside me when we attended the morning briefing
following the womens’ murders.’ He recalls, ‘he was his usual self, he didn’t
look out of sorts or anything...put it one way he wasn’t quaking in his boots,
he even asked to go to the locus – that’s what we call where a murder takes
place – when the Inspector was giving out everyone’s actions for the day.’

‘He’s
bound to, isn’t he?’ I remind him, ‘so he can explain away any finger prints
that come up later that need checking out.’

‘I
just don’t see it.’ Paul shakes his head.

‘Then
I’m worried for you.’ I say as calmly as I can, ‘You’re in the wrong job if you
can’t accept that
anyone
can be capable of murder.’

That
seems to jolt him. ‘Aw, fuck.’ He says quietly, leaning onto the dashboard as
though resting a head that’s become too heavy.

‘I’m
sure he killed Malkie Clements too.’ I say gently, as though breaking bad news
to a nervy relative.

Paul’s
head drops even further. ‘Why did I just know you were gonnae say that?’

‘One
of MacIntyre’s informants confirms telling him that I was due to meet Malkie
the afternoon he was murdered.’

‘Doesn’t
prove anything.’ He says stubbornly.

‘The
same informant I heard MacIntyre force to do a blow job on him under Dean

Bridge.’
Paul takes a moment to digest this, then looks up at me with frightened eyes.

‘There’s
CCTV over-looking the entrance to the hostel, where the druggie and his

case
worker were killed.’ He informs me, ‘Me and MacIntyre were sent to collect it,
only when we arrived we were told the tape was missing.’

‘Convenient.’

Paul
rubs his eyes with the heal of his hands, ‘I’ve only been in this job five
minutes,’ he searches my face for clues, ‘what the hell do you want me to do?’

‘Have
a look at the hard evidence against me. Start looking with an
open mind
.
Then tell me what ye see.’

Paul
laughs, ‘Ye think what I see or think will make a difference? Did ye no’ hear
what I’ve been telling ye? Besides, no-one above my rank gives a shit what I
say and that’s just about everyone at the station ‘cept the cleaning lady and
even she calls me
Son
.’

I
take his point but it’s frustrating. Is it any wonder corruption thrives when the
old school rides rough shod over the new because of the number of stripes on
their arm?

I
rub at my collarbone which feels suddenly heavy.

‘I
thought this might have been my chance,’ I sigh.

‘Listen,’
Paul looks alarmed, as though he thinks I’ll jump in the harbour in concrete
boots at the setback. ‘I’m not saying I can’t ask questions, get someone in the
murder team to mebbe look at the evidence with a fresh pair of eyes.’ He’s
looking at my arms where my sleeves have ridden up, the crisscross of scars
along each wrist. I drop my arms, yanking my sleeves back into place.

‘What
happened?’

‘Prison.’
I say bitterly. I blink back the memory of the searing pain, the release as the
blood seeped into my clothes. The prison officer who found me lost a boy on his
watch three months earlier; he held my arms in the air and yelled for back up,
wouldn’t stop yelling till the paramedics arrived, even then they had to prise
him away. ‘
I’ve one at home the same fuckin’ age!
’ He kept shouting over
and over.

‘The
hospital patched me up and sent me back, good as new,’ I say to Paul. I never
saw the screw again; long term sick, some of the men reckoned.

‘Did
you get referred anywhere?’ Paul asks me. His voice is different now, like he’s
speaking to someone elderly or in a wheelchair.

I
laugh. ‘What? Ye mean the mentalists? Nah, there was a waiting list. Anyway,
the last thing I wanted was someone poking round in my head. I knew what was
wrong,’ I say simply, ‘I just wanted to go hame.’

Paul
considers this. ‘You’re not going to do anything stupid now, are ye?’

‘It’s
not stupid at the time.’ I correct him. ‘At the time it feels like the only
thing that makes sense…but, no,’ and as I say it I know it to be true. If I was
going to do that it would have been after Jude’s murder, but now…now I feel
I’ve a score to settle.

And
that’s when I think of the one person who can help make that happen.

‘How
do I look?’ I pull at my tie nervously while Brad gives me the once over.

‘This
place is too classy for me tae give ye a wolf whistle, eh?’ He laughs
nervously, intimidated by the racks of judicial robes on display. ‘They’re no’
all in the back wi’ their trooser legs rolled up are they?’ he’d stammered when
we first came in.

‘It’s
where the sheriffs come to get kitted out,’ I told him wisely, although I only
knew that because Marcus had pre-warned me. Away from the formal legal attire
the other side of the store displays rack upon rack of country tweeds from
single breasted jackets to trousers that only come to the knee. Brad tries on a
Deer Stalker to lighten the mood.

‘Good
o’ Marcus to let ye use his tailor though.’ He says, pulling the side flaps
down around his big baby head before admiring himself in the mirror.

Adam,
Senior Outfitter
, going by his name badge, returns to my cubicle with a
pair of brogues, black socks and a fancy silk hanky. He waits while I slip on
the socks and shoes, instructing me on how to ties the laces properly before
putting the hanky in the breast pocket of my jacket in what can only be
described as a flourish. I’d never understood what the word meant before but
his fingers take on the speed of a street hustler as he unfolds it then pleats
it into a flower.

‘One
moment, Sir,’ he says firmly as he shoves both hands beneath my jacket, working
them round to the back of my waistcoat. ‘Just need to be sure it fits you
properly,’ he adds authoritatively as I try not to catch Brad’s eye. A couple
of tugs along the waistband of my trousers and he seems satisfied.

‘There,’
he says, stepping back to check me over at every angle, ‘Very fetching, if I
say so myself, Sir.’

‘Can
I keep the clothes on?’ I ask him.

‘Of
course, Sir.’ Adam nods, then goes about packing the clothes I wore on arrival
into smart carrier bags. ‘Bit light on his loafers.’ Brad comments and I punch
his arm to quieten him. Marcus has bought me a seat at a charity dinner being
hosted by Gus McEwan. We figure it’s the best way I have of getting some time
to speak with him. Or at least, I do. Marcus would rather just bring me along
the next time he’s summoned but from what I know of Gus I’d be thrown out in a
heartbeat. He takes no prisoners, so going to him with a sob story of being
fitted up by the police won’t generate any sympathy, let alone concrete help. I
need to go in with an angle, a transaction whereby he stands to gain something
by helping me.

Although
unsure how successful I’ll be Marcus is keen to even the score with MacIntyre,
so once we’d agreed on this plan he called Adam, his tailor, to tell him to
expect me.

‘Christ,’
Brad observes, checking me out in the mirror, ‘A week ago ye had one pair of
cottons to your name, now ye rocking up like you’ve won the fuckin’ lottery.’

‘I
told ye.’ I say quickly, hoping Adam isn’t following the conversation from
behind the changing room curtain. I motion for Brad to pull it back and when he
does we see the shop assistant is ringing my purchases through the cash
register at the other end of the shop floor.

‘It’s
all part of the act,’ I remind him, ‘I gotta look the part if I want Gus to
give me his undivided attention.’

Brad
finally seems to accept this. ‘K,’ he says begrudgingly, ‘can I go back to York
Place then or wid ye rather me no’ bother?’

I
thump him jokingly on the arm, gently this time, letting him know everything’s
alright between us.

‘Aye.’
I nod, ‘I’ll even bring ye back a doggie bag if you’re good.’ His face
brightens at this before clouding over once more, ‘none o’ the fuckin’ poncy
stuff,’ he scowls.

‘I’m
on it, big man.’ I tell him. The shop door opens and a man in a chauffeur’s
uniform approaches the counter. ‘Mr Johnson,’ Adam squeals proudly, hurrying to
the door with the bags containing my grundies. ‘Your transport is here.’

I
wink at Brad as we catch sight of the black Mercedes parked on double yellow
lines outside.

‘Ye
jammy wee chav.’ He mouths, jabbing me between the ribs with his knuckles. ‘Do
I get a lift?’ he grins eagerly, like a puppy when you pick up his lead.

‘The
townhouse is two hundred yards up the road,’ I remind him pleasantly, ‘ye can
fuck off.’

‘What
aboot this?’ he asks as he shuffles to the door. He’s holding the Deer Stalker
aloft like he’s saying good day to the local squire. I look over at Adam.
‘Charge it.’ I say authoritatively, then turn back at Brad, ‘ye can keep it,’ I
explain, ‘a wee souvenir.’

Brad
overtakes us on foot while we’re stationary at the lights by the Conan Doyle
pub. Wearing his Deerstalker and high-tops, re resembles a modern day Sherlock
as he raises his fist in a show of solidarity. The chauffeur eyes me in the
rear-view mirror, ‘Would you like me to offer your friend a lift, Sir?’

‘Nut.’
I say firmly, flicking Brad the finger as the lights begin to change.