by Colin Garrow
'Yes.'
'But I don't know where we are.'
I shrugged. 'Not my problem.'
'How'm I meant to get home?'
'Again, not my problem.' I smiled at him and waggled my fingers. 'Off you go.'
With a final glare at Bench Face, he crossed to the door and went out. I waited a moment then told Carol to check he'd gone.
She peered out the door. 'Aye, runnin like his arse is on fire.'
I sat on the edge of the table. 'So, like I was saying before, you tell iz what ye know and I'll give you the nod if I know about it as well.'
Of course, it wasn't as easy as in the movies, where the bad guy coughs for all his misdeeds. Our foot-mangled friend was unable to furnish us with much more information than we already knew. It seemed he'd got involved through a small-time villain called Spanx, who'd offered him the job for a 'handling' fee. Bench Face swore he'd taken the work believing it'd boost his profile in the community and that the identity of the Mr or Mrs Big behind it all, was a mystery he hadn't been privy to.
As to why they were at the marina, it turned out that the 'brief' had included the location of the farm, outlined a few possible scenarios, and basically left the time and date to their own discretion. It just so happened the pair of pricks had followed us from the Hexagon on the off-chance it might lead to a Spanish Inquisition-type opportunity.
Even so, that particular scenario posed more questions than answers. Apart from us, only two other people knew what I was up to. There was Charis as well, of course, who at least knew I'd tailed the Swedish hunk from the restaurant, but I couldn't see her being part of some bent cop scheme. The only explanation had to be that one of my taxi-driver pals was auditioning for the part of Tesio, and making a damn good job of it.
I'd quite like to have shot Bench Face again, just to make a point, but I didn't think he had any reason to sell us another load of porkies, and as I hadn't intended shooting him in the first place, it would have been difficult to justify inflicting yet more pain and suffering on a dumb animal.
After taking a few pics of his driving licence and bank cards (just in case), we dropped him at the hospital on Rake's Lane, promising a follow-up visit if he was stupid enough to mention our names to anyone. As he clambered out, I leaned over the back of the seat.
'What about your car?'
His mouth dropped open. 'Aw, shit - I forgot.' He closed his eyes and for a moment I thought he might cry. 'It's me dad's. He'll fuckin kill iz.'
'Oh, well,' I said. 'Worse things happen at Quays.'
He frowned. 'What?'
'It's a joke. Worse things happen... Nah, forget it.'
As we pulled away from the main entrance, he gave me a wave, as if the whole thing had been some kind of jolly jape.
'I didn't mean it, ye know,' said Carol, examining her face in the drop-down mirror.
'Didn't mean what?' I pulled up at the exit and made a left.
'That ye should shoot.'
'Aye, that's what I thought.' I patted her leg.
She was quiet for a moment, then, 'We're not goin back to the marina, are we?'
'Think we've had enough excitement for one night. How does a hot bath and a soft bed sound?'
'Now hey - I'm definitely not goin to your sister's again.'
'No, I was thinking of summat a bit more rural. There's a nice little B and B just outside Morpeth. Should be far enough away to keep us out of trouble.'
She nodded and closed her eyes.
A metallic clanging woke me. At first, I couldn't imagine why there'd be a steel band in a guesthouse, then I remembered the small pair of gongs we'd noticed in the hallway on our arrival. Mrs Henderson had said she'd give us a bang in the morning. I'd assumed she was being cheeky.
My room was at the back of the house and looked towards the Cheviot hills. If it hadn't been for the rain and the fog, I might have been able to see them. Sharon and me had stopped off there one weekend for reasons that escaped me, but the place hadn't changed much - it was warm and comfortable and for the first time in ages, I actually felt rested.
The en suite shower was a blast in more ways than one, and by the time I emerged, it felt like I'd washed a week's worth of dirt and tension away.
According to my mobile, it was just after eight o'clock. There were a few texts (Lizzy, Fat Barry, Ronnie), and a voicemail from our favourite Detective Inspector. There was also a text on the Carver mobile, but I decided to ignore it for now. I got dressed and knocked on Carol's door. She peeked out and said she'd be a couple of minutes. I was halfway down the stairs before it hit me.
Ronnie?
Clicking on the message, I stared at it:
Give it back!
Oh, Christ.
Had the police confiscated Ronnie's phone? I cast my mind back to that day at Charis's place when we'd gone through everything. There'd been no mention of a mobile, but that didn't mean they didn't have it, and surely if they hadn't found it, Charis would've mentioned it. I listened to her voicemail - she wanted to know if I knew anything about a young guy who'd turned up at North Tyneside General with his toe blown off. Presumably, Bench Face had kept schtum, but I had to wonder why Charis assumed I was involved.
When Carol appeared at the breakfast table, I'd already had three cups of coffee and a bowl of porridge.
'What's the plan Batman?' She was looking better than a smack in the face and her smile told me she was happier than she'd been for days.
'Couple of things to check.' I passed her the photo of Andersson from the News Post and pointed to the round-faced councillor standing next to the Swede. 'Wanna pay him a visit. See if he remembers anything about Frank. But first we're going to have a little drink in the North Sea.'
Bench Face had told us where we might find the low-life known as Spanx, though he'd begged me not to mention where we'd got the information. I smiled sweetly and promised I'd drop him in the shit at the first opportunity.
The rain let off a bit as we headed back to the coast and by the time we reached our destination, it was almost a nice day. I took a slow run past the pub, in case there were any obvious lurkers, but it seemed quiet enough.
Nipping into a private car park at the back of Dilys McKinley's Liquor Emporium, I reversed behind a wall out of sight of the road. The place had closed down a few months before after a drugs raid, so there was no fear of wheel clamps and the like.
We skipped across the street and down the side entrance into the North Sea. The smell emanating from the toilets was as bad as ever but I didn't mind breathing it in for a few seconds while I took a peek through into the Snug Bar. The customary pre-lunch crowd of no-hopers and wasters were at their regular tables, but I doubted any of them had the nous to shoulder the mantle of small-time villainy.
Carol clutched my hand. 'We goin ter stand here all day?'
I moved along to the door of the lounge bar and walked in. It was another case of the usual suspects, though there were a few faces I didn't recognise.
'Alreet Terry? Heard ye were back on the cabs.' Brian was polishing glasses with a general lack of enthusiasm. He finished what he was doing and leaned on the bar. Winking at Carol, he muttered, 'Not seen you in here for while, bonny lass? Shaggin him now, are ye?'
'For God's sake,' she said. 'Why does everybody think we're at it? Can't a couple of friends go into a pub just for the company?'
Brian humphed and glared round at the assembled drinkers. 'Nobody comes in here for the company.' He looked at me. 'What ye after?'
I moved forward and dropped my voice. 'Ye know a bloke called Spanx?'
He shook his head. 'No, but I know a woman called Spanx.' He deliberately moved his eyes to the right.
I followed his gaze towards the end of the bar. A dark-haired woman was sitting on a barstool at the corner, drinking from a tall glass that had a table-decoration balanced on top. She was wearing a frilly blouse, short black skirt, six-inch heels and a pair of fishnet stockings. From here, she looked like a good ti
me on a Friday night, but I knew her best years were a long way behind her.
'Her?'
Brian nodded. 'Apparently Spanx is her new business name.'
Carol gave me a knowing look. 'Ye can do that bit of business on your own.' She tapped on the bar. 'Half a lager please, Bri.'
'Get me one as well,' I said, taking a deep breath.
Judy was concentrating on playing some irritating kids game on her mobile. She looked up as I approached. 'Ooh, hello Terry. Fancy seein you here.' Reaching out a hand, she stroked my arm. Her wrists were thicker than mine and her tattoos would put a seasoned sailor to shame.
I forced a smile, trying to ignore the deep furrows that ran in criss-cross patterns over her face. I knew she must be over fifty, but close-up she'd easily pass for eighty-three.
'Can I get ye a drink?'
She giggled, showing off her light brown teeth. 'Of course ye can, Terry, but what're ye after, eh?' She licked her lips in a way that didn't send chills or anything else down my spine.
Waving a hand at Brian, I indicated another glass of whatever brand of piss she was drinking. 'Just needin a bit of information, pet.'
She narrowed her eyes and I could almost hear the cogs going round. Leaning an elbow on the bar, she switched off her phone and let out a long sigh.
'Everything costs money, these days.'
I waited, thinking she might expand on this, but she didn't so I pressed on. 'Ye were talking to a friend of mine the other day. Peter Haddock.'
Her face creased up, adding another ten years to her age. 'Oh, aye - Peter. The lad wi' the face like a welded bench. Aye, canny lad.'
'Ye gave him some money for a job. I was just wondering who you were...representin.'
Her mouth opened and her head dropped to one side. She looked at me for a long moment while the coinage dropped into place. Eventually, her eyes widened. 'Oh, fuck.'
I nodded encouragingly. 'Go on...'
'Look, Terry, I was telt you'd had yer hand in the till, been rippin somebody off and they had to teach ye a lesson.' She pawed my chest as if physical contact might support her claim to innocence.
'Details would be good.'
She shuffled round and tugged at her skirt.
'All I had to do was give him an envelope. Money and instructions, ye know - like on Mission Impossible. Ye have tae believe me, Terry, I didn't know what they were up to.'
'Ye knew it was me they were after, though?'
She shook her head so hard, I felt the draft. 'No, I really didn't, man.'
'Where did the job come from? And come to think of it, why did they give it to you?'
Brian sauntered up and placed another garish drink in front of her.
She waited until he'd gone back to the other end of the bar. 'Cos I know folk.'
This was true. In fact, Judy's intimate knowledge of the less-salubrious members of the town's male population might well furnish her with a regular income in the blackmail stakes. 'Who gave you the job?'
She shook her head. 'Cannit tell ye that, bonny lad. He's me best client.' She paused. 'Well, not him, but he gets me a lot of business, if ye know what I mean?'
I did. 'I just need his name, Judy.'
Her mouth turned down in a sad-clown sort of way and she shrugged helplessly. 'Sorry.'
I nodded as if I'd expected this. 'Fine. When I see Mr Ahmed I'll tell him you were a big help.' I started to turn away, but she grabbed my arm.
'What ye say?'
'Ahmed.'
She sniggered. 'Nah.' She wiggled a finger at me in a 'naughty-boy' motion. 'Nice try, Terry.'
'But ye do know him?'
'Aye, but only by reputation.'
That wasn't what I wanted to hear. But I still had another option. 'So it was Andersson you dealt with?'
Her face was blank. Not a flicker. 'Never heard of him.'
'Right. Thanks for your help, Judy.'
'Anytime, luvver.'
I rejoined Carol and gave her the gist of the conversation.
'So we're no further forward?'
Taking a sip of my lager, I pulled out my wallet. Handing Brian a twenty, I slid the newspaper cutting across the bar. 'Any idea where this feller hangs out, Bri?'
He sniffed and raised the paper to his face, squinting at the image. 'Donny White. Town councillor and lover of large breasts.' He dropped his voice. 'Has a bit of a fancy for young blokes as well, apparently.' He passed the photo back. 'Hangs out at the Con club, or ye'll get him at his work.'
'And where might that be?'
Chapter 12
They built the West Links Community Centre in the mid-Seventies, when the idea of working with local people in ways that might enable them to contribute towards their own communities was all the rage. Since then the place had gone downhill and the role of the person in charge was less about engaging folk in worthwhile activities and more to do with keeping them occupied on wet afternoons.
We stood in the entrance hall listening to the monotonous tones of the bingo caller. A face appeared in the hatch to our left.
'Can Ah help ye, pet?'
Waving my council tax form in front of her, I slipped it back into my jacket before she'd a chance to put on her spectacles. 'Could we see Mr White? We're here about the lease.'
She cocked a hand around one ear. 'Ye what, pet?'
'The lease.'
The old woman's eyes opened wide. 'Oh, well, aye, he's doin the bingo just now.' She patted at her hair. 'Be finished by dinnertime, if ye's want to wait?' She smiled at Carol. 'Ye's want a cup of tea or anything?'
'No thanks.'
She disappeared again and we wandered over to the double doors at the end of the hallway. Through the two squares of fireproof glass, we could see the recreation room and a group of around forty older folks sitting at rows of trestle tables, heads bent in concentration. Beyond them, a lone figure sat at a smaller table, hunched over an electronic bingo machine.
'All the fours, forty-four.' Pause. 'One and six, sixteen.' Pause. 'Three and five –'
'Hoose!' An arm shot up out of the crowd, waving a pink sheet. 'Here ye are.'
A young woman, who must have been standing off at one side, gravitated towards the winner and proceeded to check the numbers on the sheet.
'I could never understand the attraction of that game,' said Carol. 'I'd rather watch football, and that's sayin summat.'
The wall beside the doors was plastered with photographs and the occasional headline pertaining to the success of the centre's activities. Peering at the images, I was able to pick out Donny White, his grinning face always nearest the lens, clearly demonstrating his interpersonal skills: Donny with the youth club, Donny dishing out Christmas Lunch, Donny filling in funding applications, Donny and his pals from the Conservative Club holding up one of those giant cheques. He certainly had the knack of smiling for the camera, which made me wonder why that particular facial expression was lacking in our photo.
Ten minutes later, the winners and losers spilled out of their enclosure and amid much waving and chattering began to exit the building.
The young woman who'd checked the bingo cards, followed behind and said hello as she passed, then added 'Ye's after Donny? He'll be out in a minute.' Pulling a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket, she lit up before reaching the door, generously sharing her out-breath. The smoke hung in the hallway like a small cloud.
We waited a moment then the man himself trundled through the double doors, head down, making a beeline for the office where our friendly tea-maker lived.
Though I couldn't see their faces, I caught snatches of an irritated exchange that gave way to more placatory expressions. After a bit of thumping around that sounded remarkably like a temper tantrum, our host appeared at the office door.
'Ah, hello, ahm..?' He was a small hairless bloke with a fat belly. In real life, he didn't quite match the image of the busy working community worker depicted on the notice board and I wondered how many years had passed since he'd
last done any proper work.
'Davidson.' I grasped the proffered hand and shook it for the appropriate amount of time. His grip felt artificially firm and I already knew I wasn't going to like this man.
His face stretched into a smile and he looked at Carol.
'And this is..?'
Carol glanced at me, then said, 'Harley.'
The fat man nodded. His eyes flitted between my face and Carol's chest until I coughed and asked if there was somewhere we could talk.
'Here's fine,' he said, with only a smidgen of irritation.
In a voice loud enough for Tea Woman to hear, I said, 'We'd like a word about Sven Andersson.'
Donny quickly shunted his colleague out of the office and made a big show of placing a wooden board across the hatch. He wasted a few minutes gathering files and papers from his desk and sliding them onto a shelf by the window. Eventually he sat down opposite us.
'Now, how can I help? I've got a Council meeting at two so I can't be long.' He was breathing heavily, but I wasn't sure if it was a result of his frantic bingo activities or the mention of his favourite builder.
Sliding the photo across the desk, I watched his face carefully. Oddly, he didn't pick it up. Instead, he bent his head forward to study the image. After what seemed like an inordinately long time, he looked up.
'Yes, I remember. New development. Houses for the disenfranchised, sort of thing.'
'How well d'you know Mr Andersson?'
He shrugged exaggeratedly. 'Hardly at all, actually.'
'So you didn't have dinner with him recently?' This was a wild guess but he almost jumped off his chair.
'Dinner? Oh, well, yes. Once or twice, maybe.'
'And did you discuss Frank Armstrong and Ronnie Thompson?'
'Now here, I never had nowt to do with that and, as it happens, neither did Mr Andersson.'
'I didn't say you had anything to do with anything, Mr White.'
'Didn't ye? Oh. Right.' He licked his lips and stumbled on. 'I mean, ye know, I read about it, the mur...the murder, an that. In the paper. Never met either of them, though. The er...the dead...erm...people.'
