by Joseph Knox
The original red bricks of Marcus’s boarding house had blackened beneath the city smog, and several windows were covered up with wooden planks. When I knocked on the door it nearly gave way beneath my hand. The lock was bust and I stepped inside, into a damp, messy hallway. There was a disconnected washing machine blocking my path, and I pressed myself into the wall to edge round it. You saw this a lot in some neighbourhoods. People bored of being robbed would push them up against their front doors at night, to stop junkies from breaking in.
I went up the stairs and knocked on room 3, apparently Marcus Collier’s.
There was no movement behind the door. From the room across the hall I could hear a game show, blaring out of a cheap TV. I listened for a moment and knocked there instead.
A woman’s voice, thick with drink or age or both, said: ‘You’re early …’
‘I’m a friend of Marcus’s, any idea where he is?’
‘A friend of Marcus?’ There was a pause, then a low, joyless laugh. ‘Now I’ve heard everything.’ I stepped back as she came to the door and opened it. She was middle-aged, wearing a leopardskin nightie at least one size too small. I could smell skunk on her breath. ‘Hello …’ she said, looking me up and down. ‘You after some company, sweetheart?’
‘Nothing like that.’
‘Marcus owe you money or something?’ I showed her my badge and she laughed. ‘With friends like you …’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Jeanie,’ she said, leaning into the doorway. ‘Rub me the right way and all your wishes could come true …’
‘Have you got a key for his room, Jeanie?’
She opened her mouth but didn’t say anything.
‘It might distract me from what you’re smoking in there …’
‘Yeah yeah,’ she said, pressing her lips together in affected disappointment and disappearing back inside the room. As an afterthought she kicked the door closed behind her and I waited a minute. She re-emerged with a key and pressed it into my hand. I felt the hot sweat from her palm and she took a step closer. ‘Mates rates, if you’re quick about it …’
‘I’m a married man.’
She looked at me for a second then pulled away. ‘I doubt it, shug. They’re my best customers. Put the key under the door on your way out.’
I crossed the hall to Marcus’s room and opened it.
It was a box, about four by eight, and smelt of damp. I could see a security uniform, crumpled on the floor, like he’d evaporated while wearing it. There wasn’t much more than a bed, a chair and a desk. I looked at the bed, moved the dirty sheets about until I was satisfied that nothing was hidden there. Then I went around the room. Empty take-away boxes were taking on a life of their own in the heat, and the littered napkins and discarded payslips on the floor looked interchangeable. I checked inside the pockets of his security uniform, crushed into the floor. There was a leaking biro and some change in one pocket and a plastic package in the other. I drew it out carefully.
Lifestyle.
The condom connected him to room 305, where I suspected there had been sexual activity. Alongside what I’d learned about girls tricking in the Palace, it shed some light on what Ali had referred to as Marcus’s entrepreneurial spirit.
It didn’t tell me where he was, though.
As I slid the key back under the door of No. 4, I called out, ‘If Marcus isn’t here, where will he be?’ There was no answer. ‘Hey,’ I said, kicking the door.
‘The Inn,’ said Jeanie.
‘Which Inn?’
‘The Fawcett Inn.’ She laughed. ‘Get it?’
4
Although the daylight was failing, the heat hung motionless in the air, and the warmth still hummed underfoot. It had been baked down into the ground and into the buildings, charging the kerbs with kinetic energy. I walked, following Jeanie’s directions through failed estates and problem blocks, where hooded kids shouted at me and bass-driven music poured out of the windows into the streets.
When I reached The Inn I thought I’d been had, that it must have been abandoned. Scuffed, industrial sheet metal covered the ground-floor windows, and the sign was falling off the wall one letter at a time. The dirty off-white façade had come away from the building itself in places, exposing the no-nonsense cinder blocks beneath. It was a dilapidated roadhouse, rendered obsolete by newer motorways, and starved to death by one recession that looked like it was going back for seconds.
My fingers stuck to the door at first touch, so I pushed it open with my foot. The room smelt like a wet, drunken dog, and there were ten or so near-identical men sitting around it. White, and of a certain age, either gleaming bald or with short, close-cropped hair. Most kept their eyes on the football highlights, screaming out of a widescreen TV on the far wall. The colour was turned up so brightly that it hurt my eyes. A few of the men glanced at me as I walked in, their fists wrapped around pint glasses of piss-yellow lager. There was a crumpled, faded England flag hanging above the bar at an angle, and I saw that it had actually been nailed into the wall. Something to be proud of.
The barman pushed himself upright as I approached, baring his teeth in what might have been a smile. He had a face full of age, hate and booze, and I counted three golden teeth before he closed his mouth again. He didn’t say anything, just nodded at me and waited. The roar of the TV covered our conversation.
‘Evening,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you were open …’
‘Some days neither do I. Got the football to thank, though.’
‘I’m looking for someone.’
He stared blankly ahead. ‘You think this is a place where people come to be found?’
‘Marcus Collier.’
‘Never heard of him, mate.’ He began to turn away.
‘He’s a regular here.’
‘A regular what?’
‘That’s funny,’ I said. ‘He’s pale, no hair …’ He laughed at that, flashing his eyes over my shoulder, at the ten or so men matching my description.
‘I’ll have a beer, then. You’ve heard of that?’
He seemed to come suddenly awake but I turned to go to the toilet. This time I caught a few hard looks from the men as I went through the room. The gents was just one filthy cubicle. It had been kicked in so many times that the top and bottom halves of the door moved independently of each other. I read some of the more legible graffiti and made my now-automatic five-point search of the space. In the light fixture I found a plastic baggy with what I took to be amphetamines inside. White power.
‘Three quid,’ said the barman when I returned. I put the coins down on the counter and he used his index finger to drag them towards him one at a time.
The bar mat was a dirty red, white and blue.
THERE AIN’T NO BLACK IN THE UNION JACK, it said.
Coming back through the room I’d noticed that we were one man down. I took a drink of my beer and turned to the barman.
‘Out of interest, was he here on Saturday night?’
‘Who?’
‘Marcus Collier.’
‘I’ve already told you—’
‘His name’s written all over the toilet wall. Biggest cock in the north, apparently.’ He didn’t move. ‘Although it’s a close-run thing.’
‘What d’ya want him for?’
‘That’s between me and him.’
‘Leave yer number.’
I looked at him for a second, fished inside my pocket for a pen and wrote ‘999’ on the bar mat.
He laughed, drew himself up. ‘You’re no cop …’
‘We let all sorts in these days, and we’ve got a pretty good sense of humour about who a skinhead shares his cell with.’ He showed me his teeth again. I drained my glass and set it down on the counter. I could feel the eyes of the other men in the room, burning holes into the back of my head. Slowly, deliberately, I used both hands to sweep up the sopping wet bar mat.
THERE AIN’T NO BLACK IN THE UNION JACK
I screwed it i
nto a knot, wrung out the stale beer on to the bar-top, and forced it into my empty pint glass. When the barman didn’t stop me, I knocked it on its side and rolled it towards him. It connected with his belly. He still didn’t react so I crossed the room and turned.
‘Thanks for the tip-off,’ I said, loudly. That pushed him into action. He lifted up the bar counter and walked through, letting it crash down behind him. He had the handle of a cricket bat in one hand and the broadside resting on his shoulder. A couple of the other men stood up.
‘Tip-off about what?’ The football was forgotten now, and the entire room followed our argument with interest.
‘I came here to ask you a straight question. Was Marcus in? You said no so I went to the toilet. While I was there you shared our conversation. I notice we’re one man down now.’ I took out my card and dropped it on the floor. ‘Maybe you could give him a message for me?’ Nobody moved. ‘I’m the best chance he’s got of avoiding a long jump.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Not if he’s got any sense, but the guy I’m looking for isn’t exactly a brainwave. Where else would he be?’ The barman started to answer but I cut him off. ‘Don’t answer that. I’ll be outside, and if I see him leave I’m doing you and everyone in this room for obstruction.’ He went beetroot red with rage. The only sound was the football commentator, screaming about an own-goal. The men started to sink into their seats, or otherwise curl away from me.
‘Marcus,’ shouted the barman, finally.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said a man, emerging from the stairwell. Even I would have struggled to pick him out of a police line-up of the others in the room. Sky-blue jeans, a white polo shirt and a bald head.
‘Evening, Marcus. According to this guy you’ve never been here before.’
He shrugged. ‘So?’
‘So I’m trying to eliminate you from a murder enquiry. You’d better find someone who can remember where you were on Saturday night.’
5
We were sitting to one side of the bar. I had my back to the other men in the room but could still feel the waves of hate, radiating out from them. I’d decided to talk to Marcus one-on-one. So far the day, the case, had been one loose thread after another, and it was time to twist them together into something more tangible.
Collier was eating peanuts by the fistful, chewing with his mouth wide open.
His breath made my eyes water.
‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you,’ I said.
‘Oh?’
‘Oh. Why haven’t you been turning in for work?’
‘I have.’
‘Not according to the officer on the door.’
He chewed thoughtfully and shrugged. ‘Saw the filth, didn’t I? Didn’t know what it meant so I left ’em to it. I know jack shit about all this.’
‘As a general rule of thumb, someone who bolts at the sight of the law usually has something to hide.’ He took another fistful of peanuts and sucked them out of his hand. ‘So it makes me wonder what your story is.’
‘I’m a fucking eccentric millionaire,’ he said. ‘If I’m found out it’ll disrupt my charity work …’
‘Your shift finished at 8 p.m. on Saturday?’ He nodded. ‘What did you do after?’
‘Came home.’ I could see peanuts and beer mashed up in his mouth. ‘Came here.’
‘It’ll hurt your case when I testify that the owner said he didn’t know you, said you hadn’t been in.’
He swallowed. ‘What case?’
‘A man’s dead.’
‘Ali?’
‘What makes you say that?’
He shrugged. ‘Only person I ever see there …’
‘I’m wondering whether I believe that.’ He didn’t say anything. ‘What do you think of Ali?’
‘Depends if he’s been murdered or not …’
‘Not.’
‘He’s an officious little prick.’
‘You mean he does his job?’
‘And the whole world’s gotta know it. They pay him more than me, y’know?’
‘I heard something like that. When you can’t be trusted to go round flushing toilets, you need to take a look at yourself, Marcus.’
‘He’s a jobsworth.’
‘Someone agrees with you. They smashed his head in with a fire extinguisher the other night.’
‘Hang on, you said—’
‘He’s alive, in hospital. We also found the body of an unidentified man, though. Did you see or hear anything unusual during your day shift?’
‘Naw,’ he said, avoiding my eyes.
‘That’s a yes, then. Have you ever let other people into the Palace, Marcus?’
‘No comment.’
‘Another yes. Look, I haven’t arrested you yet. If I had, you’d have already perjured yourself. Think.’
‘Fuck off. Why don’t you?’ He drew himself up, raised his voice for the benefit of the room. ‘Go on, arrest me.’
I swept his peanuts off the table and looked at him for a minute, letting him sink back into his chair.
‘I haven’t arrested you yet because you interest me so little. Because I thought you could give me some information before I went on to the next place. But the more questions you avoid, the more interested I get.’
He didn’t say anything.
I took out my phone and called Dispatch. Told them who I was and that I’d found Marcus Collier, a man wanted in connection with the events at the Palace. He frowned. I gave them the address, hung up and resumed our conversation. ‘I haven’t arrested you because I don’t think you’ve got the balls or the brains to kill someone. I think you’re hiding something else. Probably the sort of thing we could usually let go. You’ve probably been let go all your life. You’ve put it down to skill or charm, but I’m here to tell you that you’re chronically bereft of both those things.’
He folded his arms, smirked, sniffed.
‘The truth is that you’ve just never been near anything important before. Now you are, and now you’ll talk. Whether I give you a slap on the wrist or a decade in Strangeways, I will never think of you again. So you’ve got until that squad car arrives to take the easy way out.’
He didn’t move, but the smirk was gone.
I searched inside my pockets for the condom I’d found in his flat and dropped it on to the table. ‘Do you recognize this?’
‘Nope.’
‘What if I were to tell you it was found on your property?’ He frowned. ‘The door was open.’
He sat, fuming. ‘I bought it. So what?’
‘They’re not for sale. Try again.’
‘I dunno. Some girl.’
With one finger I dragged his glass to my side of the table.
‘Not done with that,’ he said.
I poured his pint into the carpet. ‘I’m taking this, with your fingerprints, to compare against those found on a used condom wrapper in the closed-down hotel you’re supposed to be guarding.’ There was a hardening of the jaw. ‘When I match them, and I will—’
‘Wait a minute, look, I was here last night.’
‘That’s not what the barman just said.’
‘Yeah, but he was covering—’
‘Either way, it’s a there-and-then-gone-again alibi from the scum of the earth.’ He started to speak but I cut him off. ‘Alongside this baggy of coke found in your possession, you start to look like the perfect fit for a dead man no one can explain.’
‘That’s not even mine, you can’t—’
‘I can do anything I set my mind to. Jail time isn’t a threat any more, it’s a promise. Do you know what happens to skinheads inside? They get used as prison pockets.’ I saw the question in his face and went on. ‘It’s where the real bangers hide shanks, drugs, burner phones. It’s your arse, Marcus,’ I said, getting up. ‘You’d better keep the condom.’
‘Hang on …’
I opened the door.
‘Hang on.’
I turned. ‘You had your chance. You decid
ed to waste my time. Now I’ll waste a few years of yours. You’re right, you don’t know anything.’
‘Slags,’ he said, quietly. The whole room was watching us now.
‘What?’
He stood, took a step closer. ‘Slags. Girls. I was rentin’ a room out for ’em in the Palace.’
‘When?’
‘A few times.’ He shrugged, looked at the floor. ‘Been at it for months …’
I sat back down at our table and directed him to do the same. ‘How many girls?’
‘I dunno …’ he said. I looked at him. ‘I don’t. A few. Different ones. The pimps keep ’em on tour, shift ’em round towns so punters don’t get bored. Started out just some locals, girls from under the bridge. Word got out …’
‘When?’
‘Durin’ the daytime. In my shifts. Bit of cash in hand …’
‘And what, you took a cut?’
‘I was always in the building with ’em, though. It’s nothing to do with anyone in there last night. I wasn’t handin’ out keys.’
‘Which room were you using?’
He didn’t say anything.
‘That squad car must be getting close by now …’
‘Different ones,’ he said. ‘Third floor.’
‘Why the third floor?’
‘The lift’s fucked.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s the only floor it goes to …’ It was such a banal, lazy explanation that I knew it was true.
‘The intruder I saw was on the third floor,’ I said. He closed his eyes. ‘Did you have a girl there on Saturday by any chance?’
‘She left before I did.’
‘Or she liked the spot and wedged open a fire door. Went back once you’d gone. Who was she?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You might have started out hiring the space, but I think you were sampling the goods as well.’
‘Naw …’
‘So your fingerprint just fell on that condom?’
‘You don’t know it’s mine.’
‘But you don’t know it’s not.’
He didn’t move.
‘Tell me what the girl looked like.’
‘Just some girl. Slagged up. Red hair.’
