by Ray Banks
‘Fuck off And I chucked me tea at him. Baz were fast enough to miss the mug, but too slow not to catch the brew right in the fuckin’ face. He went off it, yelled, knocked the table when he got up. I planted two fists in his chest and he slumped into his chair, nearly went over. Then I got out from the table and went outside.
I could hear Baz kicking off. Calling us out an’ that. But I lit a ciggie and took a draw. Held the smoke in me lungs hard and tight.
Rossie told him to calm the fuck down, then he came outside with me. ‘Fuck was all that about?’
‘He wants to start summat, he better follow through,’ I said. ‘It’s a cunt with a mouth and nowt to back him up, you know that.’
‘He was just messing with you.’
‘Aye, so what? You want us to take that kind of talk on the chin?’
‘Fuck’s the matter with you? You mashed up or what?’
‘Nah, mate. I’m clean as. It’s that bastard what needs sorting out. Fuck it. Go back to your boyfriend. I’m off.’
I chucked the ciggie at Rossie’s feet and made for the tram.
I didn’t look over me shoulder or nowt.
SIXTEEN
The afternoon turns to early evening, rain to drizzle. I’ve been sitting in this car for two hours now with nothing to show for it apart from an empty pack of Embassy and a throaty cough.
Nothing stirring. I’ve toyed with the idea of calling Brenda Lang, find out what the score is, but decided against it. I don’t want to get any deeper. Right now, I’m innocent of everything.
If I start digging around, phoning her back, it won’t look good if this ever gets to court. No contact means no evidence. I’ve got to watch my arse when Donkey’s involved.
I get out of the car, stretch my legs. There’s no use waiting for a lead to drop into my lap. Something’s got to be done. I start walking towards the tattoo parlour, an idea growing in my head. If I can’t talk to the dealers and that barman’s nowhere to be seen, there’s always another option.
The bell rings as I push open the door. As I expected, the bionic girl is still behind the counter. And she’s still reading that same magazine. When she looks up, her eyes are bright blue.
Her nails are the same shade. She must change colours daily.
‘How you doing?’ I say.
‘Straight up the stairs, second door on your right,’ she says.
Then goes back to her magazine.
‘Nah, I’m not here to punt.’
‘You want a tattoo?’
‘Not today, no. I wanted a quick word with you, if that’s alright.’
‘What about?’ She looks suspicious.
‘You know what goes on up there. You know the staff. You know a guy called Rob Stokes?’
‘What’s he look like?’
‘I don’t know.’
She raises her eyebrows, then scans an article on body piercing. A photo of a guy with a face like a human gimp mask catches my eye. ‘Then I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
‘You never heard the name Rob Stokes.’
‘Nah.’
‘You hear anything about a guy doing a runner with casino money?’
‘You think I listen to what that lot say? They’re a bunch of arseholes.’
‘Couldn’t agree more. So you never heard the name, and you don’t know anything about it.’ It was worth a try.
‘Am I under arrest now?’ she says.
‘I’m not the plod, love.’
‘Then I really shouldn’t be speaking to you, should I?’
‘Yeah, you and everyone else,’ I say.
‘What do you do, then?’
‘I’m a private investigator.’
She starts laughing. Too long, too hard. But I’m used to it.
‘A PI? Jesus, I thought they was just in the pictures. Fuckin’ hell. Where’s your hat?’
“I left it in the car.’
‘And you’re tracking down this Rob fella.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re doing a shit job of it.’
‘I know. And thanks for your time.’ I turn to leave. Then: ‘D’you know Kev?’
‘The barman?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah, I know him. Proper sleazy bastard, that one. Keeps trying to get me to go out with him.’
‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Place called The Basement. It’s a proper dive.’
‘That’s his local, is it?’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘They try to get him to go somewhere else, he shits it. The place is his home away from home. He told us once that he missed a night and they called his flat looking for him. Like that’s something to boast about.’
I smile at her. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Brianna,’ she says. ‘Why?’
‘Brianna, you’re a fuckin’ doll.’
‘And you’re not my type.’
The Basement is a student bar, and it’s as rough as the name suggests. I get past the bouncer, a skinny lad with a nice line in gold teeth, and have to duck my head as I head down the stone steps to the bar. This place looks more like a cave than a basement, all chipped walls and dim light. In one corner, a small stage with a tinsel backdrop. On it is a guy who looks about eighty. He’s singing ‘Golden Brown’ as if it was an old fashioned love song. Beside him, a karaoke machine blinks like it’s on its last legs.
He gives me a nod as I head to the bar. I nod back, order a Coke. The place isn’t busy and I could have a long wait on Kev, if he shows up at all. Get my change and a filthy look from a blonde dreadlocked barman, take my drink to a table and sit down. It’s nicely shadowed here. I should be able to keep an eye on the door and not be seen.
The old guy finishes off his song with a flourish, then picks up a tumbler of whisky. He toasts us all, though most of us aren’t even looking at him. Then he downs the treble. From the karaoke machine, I can hear the opening bars to ‘Peaches’.
The guy’s a Stranglers fan, obviously. These days, somebody’s got to be.
I smoke a cigarette. Kev might not turn up. That’s a possibility.
Check my mobile again. Another message from Brenda Lang. I let it play and then save it.
Laters.
I sit there most of the night, sipping Coke and smoking.
Students come and go. One of them, a ruddy-faced Royal wearing a rugby shirt, starts taking the piss out of the singer. I feel like smacking his head in. Yeah, the old guy’s a drunk, but at least he’s not obnoxious.
The crooner launches into ‘Nice ‘n’ Sleazy’. The rest of the Royal’s group sing along but fuck up the words. I get out of my seat and order a treble as a sign of solidarity. At the bar, I catch the old guy’s eye and toast him. He toasts back, beaming from ear to ear. About time someone appreciated him.
The treble turns into another, this time with a pint. A few rounds later, and I’m starting to feel tired. My bones ache.
But I keep drinking. It’s something to do.
At two, the place starts to get busy. A group of guys wearing dicky bows make their presence known. I shake myself awake, try to focus on the bar. I should’ve stuck to the Coke.
Curse myself for being such a fucking drunk.
I get to my feet as I see Kev at the bar. Look around for the bouncer. Nowhere in sight. I didn’t expect Kev to come here with a minder, but I couldn’t be sure.
I shake the deadness out of my legs and walk over to the bar, sidle up next to him. Kev doesn’t notice me until I order a pint of Stella. Then I turn towards him, punch him playfully in the arm. ‘You never called me.’
His face goes white.
‘I’m beginning to think you don’t like me much, Kev. It’s almost as if you’re trying to avoid me.’
He makes a move to go. I pay for my pint with one hand and grab his arm with the other. ‘Where you going, mate? Me and you, we’re having a chat.’
‘Fuck off,’ he says.
‘Hey, c’mon, that’s no way
to behave. I’ll tell you something because under that hard exterior I think you’re a decent human being. I’m not fucking about here, okay? I know you know something.’
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
“I know you know something. And I will find out what you know if it takes me all fuckin’ night. I’m not asking for free, either. But if you insist on playing the eel with me, Kev, I’ll tell Morris Tiernan there’s a barman who needs his mouth broke.’
Kev’s cheek twitches. Could be a smile. Most likely, he’s panicking.
‘Yeah, you know that name, don’t you?’ I say. ‘Now how’s about I buy you a shot to go with that pint and we’ll talk.’
“I don’t know Rob Stokes,’ he says.
“I don’t care,’ I say and get the barman’s attention. ‘But you’re scared about something, and that’s a fine place to start.’
SEVENTEEN
Kev sparks one of my cigarettes with a red disposable. He’s already necked the shot, coughed his way through the burn.
I’m patient. I just watch him get used to the situation. Part of me thought that being a good detective meant being a friendly guy; open, willing to help people. I thought that if people saw that, they’d be cool with me. Turns out, it’s easier to bribe or threaten someone.
Whatever Kev needs, to keep his conscience clean.
‘Rob Stokes,’ I say.
‘Uh-huh. I told you, I don’t know him.’ He shrugs. The alcohol’s made his posture loose. I hope it does the same to his mouth.
‘Where’d he go?’
‘You listening to me?’
‘Just’because you don’t know him, doesn’t mean you don’t know where he went.’
‘Then I don’t know where he went,’ he says.
‘Okay.’ I drink my pint and stare at him over the rim of the glass. Try to think what Donkey would do in this situation.
He’d probably break the guy’s legs and piss in his mouth.
Not something I can do in a crowded bar, no matter how much it might help me. Besides, I went to the bog before I ordered my first pint. Starting to simmer down a little now in The Basement. The karaoke guy has just done his last cover for the night, stepped off the stage to a loud round of applause from the pissed-up Royals. As he comes past, I catch his eye.
‘Nice work,’ I say.
‘Thanks, son. I try me best.’
And he goes, a smile on his face. I turn back to Kev. ‘So you really don’t know anything.’
“I told you.’ ‘Okay.’ I pull out my mobile, put it on the table between us. ‘I want you to call Mo.’
‘Who?’
‘Mo. Morris’ son. I want you to pick up the phone, call him, tell him what you just told me.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘I’m serious, Kev. If you’re telling me the truth, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Make yourself known. Mo will believe you, I’m sure.’
‘What you playing at?’
I pick up the mobile and start punching in Mo’s number.
Hold it out to Kev. ‘There. All you need to do is connect. Just press the wee green button and tell him what you told me.’
‘I’m not gonna do that.’
‘Why not?’
His voice raises an octave. “I don’t know the dealers, alright? I don’t hang out with them. They’re fuckin’ arseholes, the lot of them.’
‘Then how do you know who Rob Stokes is?’
‘You mentioned him.’
‘But you don’t know him.’ I make a show of raising a finger to my temple, proper Columbo-style. ‘See, now I’m confused.
You know the name, but you don’t know the name. Which is it?’
“I don’t know the name.’
‘So you don’t know he did a runner,’ I say. ‘You didn’t hear anything like that.’
He pauses, looks at me. He’s thinking. Course it’s stupid to say he didn’t hear anything about a dealer doing a bunk, especially when there was cash involved. Kev is slowly coming to that realisation. He works his mouth.
‘Well?’ I say.
‘I heard someone left. They were pissing and moaning about the shifts they had to cover. And I was single-handed on the bar for a week.’
‘Stokes was a dealer.’
He frowns at me. ‘Yeah, and?’
‘So how come you were single-handed?’
‘Because Alison left too, man.’
I lean back in my chair, wait for him to follow that up.
When he doesn’t, I have to ask, ‘Who’s Alison?’
There’s a moment of panic in his face. He spilled too much and he knows it. But his thirst takes hold, becomes a moment of triumph because I don’t know the half of what’s going on.
And some blokes, no matter how scared they are, thrive on being smug. ‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘You get another round in and I’ll tell you.’
Alison Tiernan.
No coincidences. Not anymore. Alison fucking Tiernan.
I keep buying the drinks, Kev keeps downing them. His mouth runs away from him, then he falls into a mumbling slur. This carries on, swings from one extreme to the other, but I end up with the whole story eventually. I have to keep asking him to repeat himself, because the rowdy Royals are singing their own songs on the other side of the bar.
Alison Tiernan, sixteen-year-old daughter of Morris Tiernan.
She worked behind the bar at Morris’ club. The way Kev told it, Alison was supposed to be learning the value of money, having to earn it herself. She confided in Kev. She reckoned they were the best of friends. But the barman didn’t know the difference between friendship and a come-on.
When she up and left, he got angry.
“I don’t owe her a fuckin’ thing,’ he says. ‘She was a fuckin’ prick tease.’
‘And you didn’t know she was planning to leave.’
He stares at his glass, his lips puckered. ‘Yeah, she talked about it. Christ, they all fuckin’ talk about it. Not an employee in there that doesn’t talk about leaving. You got to understand, we get all the shit in that place. The punters what’ve been thrown out of the other clubs. Punters with issues, man. Hygiene, anger management, you name it. It was no place for her. Christ’s sake, she was only sixteen.’
So you know that then. It’s a start. One click away from a paedo, Kev. Watch yourself.
‘What about the money?’ I say. I light an Embassy. His eyes flicker to the pack, so I offer him one.
‘I don’t normally smoke,’ he says. ‘I’m not a smoker.’
Social smoker, living in denial, never buys his own. This lad’s not doing anything to get himself off my shit list, that’s for certain. ‘The money, Kev. Did she say anything about the money?’
‘No.’ He lights up, takes a long pull and closes his eyes.
‘Gave them up five years ago, but I fuckin’ miss ‘em at times.’
‘Where’d she go?’
He blinks through the smoke in his eyes. ‘Alison? Well, I suppose she went off with Rob.’ Talking to me like I’m a special needs case.
‘She say where?’
‘No idea. She has friends up in Newcastle. Kept mentioning them, but tell you the truth, she got a bit boring with all that. I tuned out.’
Newcastle. ‘You have an address?’
‘I told you, I tuned out. Why the fuck would I have an address?’
‘What about Rob?’
What about him? I told you, I didn’t know him. Fuck’s sake. All I know is that he fucked off with Alison, right? That’s all I know. And he should be shot. She’s sixteen. They could put him behind bars for a stunt like that.’
The rugby players make a loud exit, chanting that they’re either going to eat pizza or Ibiza. Either way, it’s good fucking riddance.
‘What does he look like?’ I say.
Kev looks at me, incredulous. ‘You’re after a bloke and you don’t know what he looks like?’
‘Tell me what he looks like, Kev.’
He grins, shakes his head. ‘Fuckin’ hell. What do I care, eh?
He’s tall, dark hair. Grey in it, know what I mean? Not fat, not thin.’ He shrugs. ‘Just looks like a bloke.’
‘Oh, you’re tons of help.’
Kev takes another drag. He doesn’t look like he’s used to smoking, got that kid playing adult thing going on. Look at me, I’m smoking. I’m a grown up. “I didn’t know they’d actually do it,’ he says. “I just thought it was talk. People are always whinging about something. And I didn’t think she had the guts to do it, didn’t think she’d be so bloody stupid.
Listen, mate, you think what you want, but we had something going, me and her.’
I’ve been getting an honest-to-God Jilted John vibe from him all night. It’s grown the more booze he pours down his neck. But that’s the kind of drunk he is. Regretful, emotional, one step away from a Loretta Lynn song and self-pity rolling down his cheeks. He knows there was nothing between them, but the sick romantic can’t give that up.
I don’t give a shit as long as the information’s correct.
“I knew they’d send someone, y’know,’ he says. “I knew it would happen. I even told her, said, “Look, there’s not enough money in the world to make you safe”.’
‘Should’ve argued your case a bit better.’
‘He’s a prick, y’know. Rob. I know I said I didn’t know him, but I know his fuckin’ type. He’ll blow the lot. He’ll flush it down the bog.’
‘He have a drug problem?’
Kev looks at me with a sheen on his eyes. ‘He’s got a losing problem. He’s a punter. There’s not a dealer in that place who isn’t. Dealers, man. Fuckin’ dealers, they reckon they’ve all got the inside track on the bet. Like they deal the games, they know the way they work. You watch people lose all night, and you think you’re better than them?’
Not better, I think. Just different.
‘You’re a good lad, Kev. Don’t let this place grind you down.’ I get to my feet.
‘What’s going to happen to them?’ he asks.
I rub out my cigarette. “I don’t know.’
‘Then what are you doing?’
‘I’m being paid to find them, Kev. After that, it’s out of my hands.’
‘So you’re setting them up,’ he says.
