by Ray Banks
The braided blonde from reception stares at me. She looks like she just swallowed a pint glass of brine. I look up the corridor to make sure she’s alone.
‘Mr Innes?’ she says.
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you own a white Micra?’
Takes me a moment to get my head straight. ‘Uh, yeah, I do.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ she says. “I mean, we’re really sorry.’
‘Fuck. Give me a second to get dressed.’
And before I leave the room, I make sure I dry-swallow a couple of Nurofen to kill the toothache. Grabbing my jacket, I notice that the bin’s empty. It could be house-keeping, but something tells me they’re not the ones who have taken out the rubbish.
I can’t think about it now. The receptionist has bad news for me.
THIRTY-FIVE
They’re sorry. That about sums it up. Out here in the carpark, it’s starting to rain. I feel the weight of the car keys in the palm of my hand, stare at my car. The metal part of the key is cold against my skin.
‘We’re all really sorry,’ says the receptionist. She’s been saying that on and off for the past ten minutes. I’m getting a little sick of being apologised to.
‘Not a problem,’ I say.
My warhorse Micra. The windscreen’s still in one piece, as are the wing mirrors. The bodywork is fine apart from that prang.
But someone’s taken a spray to the paintwork and a blade to the front two tyres. Across the side of the car in stark red letters it reads: ‘RIP’.
“I think it might be a tag,’ says the receptionist. ‘Some of the kids round here have them.’
“I think it’s Rest In Peace, but thanks anyway.’
“I didn’t want to say that,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘Easy for you to say. It’s not your car.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Yeah, I know.’ I crouch down by the side of the car. The front two tyres, they’re shredded. Someone took their time over this.
“I mean, we have CCTV,’ she says. ‘We’ll be forwarding the tapes to the police.’
‘Don’t bother,’ I say. ‘It’s not worth it. Only a couple of tyres.’
Put the rubber together, you’d have a Westwood dress.
Carved up.
“I hope this won’t reflect badly on us.’
‘It doesn’t reflect badly on you, love. It reflects badly on this shithole area.’
Back in reception, I leaf through the Yellow Pages, find a garage in Benton and give them a ring. It’ll cost me, they say.
If I want them today, that is. And am I sure I want them to pick the car up from the middle of town? That’ll cost too. I mean, they really want to be sure. The mechanic’s voice has a twist of amusement about it, like he can’t believe the kind of fish he’s got on the line.
I’m sure. But there’s one thing: I want a lift to Benton.
‘Oh aye, that’s not a problem, mate.’
‘It better not be, the amount you’ll skin me out of.’
Just because the Micra’s out of action, doesn’t make me a cripple. I still have work to do, still have questions that need to be answered. And I don’t have much time.
Somehow that pissed-off dealer found out where I was staying, found out which car was mine and decided to take a knife to the – wheels. If he’d left well enough alone, I wouldn’t have been that arsed to wrap this up.
But you mess with a man’s motor, you get his attention.
From what I’ve seen of Newcastle, it’s populated with the same kind of narrow-minded scallies we have in Manchester. But at least when it rains back home, it really rains.
I turn to the receptionist. ‘I’ll be checking out today.’
She nods to herself. It’s like she snapped out of sympathy, become this sterile jobsworth. I don’t care, though. If they know where I’m staying, then it’s just a matter of time before they get in my room, if they haven’t already. And I don’t want to be at the mercy of anyone.
It was the wind, Cal. Don’t think so much.
I open my wallet, take out Donna’s number, think about a pint. It’s still too early, and I’ve got too much to do. Christ, I wish I’d met her somewhere else down the line. Somewhere I wasn’t acting like a complete prat, playing detective. I crumple up her number, stick it in my back pocket and make a mental note not to take it out the next time I wash these jeans.
In my room, I pack the holdall and make sure I’ve got everything I came in with. Back out on reception the braided blonde hands me the bill and I pay it, no questions asked.
Then I’m out on the street, waiting on the tow truck. I light up and think I couldn’t be fucking this up more.
I’m not a private investigator. That’s a fact. I’m a guy who tells people he’s a PI, and that’s as far as it goes. The job’s not something I ever really wanted to do, but I admit that urban white-knight shit appealed after a while. I started off running errands for Paulo. Not much, really. If a kid didn’t turn up to the club, he’d send me out after him, bring him back in.
Sometimes they’d kick up a fuss, but most of the time they didn’t reckon on Paulo sending someone after them. Those kids, they were used to pansy social workers, men and women getting paid too little to care too much. As long as they weren’t robbing cars or shoplifting, the social couldn’t care less. And why should they? Those poor bastards had enough on their books. What the kids didn’t realise, though, was that the club was a labour of love for Paulo. He lost one kid, he lost a bit of himself.
And the job progressed from there. I got good at tracking down ex-offenders, maybe because I was one. This guy, Don Plummer, he was a local landlord. Had some houses in Hulme and Moss Side, a couple more in Longsight. And sometimes, he had problem tenants. I did him a legit favour every now and then by handing over eviction notices. Paulo didn’t mind. It was legal, and it kept me working.
These things snowball. Next thing I know, I’m calling myself a PI and getting all kinds of shit for it. Donkey on my back for one.
I look up the street, see my lift coming over the hill. I nod to the driver as the truck pulls into the carpark. A skinny guy with a belly that looks like he’s smuggling a bowling ball under his shirt gets out and looks at my car with practised disgust.
‘Now that’s a shame,’ he says. ‘That’s a real shame.’
‘Yeah, it’s all I can do to keep the tears in,’ I say.
He looks at me. When he realises I’m not serious, he sets about hooking the Micra to the truck. I get in and it’s a short drive to Benton. Once we’re at the garage, the skinny guy joins his colleagues and they take turns in surveying the damage. A chorus of tuts and sighs, the usual mechanic beatbox karaoke.
‘I know it’s bad,’ I say. ‘But you’ve got a day to replace the tyres. How’s about that?’
‘What about the paintwork?’ says the skinny guy.
‘I couldn’t give a fuck. You just sort me out with some tyres.’ I give him my mobile number and tell him to give me a call when the car’s ready to go.
‘We got other jobs on, mate. We can’t just drop everything.’
‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ I say as I walk out the door.
I light another Embassy as I head down the main road, away from the Metro station. Once I’ve got the cigarette on the go, I fish around for my mobile and call Donkey. Best to get this out of the way. It’s the last thing I want to do, but I might as well do something for Paulo.
‘Detective Sergeant Ian Donkin,’ he says. His phone voice is official. For a moment I think I’m talking to a real copper instead of a fuck-up with a badge.
‘It’s Cal Innes,’ I say.
‘Innes, where the fuck are you, son?’
‘You know where I am, Detective.’
‘Nah, I mean it. Where the fuck are you? You any idea what kind of trouble you’re in?’
‘I thought you were keeping an eye on me.’
‘Don’t
play funny buggers, Innes. I find you, you’re in custody. And your poof mate won’t be able to suck your way out of it, either.’
Poof mate. I’m sure Paulo’d get a kick out of that. And he’d aim it for Donkey’s teeth, most likely. ‘What’s the deal with the tail, Donkey?’
‘What tail?’
‘The lad in the black leather jacket. The lad that smelled like the inside of a black maria.’
‘Where are you?’
‘You listening to me?’
‘Where are you? I’ll get someone to come and pick you up.’
‘Jesus, Donkey, you know where I am.’
‘If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.’
Okay, now I need to think about this. ‘You know I’m in Newcastle, Detective. You sent a lad up here to follow me around.’
‘You think I have them kind of resources, Innes?’
I can’t say anything. If it’s not Donkey following me around, then it’s someone else and I don’t want to think that through.
‘Listen, I want you to stop going round the club.’
‘You don’t make the rules, Innes.’
‘This shit between you and me, it’s got nowt to do with Paulo.’
‘Now that’s sweet, but I don’t care. You get your arse back to Manchester and turn yourself in, and maybe we’ll talk about it. Until that time, I’ll go wherever the fuck I want and cause trouble for whoever the fuck I want.’
‘You’re not bothering to investigate this, are you?’
Donkey coughs into the phone. ‘I’m investigating. Trouble is, my prime suspect did a fuckin’ bunk. Now what does that say to you about their innocence, eh?’
“I didn’t do a thing to Dennis Lang. If you’d bothered to ask questions ‘
‘Don’t tell me how to do my job, Innes. I don’t come to your work and slap Mo’s cock out of your mouth, do I?’
‘Fuck’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means, you don’t get back to Manchester quick-smart, I’ll have a word with the police up in Newcastle and tell them what you’re up to. And in the meantime, I’ll make sure I do everything in my power to have your mate’s club shut down.’
‘You don’t know a fuckin’ thing.’
‘Never stopped me before,’ he says.
Don’t I know it. ‘I’ll be back when I’m back, Detective.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
‘In the meantime, you might want to get off your arse and ask some questions at The Denton. In fact, you might want to start off with Mrs Lang.’
Donkey starts to say something, but I cut him off. I realise I’ve been gritting my teeth.
As I turn the corner, the reason for me coming to Benton comes into view.
Alison Tiernan lives in that block. Enough running around. It’s time I found out what the fuck’s going on.
THIRTY-SIX
I look around for Stokes’ Escort, but it’s nowhere in sight.
Which means I’m okay for the time being. I don’t know how long that’s going to be the case, though.
I walk round to the front of the building just as a fat guy wearing an anorak comes out of the block. I make a show of looking for my keys, and give him a smile when he holds the door open for me. He doesn’t return it.
When I get into the hallway, my mobile starts ringing. It’s George and he sounds like someone slapped him.
‘Where the fuck were you?’ he says.
‘Sorry?’
‘Last night, you were supposed to meet me. You owe me money, Mr Innes.’
“I owe you fuck all, pal. In fact, you owe me for a couple of tyres.’
‘What?’
I click him off. The mobile starts ringing again almost immediately.
‘Listen, George, I don’t owe you a fuckin’ thing. Sue me.’
‘Mr Innes?’ It’s not George. A female voice.
‘Who is this?’
‘Um, it’s Pauline. Remember?’
Shit. ‘Yeah, Pauline. Sorry about that. What can I do for you?’
‘That bloke you were after, he’s in the casino right now.’
‘You sure?’
‘He just threw a strop with one of the dealers, grey in his hair. Yeah, he’s the guy. You want to come over and take a look?’
‘I can’t right now, Pauline. Listen to me, try to keep him there if you can. Tell him he can have free drinks or something and I’ll pay you later, okay?’
‘I can’t do that, Mr Innes.’
‘Well, just try to stall him.’
‘How?’
‘You’re a bright girl. You’ll think of something.’
‘Don’t patronise me. You sound like ‘
‘Bye, Pauline.’
I hang up on her. If she’s got any sense, she’ll leave Stokes alone. But I’m counting on her not knowing what kind of arsehole the guy is and playing it my way. It might buy me a little more time with Alison.
I take the concrete steps two at a time, and I realise that this block has a ground-floor flat and a first-floor maisonette. I walk towards the end of the landing, look out over the balcony and check out the carpark. Then round again to face the door.
This has to be it. It’s the only one that could correspond to the window I was watching last night. I take a deep breath, adjust my jacket and knock on the door.
At first, I’m not sure if there’s anyone in. I knock again, harder this time. I hear a voice from somewhere behind the door. For a brief second, I think it’s Stokes and my gut tightens.
It can’t be. He’s at the casino.
The sound of a chain being put on the door. I brace myself just in case Pauline got it wrong. Thinking, well, if it’s Stokes, I’ll peg it and call Mo. That’ll be the end of it, questions or no questions. I am the self-preservation society.
The door opens a crack. I can see one side of a girl’s face.
‘Alison Tiernan?’ I say.
She starts to say something, then makes to close the door. I jam my foot in the gap. She slams the door on it and pain shoots up my shin. I curl my fingers round the door and pull it as far as I can off my foot. ‘Listen to me, Alison. My name is Callum Innes ‘
“I don’t know you. Get your foot out my door.’
‘Your dad sent me.’
‘Fuck off’
‘You’ve got to let me in, Alison. I’m not going to hurt you, alright?’
‘I’ll call the police.’
‘We both know you won’t.’
‘I’m not letting you in.’
I keep my foot where it is, but I let go of the door. ‘Fine.
Then I do this from out here. I know what Rob’s been doing.
And I know you two took some cash that didn’t belong to you. But I’m here to help. If I wasn’t, then I wouldn’t have bothered knocking, would I?’
She stops trying to slam the door. Her lips purse and she looks at me through the crack. Figuring me out, wondering if I pose a threat.
“I mean it, Alison. If I didn’t need to sort some stuff out, I wouldn’t be here, believe me. I would’ve called Mo by now.
We stand there in silence for a few seconds. Then she says, ‘Get your foot out of the door.’
‘Are you going to let me in?’
‘Just get your foot out of the door.’
‘I’m not moving until I get a chance to talk about this properly.’
Her face suddenly twitches into animation. ‘Fine, okay?
Yes, fine, I’ll let you in. Now get your fuckin’ foot out of my fuckin’ door, alright?’
I remove my foot, try to ignore the pain. She closes the door, slides the chain off and opens it up again.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘But if you’re after a cuppa, you can fuck right off.’
I follow Alison down a dim hallway into a living room that looks like it’s been decorated by a bunch of drunken students.
The curtains are held up with drawing pins. Unframed posters dot the walls, a thin layer of dust on them. Alis
on heads straight for a ratty-looking easy chair with a throw rug on it, and sits on the arm. A small lamp provides the only light in the room, even though I catch a whiff of a scented candle.
‘I’ve still got some things I need to ask you,’ I say, taking a seat on the couch. I can’t make her out. Sitting there on the arm of the chair, an oversized Elvis T-shirt stretched over her knees, she looks her age. I think. I can hear her biting her nails, but the light in this place makes her look like one of those anonymous witnesses, her features hidden in a half shadow.
After a long silence, punctuated with her gnawing, she finally sniffs. ‘Why didn’t you call Mo?’
“I told you. I’ve got questions for you.’
‘Fuck do you care?’
‘I don’t know. Got some stuff to get straight, that’s all.’
‘So you’re still going to call him?’
‘You don’t want me to? Way I see it, I’d have thought you’d be eager to leave.’
There’s a sound that could pass for a laugh, but I’m not sure. ‘You don’t know the first fuckin’ thing, do you?’
‘That’s why I’m here, Alison.’
She leans over to grab a cigarette from a gold Bensons pack and the light from the lamp catches her face. A flash of recognition, but I can’t place who. It’s not Mo. Her face is round, her body type a far cry from Mo’s streak of piss physique. And she doesn’t have Morris Tiernan’s hard features.
In fact, it’s difficult to believe she’s related to either man. Her face is softer, like a child. Mousy hair, mousy eyes.
She must get her looks from her mother.
That is, what little looks she has left. A big ugly bruise covers her right cheek. It looks fresh and painful.
‘Rob do that to you?’
She glances at me, then lights the Benson. ‘What do you think?’ She blows smoke at me. ‘Who did your nose?’
