Eoin Miller 02 - Old Gold

by Stringer, Jay

  I didn’t see him at first—I’d been too involved in the conversation to be watching the door—but I felt a hand on my shoulder and Jelly’s voice.

  “Why you looking for me, Eoin?”

  I smiled. Finally.

  “Can’t I just look up an old friend?”

  “Friend? Is that what you’re calling it? Man, you only come to me when you got questions or when you want to bust me about something.”

  “Don’t take offense, Jelly, I’m like that with all my friends. Hell, you should see the way I treat my family.”

  He laughed. “From what I’ve heard, your family don’t ever talk to you.”

  I must have flinched. I saw it in his eyes. “Well, you know how it is. It’s not any fun unless you’re the black sheep.”

  I ordered him a pint of lager, and we moved over to sit on one of the sofas.

  “Who told you I was looking for you?”

  “My man.”

  “His name being?”

  “You wouldn’t know him.”

  “And I never will unless you tell me who he is.”

  “Friend of mine. Maurice. He spoke to you. Well, I think more like you spoke to him. Talked to him like you used to get on back in the day, whichever day that is, since he’s my age and you’re older than both of us, but he knew who you were.”

  I was pretty sure I didn’t know any Maurice.

  “Describe him to me. I don’t know the name.”

  “You’re not going to go looking for him?”

  “No, don’t worry. I just don’t like people knowing who I am if I don’t know who they are. It makes me nervous.”

  “Tall, tallish anyway, he’s got short hair that stops about a shade short of being ginger, and the man is fat.”

  “How fat?”

  “Well, you don’t normally like to say when it’s a friend of yours, but this kid is fat, and I’m not talking puppy fat. Can’t be puppy fat, he’s twenty-seven. Guy looks like he’s in training for the belly Olympics, and he’s going to take gold.”

  “But you don’t like to say about friends.”

  “Well, OK, he’s more what I’d call a passing acquaintance.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Yeah, just a guy I know.”

  I knew who he meant.

  This Maurice had been propping up the bar in the Walsall Arms. He’d been nursing a Guinness as if nursing was about to become illegal, and I’d believed him when he told me he’d never heard of a guy called Jelly.

  And he wasn’t just fat; he was terminal.

  “You know why I’m here, Jelly.”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t know anything at all, man, and you can quote me on that. You can quote me on that and write it in big black letters, in a very good paint, across the north bank at Molineux. I don’t know anything.”

  “OK, Jelly, don’t worry. I won’t be telling anyone where I got it from. Is this why you’re holed up in Walsall?”

  “What? No, no, man. I’m just taking it easy, got friends round here.”

  “One friend in particular from what I hear.”

  He grinned and did a fake modest shrug.

  “Well, yeah, you know.”

  “Fill me in, will you. What the hell has been going on?”

  “Well, I really don’t know it all. I mean, I know bits and pieces, but bits and pieces don’t make a lot of anything.”

  “Just start talking,” I said.

  Jelly would always talk, no problem. The trade-off would always come later on, or he’d hold it over you like a credit note.

  “Well, it starts with the Poles, you see. All them fucking Poles. You notice how everybody in town’s got Polish accents these days? Don’t know what the hell’s going on.”

  “Poland joined the EU.”

  “Well, yeah, I do know. I’m just saying.”

  “OK.”

  “Well, see, it’s been tense for years, you know that. You got the Mann brothers handling the Asians, working some real miracle shite, keeping the Indians and the Pakis on the same page.” He paused, looked at me, then corrected the slur. “Pakistanis, I mean. Anyway, they’re all young, they see the business side. Then you got Gaines sitting on top of the older money, the Irish connections, all that. They’ve been managing to ignore each other and stick to their own shit. They’re happy enough to split the pie as long as the Birmingham gangs stay out of it. Anyway, this Polish guy, Tommy, he turned up fresh off the boat.”

  “Most likely the Eurostar.”

  “Yeah, man, I’m just saying.”

  “OK.”

  “And he starts talking around town about meth and heroin, like some all-you-can-eat buffet. Before you know it, he’s selling crystal to Claire Gaines, and her old man is shitting a brick about it.”

  Claire Gaines. Veronica’s little sister.

  “But it isn’t just that. He’s getting his hands on loads of this shit. He’s selling junk, he’s selling methadone, for fuck’s sake, on the street, and he’s got his own supply lines. That’s where the money is, man, prescription junk. Meth and heroin are just the salad dressing, and he’s practically giving those away. Using them as calling cards, yeah? The junkies love him, man. He’s like Robin Hood or Jesus or something.”

  “I don’t think either of them was a drug dealer.”

  What Jelly was saying made sense. Prescription drugs were gold dust. Biggest slice of the trade in Europe and not cracked down on in the same way as good old-fashioned rock-star drugs. You didn’t need grow-ops, chemists, and guns—you just needed a few contacts in the import trade and a knowledge of how to fiddle paperwork. A man could get rich fast.

  “It’s just basic business, man. He’s selling good product at a cheaper price. I mean, I got offered some, I saw the goods, it was legit, and he was practically giving it away.”

  “Saw it? You mean you met him?”

  “Yeah, man, he bought me a drink in the Apna, wanted me to get him more pushers. That’s the other thing he’s doing. He’s getting the existing pushers in his pocket.”

  “OK, describe him to me.”

  “Nah, wouldn’t help.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m getting to it.”

  “OK.”

  “So what you got, see, is this new guy turning up and getting people onside. The coke and heroin reel people in, then he starts to talk about the serious money he can spin with the prescription shit. But he hasn’t made nice with the brothers or Gaines. Hasn’t bothered to work points with any of them. He just turns up and starts selling this shit at lower prices, on the same corners, through the same people.”

  “OK.”

  “So Gaines is pissed as hell.”

  “You mean Veronica. Yeah, I know her.”

  “She’s hot. Anyway, she’s offering money to people to kill this Tommy, and you’ve got both Gaines and the Mann brothers wanting to take their business back.”

  “They all want his supply route.”

  “Exactly. I mean, I’m sure that was a far bigger thing for Gaines than protecting his youngest daughter’s nose. I mean, family is one thing, but this is money.”

  “So Gaines and the Manns are both asking around town about this guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  I wondered why the brothers hadn’t brought me in on this. It was the sort of thing I’d have been perfect for.

  “Then, about two weeks ago, he gets busted.”

  “Arrested?”

  “Yeah, little Tommy Tucker, the silver spoon, you know the book? That was set in Poland, wasn’t it? The kids with the silver spoon in a box?”

  “Sword. The Silver Sword.”

  “Yeah, I know, I’m just saying. He gets caught red-handed in the Apna, selling drugs. Busted for possession like a common dealer.”

  This was news. If Tommy had been arrested, there would be a file. There would be a record and criminal charges. Becker could tell me all I needed to know.

  “But he must have gotten out, right?”

>   “Well, we never heard about no court case or bail, so it doesn’t sound like he was held on a charge, but he just vanished after that.”

  “Vanished? Vanished in what way?”

  “Well, we don’t know. Just in that he’s not around. And a lot of people are asking about him on the streets.”

  “What people?”

  “Well, you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The pushers, all the people he’d set deals with. They’re asking. Bull was asking for the Gaines family, and that Robson guy, he was asking around a lot too.”

  “Robson?”

  “Yeah, you know, Mr. Robson, the other guy who works for the brothers.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Ah, c’mon, I’ve seen you with him.”

  OK, I’d work on that one later. I didn’t want to lose the thread.

  “What were they asking?”

  “People want to know where he’s staying and where his stash house is at. Eoin?”

  His voice was different now. Softer. There were no jokes in his voice, just hurt. He continued when I looked at him.

  “Killed Bauser, man.”

  Now I realized this talk might not come with a credit note. Bauser and Jelly had come up together in the scene, Bauser in the gangs and Jelly at the parties. Always mixing, never quite friends. But I could tell Jelly cared, at least a little bit.

  “I know. I saw his body.”

  “You know who did it?”

  “Not yet.”

  I dropped a twenty-pound note on the sofa between us and excused myself to go to the toilet. I had to laugh when I got in there. The owner had clearly spent a lot of money renovating the pub, but the toilet was still exactly the same as it always had been, graffiti and all. When I got back to the sofa, Jelly had left and taken the money with him.

  I downed my Coke and followed.

  Out on the street, I couldn’t see Jelly. I’d taken a big gamble by giving him such a head start. I really didn’t think he had any more to give, but I wanted to know where he was staying. Then I heard his voice, to my left, a little farther up the hill and just out of sight. I walked to the bend and saw him walking away up the hill, talking to a woman as he went. From behind, all I could make out was that she was the same height as he and blonde. They paused to cross the road. I thought they were going to spot me when they looked back for coming traffic, but somehow they didn’t. I crossed in the same direction after they were out of sight and hurried to turn into the road they’d walked up.

  We were by the church now, right at the top of the town. I watched them walk across a car park and up to an old set of low-rise flats. I stood in the shadow of a tree and watched which flat they went into, then turned and retraced my steps back to my car.

  I drove back to the flat. It felt more natural than the house now.

  Bobby had left a package there for me, on the coffee table. There was a bundle of receipts for paint and tools. I guess he was used to having to prove his expenses to the Mann brothers. There was also a mobile and a note telling me he’d topped it up with fifty pounds’ worth of talk time.

  I was back in circulation.

  I keyed in a number I just about remembered and listened to it ringing for an age before it was answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Beck? It’s Eoin.”

  “It’s my day off.”

  “Yeah, so listen, you got a minute?”

  “Eoin, it’s my day off.”

  “I’ve run into a few things. There’s this case I’ve been looking into and—”

  “It’s the day that comes at the end of the working week? It’s very precious to those of us with proper jobs.”

  “I could really do with some background.”

  “Is this anything to do with the misper you tried reporting at the station the other day?”

  I weighed the options. I could lie and have him know I was lying. I could tell the truth and he still might not help me. Weigh the options, weigh the odds.

  “Yes.”

  “And will you tell me what it’s all about?”

  I didn’t need to lie. Because I didn’t yet know the truth.

  “I’ll tell you as much as I can. Can you trust me on that much?”

  “All right, what is it you need?”

  “Drugs. Drugs in town. I’ve been told a few stories about a Polish national moving into Wolverhampton at cheap prices. I’ve been hearing about Gaines and the Mann brothers taking an interest. The guy’s name is Thomas, or something like it, maybe a Polish variation on it.”

  There was a pause on the line. Too much of a pause. I’d touched on something familiar. Finally he spoke.

  “Jesus.”

  “Any of this sound familiar?”

  “I’m going to have to look a few things up.”

  “OK. And, Beck, why is this the first I’ve heard of it? Why hasn’t the press got a taste of this and made it front-page news?”

  “I’ll add that to my list of things to look into. Eoin?”

  “Yes?”

  “This sounds, uh, big.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “And this might take a while. I’ll call you when I’ve got something.”

  “Any idea when that’ll be?”

  “Probably not on my day off.”

  Fair enough. There was silence on the line for a moment.

  “Eoin? How are you getting on with the missing student?”

  I paused too long before answering. “Fine,” I said, too late.

  “You’ve not done anything, have you?”

  “Well, this other thing I’ve got, it’s kind of important, you know? I’ll get round to it.”

  “Jesus, Eoin, you’ve taken their fucking money. I need you to come through on this, to do the right thing. Have you forgotten what that’s like?”

  “That’s a bit harsh.”

  “No. No, it isn’t. Listen, you’ve taken on the job, you’re going to do the job. You want the information from me, you’ll have to get the work in on the student.”

  He hung up.

  Bollocks. I hated it when he was right.

  I phoned the University of Wolverhampton, and the receptionist put me through to Chris Perry’s tutor. He said he could see me right away, and I drove into town to get there quicker. He was waiting for me at the reception desk. He shook my hand and introduced himself as I filled out the visitor’s pass and was allowed through.

  His name was Paul Lucas. He was a skinny, middle-aged man with short red hair and absolutely no smile whatsoever. He led me through the building and out into the central courtyard, where he stopped to ask some students why they hadn’t handed their assignments in. Then we continued on to his office on the third floor of the Millennium Building. The building had been erected around the turn of the century to house displaced members of staff from closed campuses in nearby towns. A lot of brick and glass, it had no library but two coffee shops.

  Lucas’s office was a cramped space that he seemed to share with two other lecturers. The room was dull and gray, and the window showed a view of the ring road, the circular dual carriageway that encircled the city like a concrete moat. I decided that a career spent in this room would drive a man to murder, and I hoped I wasn’t right. We both sat down, and Lucas tried his best smile.

  “So you’re working with the police?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. I thought—”

  “Sorry if I gave you that impression. I’m working private—I’ve been hired by Christopher’s parents to find him—but both DS Becker and DCI Miller will vouch for me, if you need it.”

  “No, it’s fine. Whatever helps.”

  I pulled my battered old notebook out of my pocket and flipped it open. It’s a useful tool if you want to unsettle someone.

  “When was the last time you saw Christopher?”

  “I last saw him, let’s see—I wrote all this down when the police were asking.” He pulled out a pad that had notes written on
it in very small, very neat handwriting. “I last saw him three days before he disappeared.”

  “What mood was he in when you saw him?”

  “Positive. Chris was always very positive.”

  “Did he have anything here at university that might make him run away?” I leaned forward. “I mean, did he tell you anything that might help us?”

  “No, nothing I can recall. Certainly nothing that would be worth giving it all up.”

  “He wasn’t behind on work?”

  “No. He used to be. When he first started here he had a lot of trouble with deadlines, with attendance. We thought he might not make it through his first year. But this year he’s really come into his own, hands everything in on time, gets decent grades.”

  “Is that common?”

  “Oh, sure. To be honest, we get all kinds here. Some students start well, then fall apart. Some start badly, then grow up. Chris was one of those, I think.”

  “Was he a good actor?”

  “He was OK. He’s never going to be a big star, and I think he knows that. But, and this has really started to come out in this last semester, he’s quite a talented scriptwriter. I think with another six months, he’d have realized that was what he should be pursuing.”

  “Writing?”

  “Absolutely. He was very polished. He was a natural at pacing, at leaving the right amount of room for the actors.”

  “What sort of things did he write?”

  “Comedies, really. Subtle comedy, more grown-up than his classmates’.”

  “So he wrote feel-good stuff? Happy endings?”

  “I’d say he wrote simple rather than happy. He liked straightforward plots, a conflict and a resolution, simple characters. Writing simple is something we spend most of our time here trying to get through to them. He has that naturally.”

  “Chris was in a lot of your classes?”

  “Yes, he’s been in a few of mine. I don’t teach the practical side of acting. I deal more with the other side. I go through how to approach scripts, how to break them down and research them, how to block the scenes. Like I said, it was that side of things that Chris was really starting to grow.”