Runaway Town (An Eoin Miller Mystery Book 2)

by Jay Stringer

  “The job you’re working on, how’s it going?”

  “Which? You mean the guy who beat my mum, or—”

  He winced and then tried a shrug that came out looking pathetic. “I meant the one you tried to talk to me about the other night.”

  “Slow going.”

  He stopped and pulled my elbow so that I stopped as well. “Listen, I was a bit of a twat the other night, you know? I’d like to help with it—I mean, I do want to help—but it’s difficult.”

  “Yeah, I get it. There’s no case there if—”

  “Yeah. But get me something, anything. Look, the main case the brass is giving us right now has to do with cigarettes, so you’d be doing us all a favor if you gave us some real police work to do.”

  “Cigarettes?”

  He shrugged. “Apparently, one in three ciggies smoked in Britain is illegally imported. And the government, well, we know they’re all cozy with big business, so they’re more than happy to show their loyalty and make us investigate. Yes, these are the things that filter down our way. So your, uh, the thing—well, I want to help. Here.”

  He held out a piece of paper but paused before handing it over. He squinted at me. “Look, I hate to ask again, but this definitely isn’t a Gaines thing, is it?”

  I said no again. It felt like more of a lie than the first time.

  He handed me the paper. “The car you saw belongs to a man named Paul Pearce. Guy’s had a couple of driving offenses, so we had a bit of detail for him. High school teacher, lives just down the road from you. Don’t do anything stupid with it, okay?”

  I took a glance at the paper before slipping it into my pocket: it listed the vehicle registration, a name, and an address. I nodded my thanks and turned to get into my car before he called again.

  “And, hey, the thing with your mum?”

  “I’m looking at some guy called Dave Kyng. He’s got an office on Broad Street.”

  Becker smiled and scratched the back of his head. “Yeah. I know him. We’re looking at him too for a lot of things. It’s only a matter of time before we find something to throw at him.”

  “Any pointers?”

  “There’s nothing I could tell you that you won’t find on the Internet. Just look the guy up.”

  TWENTY‐TWO

  I called Salma. If she was angry with me for disrupting her Saturday afternoon, it didn’t register above the hostility she’d already shown me. I asked her to set up the meeting with the third victim, the one she was willing to introduce me to. She said yes, but there was a lot of background noise, and she had to repeat herself a couple times.

  “Where are you? Sounds like there’s a riot going on.”

  “Villa Park. Me and my brother have season tickets.”

  “Villa? You’re a Villa fan?” Her support of a Birmingham team was a personal betrayal of everything I held dear.

  “My dad lived in Aston before I was born, if you must know.” Was that a trace of defensiveness in her voice? Excellent. Victory for me. “He used to take us to the games when we were little.”

  “Look, it’s going to be okay. Everything will be all right. There’s still time. Wolves are playing tomorrow. You can come with me to the game, and we may be able to save your soul.”

  She was still laughing when I hung up.

  I drove to my mother’s house. She hated football. Saturday afternoon was the one time of the week you could guarantee she’d be indoors, so as to avoid the drunken fans who’d be out and about, and fighting to find something on the television or radio that didn’t involve sports.

  Rollo came to greet me as I parked outside. It was not a friendly greeting, more of a cold stare, a reminder that he could kill me if he wanted to. He followed me up the path to the front door and ran around my feet as I rang the doorbell. As soon as the front door opened, he was a blur, vanishing into the house.

  Little fucker.

  It was Rosie who answered, looking tired and disheveled.

  “What? Just wake up?”

  “After you went last night, I changed my mind and went out. Thought I’d see what the local clubs were like these days.”

  “And?”

  “Eh, I don’t really remember, to be honest, so it was either great or awful.”

  “Anyone hiding back there that I should know about?”

  She pulled a face and turned to climb the stairs, leaving the front door wide open for me. “Funny. You’re funny. Now let me have a shower. Maybe several.”

  I stepped inside and shut the door behind me. I pulled off my jacket and draped it over the banister at the foot of the stairs. Then a brief flash of memory hit me.

  I’m falling down the stairs. I don’t know how, but I remember the carpet slipping beneath my feet at the top. Then it’s all a blur. My legs crash into the wood; the corners of each step jump up and down at me as I slide down. I hit my head and see stars. The tiled floor reaches up to smack me in the face, and I decide it’s easier just to lie there, staring at the tiles, noticing all the dust. There’s a crashing sound in the living room, and then my father appears—or, rather, his feet do. He lifts me up, and there’s panic in his eyes. I realize I’m crying, and he’s dropped whatever he’s doing to come and pick me up. I’m in pain, but I feel good.

  I shook the memory off and walked down the hallway, pausing for a second at the living room door. I could hear my mum inside, fussing over Rollo, and I wished I could avoid the conversation I was about to start. When I pushed through, she smiled at me and started to get up out of her chair. I put my hand out so she would stay put and bent down to kiss her on the cheek.

  “How you feeling?”

  “Better now I’ve seen my boy.”

  I shrugged that off. I’m not good at sincerity.

  “Dinner was good last night. You enjoy it?”

  “It was good having the family together, even Laura. It never seems to happen anymore, does it?”

  “Did it ever?”

  She didn’t answer right away, and I wondered if I’d upset her. Then she must have seen me looking at her bruises, and she told me not to worry. “You’ve got another fifty years of me yet. I’m going to live long enough to patronize old people. I’m going to be able to wink at a ninety-year-old and say, ‘You’ll understand when you’re older,’ like they always do to me now.”

  “Yeah, we’re stuck with you—I’m not worried about that. Though does this mean I’ll be too old to enjoy my inheritance?”

  “You’ll never be too old to enjoy the tin of coffee and packet of biscuits that I’ll leave for you in the will.”

  I sat on the sofa opposite, and the cat brushed against my legs. I ignored him and stared at all the photographs on the wall: school uniforms and bad teeth, summer holidays, my wedding.

  She followed my gaze and smiled. “You looked all grown up that day. Suit and tie. You’d even combed your hair.”

  “Never again.”

  “Laura’s doing well for herself, though, isn’t she? I mean she always seemed the type, but still, it’s good to see a woman doing so well.”

  “What can I say? I’m a lucky charm.”

  “Get off. That girl’s worked her ass off, and she’s gotten a good job to show for it. She was in the newspaper again this morning, talking about a new antidrug initiative they’re doing.”

  She passed the paper across to me. It was turned to the second page, where Laura was pictured with some schoolchildren holding a banner that proclaimed they all said no to drugs. I looked for the disclaimer that stated that she didn’t say no to drug money from the Gaines family, but they had left that bit off the banner. I sat and waited for the rest of the speech: If only you had followed her example, you’d have a good job yourself. But it never came.

  “How are you really feeling?” I said. “You in much pain?”

  She shrugged. “Not really. It’s not the first time I’ve had a kicking. Used to happen a lot when we were living in the caravans.”

  That had bee
n the first stage of our family life, before she’d convinced my father to turn to the settled life. To do things her way. To get the pub, and then this house.

  “Who did it?”

  She ignored the question, so I asked it a second time.

  “Just forget it, okay? I know I have.”

  Her eyes told me a different story, and I knew they told the truth. I have a little theory: once you learn that Father Christmas isn’t real, your parents lose the ability to lie to you. It had been quite a long time since I’d believed a lie from my mother.

  I told her that Mrs. Daniels had seen who did it, but I left out that she was too old to give a report that made any sense. Mum looked at me for a split second with something in her eyes that I couldn’t place, and then her usual mask reappeared.

  “Come on. Tell me what happened. I can deal with it.”

  “Deal with it? Deal with it? How, through the Gaines family? What, you’ll have a word and the problem will just disappear?”

  I didn’t even need to ask how she knew. She always knew, somehow, when I was doing the wrong thing.

  “Mum, it’s not—”

  “Don’t—I’ve had enough lies from the men in this family. And I’ve had enough of that family, too.”

  “What exactly did Dad do for them?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I tried so hard.” I watched the hinge of her jaw clench beneath her skin. “I knew I couldn’t change your father, but I was damned if I was going to let my boys turn out the same way.” She looked at me. “Noah was one thing. He’d always known too much. But you? You listened to me when I told you not to talk to the wrong people. Then you joined the force. I thought at least I’d saved one of you.”

  I felt my cheeks flush and burn. I felt shame. I reacted the only way I knew how—with sharp words. I pulled out the debt letter I’d taken from the house and threw it at her.

  “What’s the money for, Mum? If you needed something, why didn’t you ask? You know I’ve got money in the bank—”

  “I don’t want dirty money. I’ve had enough of it.”

  “So you’d rather get in over your head with a loan shark? Is that how it works? Christ, Mum, I’m trying to help you. Just tell me this is the guy. Just tell me. I’ll make the debt go away.”

  She stared at the letter but didn’t say a word. The worst kind of silence settled over us, and it seemed to stretch out forever. Until she quietly folded the letter and placed it on the table beside her.

  “Get out.” She didn’t look up as she said it, keeping her eyes fixed on some invisible object resting on her knees. “Now.”

  TWENTY‐THREE

  Salma pulled up outside my flat in her expensive car and opened the passenger door for me to climb in. She didn’t say a word, just pulled away from the curb without waiting for me to shut the door. She ignored me as she accelerated. Then something in her seemed to snap, and she braked suddenly and pulled the car over to the side of the road.

  “I’m not looking to play any games with you, you know?”

  Games? What games?

  “Like, all the funny banter, the teasing, the trying to win me over with your awkward charm. I’m not falling for any of that crap.”

  Oh. Those games.

  I didn’t want her to see she had a point, so I changed up. “Look, have I done something to offend you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ever since we met in the church, there’s been something bad between us. Like you’re holding a wall up, or you don’t want me around.”

  She shrugged. “I guess. When Connolly mentioned you, I asked around the newsroom. I didn’t like what I heard.”

  I thought of that old joke. You can do a hundred good deeds, but once you fuck just one goat…

  “Yeah, I thought so. But then you meet me, and I’m not Freddy Krueger, and I don’t spit fire. But you feel angry at me because you can’t stay angry at me.”

  She stared at the steering wheel for a moment. Then her shoulders relaxed. She put the car back in gear.

  “You’re right,” she said. “You’re not what I was expecting. And I’ve been holding that against you, I guess. I prefer it when people live up to my expectations. I don’t like surprises.”

  “And you’re a woman, and I’ve been holding that against you.”

  “Sexist.” She laughed and shook her head, and after that the silence we drove in wasn’t a tense one. She drove us to Thorn Lane, a small cul-de-sac situated in the shadow of Church Hill.

  The cul-de-sac was set back from the road and ended at the brick wall that signaled the start of the next housing estate. To the left was a row of council garages, hidden from the road by houses, and a dirt path that ran behind the back garden of each house. To the right was a row of flat-topped low-rise council flats two stories high. The ground-floor flats opened straight out onto the car park, and the top-floor flats each had their own staircase and balcony. Some of the doors to the ground-floor flats were propped open, and a group of children was running around in front of the garages chasing a football.

  Salma answered my question before I had time to ask it. “Asylum seekers.”

  “This is the land of milk and honey, huh?”

  “It’s the land of wherever the council can put them, yes.”

  “Are they expecting us?”

  She nodded. “Well, they’re expecting me. I’ll explain your presence somehow. Our charity works with most of the people in the block, and one of the kids is having a birthday party.” She reached round to the backseat and came back with a present wrapped in bright red paper. “And, listen. I know after our meeting with Ruth I don’t need to say this. But be tactful, okay?”

  I followed her up the steps of the nearest flat. The front door was propped open, and we could hear the sounds of children laughing and shouting inside. Salma rapped on the door and then stepped inside. I followed her through into the living room.

  Dozens of children were huddled into the small room, playing with a few toys and watching an old television set. They all turned to look at us. First they saw Salma, and their eyes widened with excitement, and then they saw me and settled back down. One of the children stood up and ran at Salma, wrapping his skinny arms around her in a tight little hug. She bent and whispered something in his ear in a language I couldn’t place and then handed him the present. He squealed and tore into it, revealing a plastic robot, which was clearly the best thing he’d ever seen. He held it over his head and ran back into the crowd of children. They clamored to get a closer look. Bribery had done its trick—they’d forgotten all about me.

  Salma led me out into the hallway again and spoke in a low voice. “Stay here.”

  She opened the door to the kitchen and stepped in. Inside was a group of adults leaning on the cheaply fitted countertops and drinking bottled beer. One of the women eyed me for a second and then pushed the door shut to keep me out. She had looked familiar, short and slim, with Eastern European features and short dark hair. I knew her from somewhere but couldn’t place her.

  I stood in the hallway for a second and listened. In the living room, the children laughed and played. The hallway was painted in a faded cream that looked like it had been gathering grime since the seventies. I behaved for as long as I could—about two minutes—before questions at the back of my mind forced me to start exploring. I walked past the kitchen door and opened the next door I came to. It was a cramped bathroom, the countertop lined with the usual selection of soaps and razors. The sink was stained with toothpaste and soap, and the shelf above it held close to a dozen toothbrushes.

  I opened the next door and stepped into a sparse bedroom. A single bed was pushed against the back wall, and the remaining floor was carpeted with wall-to-wall pillows and mattresses. Half a dozen neatly folded sleeping bags were stacked below the window. The only other item in the room was a portable gas heater.

  I pulled the door shut quietly and tri
ed the next one, but it was stiff and I knew I couldn’t open it with without putting some weight behind it. I didn’t want to make that kind of noise, and I already had some of the answers I’d been looking for.

  I retraced my steps to the living room and leaned on the doorframe, watching the children play. I looked at the faded clothes they were wearing and listened to the various languages they seemed to be using. All pieces of a puzzle that had been eating at me. There was a new fire extinguisher next to the front door, and I noticed that smoke alarms had been fitted to the ceiling in the hallway and the living room. It seemed at odds with everything else.

  The voices in the kitchen got louder, and I realized Salma was saying good-bye to the parents. She opened the door and walked toward me. I saw the adults peering at me suspiciously, and the small brunette locked eyes with me again. From her expression I knew she recognized me, too. She smiled, and I caught what I’d been looking for. I knew where I’d seen her before.

  Salma stopped and peered at me. My expression must have given me away. She started to form a question, but stopped. We both knew the score.

  “How many of the people in your group are illegal immi grants?”

  “I, uh—”

  “I knew you and Connolly were holding something back. That’s why you can’t go to the police.” I was only getting warmed up. “At least one of the women in that kitchen dances at Gaines’s club—I know because she’s danced for me. Is that where the money is coming from?”

  “That’s not quite how it all works.”

  “Not quite? This is human trafficking.”

  She slapped me. I hadn’t expected that, and it seemed like she hadn’t either.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking away. “But that was a horrible thing to say. Connolly and me, we’re helping these people, not trading them.”

  “Okay, tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s a long—” She realized it didn’t matter how long a story it was going to be. She nodded for me to follow her outside, and we sat on the low wall beside her car. “It started out fine—normal, I mean. Just like we said. That was back when there was money going around for community projects, and we could get lottery grants. But after that last election the money dried up.”