by David Mark
He finishes the pasty and looks around at the mess in the car. “Owt to drink?” he asks.
“Should be an old Lucozade under your chair. I might have pissed in it once or twice though.”
“Nectar,” he says and reaches under his seat. His hand emerges with the bottle and he twists the top off. There is no hiss. He takes a glug, gives a shrug, and ploughs on. “Right, this bollocks up at the Country Park. I’ve spoken to my guy and he reckons it’s going to be a fucking blinder. Roper was kind enough to give me a steer. It’s looking like a drug deal gone wrong. They haven’t got an ID for either of them yet, but it shouldn’t be long before it’s all formal. One of them’s got needle tracks up his arm and the other’s got ‘dealer’ written all over him.”
“So have they killed each other, then?” I ask, all innocence.
“Doesn’t look like it,” says Tony H, lighting a Hamlet. “Early doors, but the science boys reckon the gunshot victim died almost instantly. That means somebody else must have battered the other one’s brains in. He’s a big fucker though, so we might be looking for a hard case.”
I stare out through the glass, unsure what face to pull. In my head, the arcade-game and slot-machine jingle; metal on metal on metal. This is how my brain responds to the absence of my medication. Audible hallucinations. Nausea. Strange, high, keening diphthongs of sound felt but not truly heard. I can taste blood. Taste metal. It feels as if my mouth is full of bullets.
Tony gives me a look and raises an eyebrow. Our quid pro quo relationship requires me to give him something useful, and at the moment I’ve got nothing. I try and finesse some bullshit, to shake glitter onto a turd.
“I’ve had a chat with one of my tame sergeants and got pretty much the same,” I say, stifling a cough as I breathe in a lungful of Tony’s cigar. “But it looks like they might have the killer’s car on CCTV. There’s a camera in the trees in the car park, and there’s no way that whoever did this went there on foot.”
Tony nods, and rubs a finger across his yellow teeth. There’s a squeaking sound, like a snooker cue being chalked, and he looks down at the digit. He rubs whatever he’s found on the under-side of the passenger seat. “Yeah, I heard something like that. Apparently, they’ve found one car abandoned a few streets away that might belong to the guy who had his face smashed in. The bloke who got shot probably took the fucking bus. Fucking chav bastard. I suppose if he was high enough, he might have flown.”
We fall into silence and stare at the water, brooding on how to take the next step with minimal effort. We’re supposed to be competitors, but work better as a team. I always keep something back when we meet up for our clandestine, grubby little chats, but he does the same to me. There’s always been something between us, a weird bond of drink and debauchery.
“What’s your next move then?” he asks, absent-mindedly pulling up his shirt to examine his chest. He licks his finger and gives his nipple a rub. It’s yellow, like a spot. “I’m hoping for a name by five-ish. Roper is going to call me, so I’ll let you know.”
“I reckon I might go for the CCTV angle. See if I can find out where the tape is stored and get a look-see.”
“Happy fucking hunting. Roper will have this locked down pretty quickly. He’s got his 100 per cent clean-up record to think about.”
“Is he still claiming 100 per cent?”
“Aye, he’s found a way of ignoring that debacle last year. He’ll still tell anyone who’ll listen that he’s never lost a case.”
Tony looks momentarily bitter. We both know the case he’s talking about: an attack on a Hessle Road prostitute that was almost unprecedented in its savagery. Caron Cross. Sixty-three. Every bone in her face was smashed. She looked like a rotten apple when they found her, but she pulled through. A city council contractor, Denis Johnstone, was charged within days. He was in the area at the time of the attack, been spotted on CCTV moments later, and his wife had given evidence that he had come home covered in blood, but Johnstone’s defence team managed to convince the jury that he had actually been busy beating somebody else up at the time. The crime he admitted to was nasty, but not as barbaric as the hell that was visited on Caron. There was a lot of evidence to suggest that the investigation team had known about the other incident and tried to shush it up, and Roper’s reputation took a hit. It’s the only crease in his Armani suit, but it does piss him off. It pisses off Tony a good deal more. He’s been keeping Caron’s bed warm since she got out of hospital.
“What’s the rest of the day got in store, then?” he asks, fishing for that little bit more than he’s ever likely to reel in.
“Remember, I’m seeing Cadbury’s mam? And I’d better pop in at my sister’s, give myself a dose of misery.”
“Things no better, are they not?” he asks, shaking his head, and for a moment, genuinely concerned. “Such a shame. She’s a lovely lass. I know I’ve only met her a couple of times but she seemed such a sweetie. Shame you can’t just blow that fucking landlord’s head off.”
“It’s not just her landlord, mate,” I say, grabbing the steering wheel, hard. My knuckles go white beneath my gloves. “It’s her fucking dealer too. She’s shagging him, y’know? Reckons he’s her boyfriend, gonna make it all better. Called Beatle, or some such shit. They all need fucking doing. You met him that night in Sailmakers, when we were trying to get some food down Kerry and she was pretending she was clean. He wasn’t happy. Ugly prick in tracksuit bottoms and a baseball cap.”
“Maybe. Dunno. Don’t think he rings a bell. Be nice to put him out of the picture the way the Yanks do, though, eh? This is England though, Owen. If we were in America you could nip down the corner shop and buy a fucking Uzi. Do the both of them. And Choudhury. Christ, you could clear out half the baggage in your life. Cheer yourself up a bit.” He laughs, and scratches at his cheek. Delicate flakes of skin float into the air. One settles on the dashboard. I half expect it to begin evolving before my eyes. A few million years, and Tony’s DNA could be approaching that of a human being.
I smile at him, and blink, to distort the look in my eyes. “I bet it’s more difficult than you think.”
“I dunno, mate,” he continues. “The Americans seem to just point and pull the trigger. We’ve got to content ourselves with glassing people. That’s what makes this country wonderful.”
We both laugh, and Tony turns his head to stare out the window. He doesn’t want to get back out of the car. The weather is too miserable. The storm isn’t angry. More suicidal.
“Oh fuck it,” he says, and opens the door. The wind charges in and whips up a maelstrom to match the one in my mind. “I’ll call you later.”
He stumbles out and runs back to his car, jacket over his head.
The sky is almost black now, marbled with the grey of the storm clouds and the purple haze of the chemical plants at the estuary’s mouth.
Pull out my phone. Trying to get ahead of the game. Scroll down and call Roper. He answers on the fourth ring, fashionably late.
“Now then, sunbeam,” he says. “You not fancy the trip to the woods?”
“Popped up and back again,” I say, smile in my voice. “Nothing to see. Figured you’d give me preferential treatment.”
“You’ve got my mobile number. What more you want?”
“The lot.”
“You’ll be lucky. Don’t know much myself yet. Give me a bit of time and I will. You reckon this will go national?”
“Definitely, if you give me it first. I know you’re a busy boy, but ask Simmo to give me a bell as soon as you get anything. Day or night. I don’t sleep much.”
“Nightmares?”
“No. Your lass keeps me up.”
We laugh, two blokes, pretending to banter. Pretending to like each other.
“All I can tell you is it’s almost certainly drugs-related. We’re looking at CCTV footage now, but without much success. It could be a gang-style execution, how about that? Worth a headline?”
“Belter. Stay i
n touch.”
“Do my best.”
Click, and he’s gone.
I’m alone, watching the last of the lights come on.
The bridge illuminated. A pathway of yellow bulbs, beckoning me like a moth.
Watching the water.
17
Tony calls as I’m on my way to see Satan’s mum, stuck in traffic on Holderness Road. McDonald’s on my right, kebab shop on my left. Grotty end of town. Stout young mothers with knocked-off pushchairs; old blokes in comfortable slacks and Dunlop trainers, pottering down the pavements, waiting for the chippies to open. Soaked through and wind-blown. Pale faces and grey eyes. Garish under the street lights. A land of people who don’t brush their hair at the back.
The darkness is almost iridescent. Multi-coloured, like a pigeon’s neck.
Jess’s picture, lighting up.
Tony’s mobile number illuminating the screen.
Me. Too busy to deal with him: “Tony, mate. This going to be good?”
“Fucking corker, lad. Just got off the phone to my mate in CID. No formal ID until first thing, but they know ’em both. The one that got shot is local, some shitty little dealer from Orchard Park. Real ratty fucker. Record as long as my knob. Twenty-three-year-old, called, hang on a sec… Daz Norton, that’s it. Lived on Gildane, off Danepark. Not exactly classy.”
“Is that near the cop-shop? Where they found that lass a couple of years back?”
“Aye, that’s the one. Anyway, doubt we’ve lost a brain surgeon there. Got shot in the face. Not much of it left. The other one, though, he’s the real deal.”
Eager now, but trying not to sound it – waiting for the name of the man I killed, scribbling in shorthand on the back of a betting slip.
“He’s a Leeds lad. Proper gangster by the sounds of it. Alfie Prescott. Thirty-three. Fucking headcase from what my mate says. Works for some other nutjob in Leeds. Something Petrovsky. Getting it bottomed out as we speak. You know those Dutch lorry drivers, got sent down a few months back. The ones on the ferry? Got about sixteen years apiece for all the charlie? Well Prescott was named as the guy who set it all up. Could have connections right up to the big players in Holland. Did a stretch for GBH a few years ago. Doesn’t even try to act legit. Known as a problem-solver. Coppers were fucking terrified of him. Anyway, he got his head ventilated with a rock by the looks of things.”
A tremble in my throat, nails eating into the palms of my hands.
“Wonder what he was doing around here then. Your lad say?”
“All I got was a feeling. If this little weasel was a foot soldier, a crappy little pusher, he might have pissed off the wrong people. Maybe Prescott was here to do him, and got jumped straight after. Any luck, we’ll have a fucking gang war before the end of the week.”
“Fuck.”
“Indeed.”
“What’s next then? You going to knock the family? Name him?”
“Trying to get it confirmed from another source now, but the desk are jumpy. Probably hang fire until the morning. You?”
“Follow your lead, mate. I’ll let the desk know, make myself look good, like.”
“You owe me one.”
“You owe me one more.”
“Laters, mate.”
“Aye, cheers.”
Switch the phone off. Stare at the scrawl on the betting slip.
Notice I’ve drawn a tombstone.
Look up at the sound of honking from behind. There’s a gap in the traffic ahead of me. A cyclist nips into the gap from the pavement to my left, darts behind a bus. He turns his head as he disappears out of sight, and for an instant his face is a tapestry of blood, his features twisted and obscured beneath the thick fluid. Eyes empty, teeth dropping into the black cavity of his ravaged throat and jaw.
Then he’s gone, and I’m looking at the roadside again.
I release the handbrake and ease forward, rubbing my eyes.
18
Detective Superintendent Doug Roper sits on the edge of his desk like a funky newsreader and casts his eyes over a report he’s read a dozen times. The cameras are rolling, so he makes it seem like he’s fascinated. Cocks an eyebrow, like he’s seen something everybody else has missed. Nods, gently. Hint of a smile.
“Cut,” says whatshername. “Perfect,” she adds, as if he didn’t know.
He asks for a moment to himself and leaves the room. In a moment he’ll have to put a warm hand on the shoulder of the ugly bastard downstairs who just identified the body with the bullet hole in it. Have to pretend he gives a shit. That he somehow cares that the world is shy one more useless prick.
Interesting, though, he thinks. Bit of a surprise to hear the name. Been a silly boy, ain’t you, he says to the dead. Could all work out nicely, this. Few phone calls, little bit of pressure, delicate prod and poke. Couldn’t have asked for more.
Time to drop the gun, he thinks?
No, he decides. Always nice to have a trump card.
Surprise about the other one, though. Big fucker. Hard as nails. Couldn’t have gone down easy.
Might be worth throwing the press a bone. Let somebody in and bank the favour. Owen? Fuck that. Arrogant little shit. Never looks away. Always meets your eyes. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, would you? Wouldn’t know what he did.
Tony H, he decides. Bring in the rat.
So much to do and so little time.
His mobile rings and he sees that it’s McAvoy’s number. He titters, as he imagines the poor cunt still plugging away at the computer, trying to track down every member of the national remote control car club. Got his moment in the spotlight, didn’t he? Found Ella’s body, made the arrest. Promotion and a transfer. Onto Supercop’s team. But not one of the boys, yet. Doesn’t know when to leave well alone.
The phone stops ringing, eventually.
Roper strokes his moustache. Breathes deep as he does a round-up of things to worry about.
Still no word on the cellmate.
A lesser man would get twitchy, he tells himself.
A lesser man wouldn’t have got this far, he replies.
19
Twenty minutes later. Third in line in the queue for chips. Last in line, truth be told.
The smell of fried fish. Grease. Bleach. Lights too bright. Doing to my eyes what a low buzzing would do to my ears.
Me feeling peculiar. Floating above it all, looking at myself through a telescope.
Trying to tear my eyes away from the woman behind the counter. Mid-forties. Big hair. Batter blonde. Gold earrings. Maybe four foot ten if she’s wearing heels. Busy. Boisterous. Soft cheeks. One tooth too many in her top row. Pink tongue. Wrinkles at her eyes. Too much mascara. Smoker-pink cheeks. She’s not fat but could do with being wound tighter from the top. Breasts four inches lower than they should be. Just soft lumps, visible through her T-shirt and striped tabard.
She moves away from the counter, tray in hand, and picks up a newly fried piece of haddock from the stack behind her. Places it on a mountain of chips. She does it right. Perfect. Probably very Feng Shui. She shakes on salt and vinegar without being asked and starts to wrap it.
She’s wearing leggings. Black. White trainers and slouch-socks. Hasn’t even looked at me yet.
I turn my head away, stare at the patterns in the perm of the pensioner in front. She just wants chips. Done in a moment. The woman behind the counter treats her nicely. The old dear blathers on about the weather. Tells her she’s going to her daughter’s for Sunday lunch and she’s almost got all of the shopping done. Calls the younger woman Lena as they chat. Doesn’t ask her what she has planned for the big day. Lena smiles at her as they talk, gives nods of encouragement. Knocks a few pence of the price. Won’t hear of her paying the full whack, but tells her not to tell her friends. Calls her Flo. Flo grins like she’s won the lottery and tells me Lena’s got a heart of gold. She says it almost sadly. Puts the parcel in her shopping bag and totters to the door.
Lena watches her go. Waves. G
ives a little smile. Looks up and raises her eyebrows. They need plucking.
No recognition.
No interest.
“Yes love?” she says, encouragingly.
I drink her in for a moment.
“Mrs Cadbury?”
She flinches at the name. Her mouth straightens into a thin line. Her hands go straight into the pockets of her tabard, like a cowboy going for his six-shooter, and she steps back from the counter.
“Owen Lee,” I say quickly as she begins walking around to the open hatchway. “From the Press Association. You said you could spare me…” I fade out as she marches around the counter, disappearing for a moment as she passes the jar of pickled eggs. A foreign-looking guy peers his head over the fryer, further back in the shop. He’s young. Maybe my age. Olive-skinned and stubbly. I size him up and fancy my chances.
She emerges on the tiled shop floor and carries on past me to the front door, pulling a bundle of keys on a curly pink cord from the pocket of her tabard. She shoves one in the lock and turns it. I see her face reflected in the glass of the rain-lashed front door. There’s anger in her eyes. Passion. Uncertainty. She looks like she’s in the middle of an argument with some offending husband and can’t decide whether to fuck him or leave him. I know the look well.
