Beast of Burden Page 13
Which meant he had an inflated sense of self-worth, and I had the fucking pin.
I grabbed him by the tie. He couldn't do anything about it but fold his face.
“Iain, for fuck's—”
I pulled tighter, pushed the knot into his Adam's apple. “You know better than that. Call us on my fuckin' methods like you're some kind of fuckin' supercop, you daft twat. Got to expect I'm going to get wound up by that.”
Pushed him back in his chair, which scraped loud against the floor. He grabbed hold of the table before he went arse over tit, pulled at his tie with his other hand. He was starting to draw stares from the rest of the arseholes in here, so I gave as good as I got until they shrank back to their tea and toast.
“If you think that grassing us up is a way to get on in this job, Derek, you're going to get your tie mangled.” I pushed my plate out of the way; wasn't hungry at all now. “And if you continue to act the arse, I'll smack you like one.”
“Don't talk to me like I'm one of your grasses,” he said, his voice scratchy.
“But you are, Derek. Because if it wasn't for you, that body that came in this morning would be mine, not Kennedy's. As it fuckin' turns out, I wanted that case and it's rightly mine, so what you're going to do is let me know what Kennedy knows.”
“You can't investigate—”
“Not that it's any of your fuckin' business, but someone has to. You reckon Kennedy's going to do a decent job of it, the way he was talking? This Tiernan thing isn't something that concerns him. His first dead end and he'll chuck it in, and you know why?”
“Because nobody gives a shit about Mo Tiernan,” said Adams.
“Because Detective Inspector Colin Kennedy is bent as all fuck.”
Adams shook his head, his bottom lip putting a move on his top. “I don't think so.”
“You reckon he's clean, and I know why.”
“Because he is.”
“Because you can't see anything but the inside of his arse. You ever wondered why he transferred over from Liverpool? Why he never fuckin' talks about it?”
“If DI Kennedy doesn't want to make the Tiernan case a priority, then that's his problem. If and when he jacks it in, and if you don't think the investigation was handled correctly at that time, I'm sure you can put a formal complaint in to the DCI.”
“And how do I know how well the investigation was handled if you don't help us?” I sat back in my chair, looked at Adams. I kept my voice low and friendly. “Okay. Tell you what, Derek, I fully appreciate I've put you in an uncomfortable position here. I'll just take my suspension, watch Fern and Phil, let the bent coppers breed through our nick. But just so's you know — so there's no fuckin' misunderstandings about this further on down the line — this thing here? It's not about putting one over on Kennedy. It's about finding out if what I hear about him is true.”
“And what's that?” said Adams, a new smile pushing his mouth wide. “That he's bent? You heard that from your grasses?”
He was laughing at me on the inside. Just like the rest of the twats I came into contact with. I wanted to ram his face into that free breakfast, going cold in front of him. And the truth was, I didn't know that Kennedy was bent. He just felt bent to me, and it was a good enough justification to get Adams to grass him up. But something had happened to the skinny fuckwit. Someone out there had promised him back-up if I ever put the strong arm on him. I could guess who.
“Fine, right.” I pushed away from the table. “You watch him, Derek. If anything crops up that brings this conversation back to fuckin' mind, you've got my mobile number. Don't let him drag you down with him.”
Then I pushed my way past the tables to the front door.
I didn't look back, knew that Adams would be chuckling to himself about this. Probably tell Kennedy about it, and I suddenly felt utterly fucking stupid. It didn't matter what he told Kennedy, mind. They'd have a laugh about it. But at the end of the day, I'd be the one laughing at the pair of them.
Because there was no fucking way I was going to drop this investigation, not when I had a chance to one-up that cunt Kennedy.
20
DONKIN
I wasn't in the mood to play kiss-chase with Innes, so I went straight back round the poof's club. And as soon as I got through the doors, that was it. The poof was out and almost running at us.
“He's not here,” he said.
“I know he's not here. I can see he's not here. He's never fuckin' here, is he?”
The poof stopped in his tracks. Behind him, I saw the door to the IC Investigations office standing open. The big jailbird — Frank Collier — was in there, looking at some papers. The poof moved to one side, blocked my view. “So what are you doing here? I thought we discussed this.”
“I need to know where he is,” I said.
“If he's not here, then I don't know.”
“Maybe your big friendly giant in there knows something.”
“The fuck is the matter with you?” he said. “Seriously, I mean, are you fuckin' retarded in some way?”
“You don't need to talk to us like that,” I said, frowning at him. “Hurts my fuckin' feelings. I just need to talk to Innes. It's important, otherwise I wouldn't have come back, would I?”
“Well, he's not—”
“Then I need his mobile number.”
“No.”
“Oi, look, I'm trying to be fuckin' nice about this, aren't I?” I took a few steps up at him, gave him my brightest smile. “I haven't got handy with you, haven't asked your jittery mate in there any more fuckin' questions, so I reckon that's got to count for something, doesn't it? So how's about this? You go and get us Innes' mobile number, right? And I won't bother coming round anymore.”
The poof didn't say anything for a long time. He was staring at us like he was waiting for us to carry on, give him some more reasons to help the police with their inquiries. Then, when he realised I didn't have nowt to give, he said, “No.”
“What exactly is your fuckin' problem here, Nancy?”
“If he doesn't want to talk to you, he's not going to talk to you on the fuckin' phone, is he?”
“It's in his best interests to talk to us,” I said, the smile gone. “Seriously, no fucking about anymore, I need to talk to him.”
“Then how about I take your number and get him to give you a call as soon as I see him?”
Or how's about I take your fucking head and put it through that wall over there, you cock-biting cunt? How's about I beat shit out of your with that fire extinguisher, eh? And the first time you lay hands on us, I'll have you in cuffs …
I rolled some spit around the inside of my mouth. “I understand that you don't trust us, Mr Gray—”
He got in so close I thought he was about to kiss us. “Too fuckin' right I don't trust you.”
“And you'll forgive us if I don't exactly trust you to pass on the message.”
“Not a problem,” he said. “You can go sniffing for him by yourself.”
“Or I bet your man Frank can help us out.” I pointed through to the office. Frank looked up at the sound of my voice, caught us pointing, and his mouth got tight as a cat's arse. “Y'alright there, Frank? Coming in there in a minute, have a little word with you.”
“How about I report you for harassment?” said the poof.
“How about I put a finger on you to the NSPCC?”
“Right,” he said. “Here we go.”
“Yeah, why not? I mean, even if you don't measure up to my suspicions of you being a fuckin' arse bandit with a taste for the young 'uns, something I'm learning is that every complaint officially filed has to be investigated thoroughly, doesn't it?”
“I've already had police checks.”
“So did Huntley, mate.” I took a deep, crackling breath in, fixed him with my copper stare. “Only shows the convictions, though, eh? Might not come to anything, they might not lock you up, but you know as well as I do that they're judgemental pricks round here, and I'm guessing that your stat
us as local poof has done you no fuckin' favours, am I right? Mind you, that's preferable to being the bloke investigated on suspicion of kiddie-fiddling. Doesn't matter if you touched 'em or not, either. And when that happens — because you know if there's the slightest fuckin' sniff, they'll be out with the flaming torches, come to burn the monster's house down — you're going to have to ask yourself if it was all worth it. Because I wouldn't be talking this serious unless it was fuckin' imperative that I talk to your mate right the fuck now.”
The poof blinked at us, worked his mouth. Yeah, he knew I was serious now, and he was fucking boiling that I was able to keep walking back into his place. He also knew Innes better than most, and I guessed that there was a large fucking part of him that knew he was in the shit. And he was in the shit purely because of Innes.
“So you know,” I said, “I'm not just round here to mess him about.”
“Yeah, right, you're not,” he said quietly. “That's all you ever—”
“I'll admit, right, that's what I was after yesterday. Wanted to get a gander at the freak, give him shit about being a mong an' all that.” I moved my shoulders back. “But I already did all that last night.”
“So?”
“So, Mr Gray, I'm here in a more official capacity.”
He was hesitant when he said, “How?”
“Can't divulge the details,” I said. “Y'know, considering it's an ongoing investigation. But here's the thing: I don't want to have to get nasty with you, Mr Gray.”
“Course you don't.”
“I mean, I could do you for obstruction, wasting police time, all that bollocks, but it's petty. Besides, I don't want you, I want Innes.”
“And you can't tell me anything about it?”
“Only that it involves Mo Tiernan,” I said. “And a body we found last night.”
The sarcastic smile leaked from the poof's face right then. Some of the colour in his cheeks went along with it. I hadn't expected that reaction. If anything, I was waiting for the usual Innes-is-innocent bollocks that usually followed an implied accusation. Expected him to be raging at us by now, telling us to get out, that he didn't care about any threats, that in fact, it was just fucking texture for his eventual harassment complaint. Which, to be honest, was the last thing I needed, but I couldn't let the poof think he was better than me.
Still, he was stunned, almost looked fucking caught, truth be told. So rather than look a gift horse in the gob, I hitched up my belt and said, “You know anything about it?”
The poof looked straight at my gut for a few seconds, thinking about his answer. “No.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“He never told you.”
“No.”
“Well, consider yourself told now, then.”
He scratched his top lip, looked like he'd stray up to his nose. “He's dead?”
“I said there was a body. Didn't say who it was.”
“But it's Mo, isn't it?” he said, squinting at us.
“I'm not at liberty—”
“How?”
“Again, I'm not really at liberty to tell you that.” I sniffed.
“And how's Cal involved?”
I looked around the club. It was a nice enough gym, better than it used to be, but I wasn't really all that interested in what I saw. I was just doing something other than answer the poof's question, because he was bricking it about something, and it couldn't do any harm to let him sweat a little longer. In the end, I winked at him. “I don't know that he is. But I don't know that he's not, either. I've evidence to tie him to the scene, and I've yet to eliminate him from my enquiries.”
“You're not actually treating him as a suspect, are you?”
“Here, you know how it is. Everyone's a suspect until they're cleared, right?”
“You've seen him recently, though.”
I nodded. “And I know what you're going to say — he couldn't have done it, look at the state of him, he can barely get around by himself, how the fuck could he be responsible for killing someone?”
“I wasn't going to say that.”
“Either way,” I said, “you never fuckin' know. Which is why I need to talk to him.”
I wasn't about to tell the poof that yeah, it was Mo Tiernan that was dead. I wasn't going to tell him that the lad's face was a mess, either. And I wasn't going to ask him what he thought about Innes being on the crime scene an hour before it was called in. Just would've complicated matters, and from the look on the poof's face, he didn't know anything about it. And the idea was to keep as much information about this to myself, let other people give it out. This bloke knew something, mind. He was feeling guilty about something, came off him like a bad smell.
But it would have to wait until I came back. And I was going to come back, there was no doubt about it.
“If I don't get to talk to him soon,” I said, “I guarantee you it won't be long before the whole of Serious Crimes are down here to wait for him, and it won't be pretty. So how's about you break the lock on your fuckin' jaw and give us his mobile number before all this gets so dramatic even someone like you won't be able to handle it?”
He worked his mouth again. Then he came to a decision.
“Hang on a second,” he said.
The poof headed back to the IC Investigations office. I followed him to the door, saw him writing something down on a piece of paper. He ripped the sheet from the pad, came over and slapped it into my hand. Frank watched the pair of us with large eyes.
“There,” he said. “But that's it, right?”
“Yeah, alright. But if your boy's got anything to do with this—”
“Get a grip, Detective. You saw him. He's not capable of something like that.”
I pointed to him as I walked towards the exit. “Here, you don't know what that lad's capable of.”
21
INNES
I'm sitting in the corner of my local watching the inside of a half-empty pint glass. Joe's over by the television, staring up at the scores as they come in on Sky Sports. Waiting for Man City to come in, and he'll be there for a while, considering I think I saw them announce the score just now when he went to the toilet. As I watch the sports news scroll along the bottom of the screen in primary colours, I can't help but think of Morris Tiernan.
And that's when my mobile rings.
Pull the phone out of my pocket, look at the display. It isn't a number I recognise, so nobody I know, which makes me automatically antsy about answering it. The mobile's become an emergency tool only these days — anyone who knows me knows that I'm not at my best on the phone.
Still, I connect the call.
“Guess who?”
“How did you get—”
“How the fuck d'you think?”
I breathe out, look around the pub. Paulo. “I have an idea.”
He sounds like he hawks and spits. “So I'm thinking we should have a word in person, what d'you think?”
“Alright.”
I can almost hear the double-take. “You what?”
“I'm in the Long Ship. You know it? If you're at the Lads' Club, it shouldn't be too much of a hike.”
Kill the call, put the mobile on the table and stare at the dregs of my pint. Then I knock them back, get to my feet and leave the glass on the bar as I order another. It arrives just as Donkey does, making a blustering entrance, as if he's not sure I haven't already done a bunk. When he sees me, he tugs at his jacket, takes long steps towards the bar. He already has the landlord's attention, but I beat him to the punch.
“Pint?”
He regards me through narrowed eyes. Came in here, expecting to see me gone. When I wasn't, he expected a fight. So when he gets neither, and I offer to buy him a drink, I can almost hear the alarm bells ringing inside Donkey's head. He leans against the bar, pulls at his face as he looks at the pumps. If the man's on duty, he should really turn it down, but then I'd be surprised if Donkey turned down a free drink in his
entire life.
“Whatever you're having,” he says.
I order two pints of Kronenbourg, Landlord pours them out, and I remain as relaxed as I can be with a copper standing next to me. I jerk my chin at the corner table, let him lead the way as I pick up my pint with one hand, hold the walking stick in the other.
Once we're both settled, Donkey says, “You happy to talk to us?”
“Depends. You arresting me?”
He puts his elbows on the table. “Should I?”
I shake my head.
“Then we're just talking.” He looks at his pint. “Thought you'd have done a fuckin' runner, mind.”
“No point, is there?” I say. “You always … find me. In the end. Might as well … get it out. In the open. Right?”
He chuckles, then wipes his mouth. “You wouldn't believe the shite I went through to get your number, son. That poof's really protective.”
“He is, yeah. He's a mate.”
Waggles a finger. “You two …?”
“No.”
The finger turns into a hand, palm out. “Just asking.”
“You wouldn't be … the first.”
“So,” he says, wrapping that hand around his pint. “You going to tell us what you were doing round Sutpen Court last night?”
“Already told you.”
“Tell us again.”
“A job. Looking for Mo. And I found him.”
“You call it in?” he says.
I nod.
“Why?”
“Let you lot … handle it. I'm not Jessica … fuckin' Fletcher.”
Donkey laughs. There's a slow wheeze attached to the end of it. He drinks some of his pint, happy in the knowledge that I'm not about to slam the glass into his face and bolt out the door. He replaces the glass on the beermat, sucks his bottom lip. “So you're willing to tell us what you know, eh?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Who d'you think did it?” he says.
Right off the bat. Kind of surprising. Makes me think that Donkey doesn't have the first fucking clue about this, which is interesting. Means he's reliant on my information. I'd hoped that was the case. Now it is, I feel like buying him a short to go with that pint.