Beast of Burden Read online

  “Don't know,” I say. “It was definitely … murder, mind.”

  Donkey shakes his head, but he doesn't believe what he says: “His wallet was missing. We're supposed to be looking at it like a robbery.”

  “Wasn't robbery.”

  “His wallet—”

  “Anything left?”

  His lips bunch up as he breathes in through his nose. “Yeah.”

  “ID card, right? Fallen on the floor?”

  He nods.

  “Right. Wallet was taken … to avoid identi-fication. Card fell out. Bad luck. It was dark. They didn't see it. Besides, you saw … the mess.”

  Donkey keeps nodding. “Face was fuckin' minced.”

  “Lot of anger.” I tap the side of my pint glass. “Probably asleep … when it happened. Right?”

  “We don't know that for sure.”

  “He's lying down. So he's relaxed. You rob a … sleeping man. You don't do that. Don't beat him. No need.”

  “You just take the wallet. Or he woke up.”

  “You saw him,” I say. “He was still asleep. I'm sure.”

  Donkey sits back in his chair. I can tell he'd love a cigarette about now. So would I. But he's not about to break up this conversation, give me a chance to second-guess myself, change my mind. As far as he's concerned, I know he thinks I've always been jittery when it comes to sharing information with him. And getting it on a plate like this is starting to make him a little suspicious. I should tone it down, put it back on him.

  “You know it wasn't … robbery,” I say. “If it was, you … wouldn't be interested.”

  “Alright,” he says. “Okay, so someone killed him.”

  “Took his wallet. So you lot … wouldn't ID.”

  “We'd still ID.”

  “In time. And he'd be … end of the queue. It's a delay. All you need. Treat it like a robbery … watch it grow cold.”

  Donkey runs a hand over his mouth, looks at the bar. Behind him, I can see Joe giving us worried glances. He's already clocked that Donkey's police, probably wondering what kind of trouble I'm in. Joe's the kind of bloke who'd help out if he could. Just as soon as that Man City result comes in.

  “I knew it wasn't a fuckin' robbery,” says Donkey, nodding at me. “I knew it, told them it wasn't.”

  “They?”

  Waves his hand. “Some twat running the show.”

  “You're not … investigating?”

  “Course I am. Just not running it. But he's a twat, doesn't know his arse from a hole in the ground.” His face takes on a purple colour around the jawline. “Don't think for a fuckin' second that I'm not in charge on this.”

  “I don't. You said—”

  “Because if I hear you're going elsewhere, I'll fuckin' carve you up.”

  “I'm doing you … a favour.”

  He leans forward again. I can smell the beer on his breath, even though he's barely made a dent in his pint. “You're not doing us any favours, you're helping with enquires, you get me?”

  “Okay.”

  “I'm the one in charge here. You're my fuckin' boy.”

  I look at the surface of the pub table, my head down. Wait for him to stop breathing so hard. Yeah, I'm his fucking boy. That's precisely the way it needs to be, and for all my instincts crying out that this is a bad idea, I told Tiernan I had a contact on the force, and I intend to make Donkey that guy. The only way to do that is to play nice, even if that's the last thing I'm used to with Donkey.

  “So, you know the Tiernans,” he says finally. “You know who's likely to have a pop?”

  “Nobody—” I stop, take a drink to wet my throat. “Nobody has … the balls.”

  “I don't know, I'm thinking Tiernan's getting lazy, there's somebody maybe moving in, know what I mean?”

  “Maybe.”

  He looks at me. “You don't think so?”

  “I don't know.”

  “But what do you think?”

  I look at him across the table. He's not drinking, seems genuinely interested. And there's something different about him, not so quick to jump to the aggressive, maybe because I'm the one that's invited him here, and he's still wondering what my game is, especially now the information I'm giving him seems plausible enough. Of course he'll check all this stuff out, most likely behind his gaffer's back, take the credit if it pans out. But I still need to be careful here. The way he's been lately, he's quick to rile if things don't look like they're going to go his way.

  “Not a bloke,” I say.

  His eyes drop to slits, his mouth the other way. “You what?”

  “Might be nothing. The hair.”

  “What hair?”

  Possible that Donkey hasn't been privy to the forensic reports or whatever yet. And even if he has, and they've missed out, he needs to know.

  “A long hair,” I say. “On the body. In Mo's hand. Rules out most of the … blokes I know.”

  Donkey doesn't say anything for a while. He's chewing his bottom lip.

  “And if he was asleep …” I try to catch his eyes, see what he's thinking.

  “Then it was a probably a bird,” he says.

  “Maybe.”

  “Only way she'd be sure not to get overpowered, she'd wait until he was asleep.”

  “Or nodding. There was a needle.”

  Donkey looks back at me. “He was using?”

  “Only a matter of time.”

  He takes a long pull on his pint, wipes his mouth. “I don't know. Don't buy him as a smackhead. Why the fuck are you telling us all this, anyway?”

  “Sick of running.” I shrug. “Tiernan asked me … to find his son. Not find his killer.”

  Behind Donkey, the score's just come in for Joe. He moves away from the television looking for all the world as if someone's just kicked him in the gut. He orders a single malt and stares at himself in the back bar.

  In front of me, Donkey has a similar expression. It's weird. I thought he'd be over the moon.

  “But you have an idea who it is,” he says.

  “No. No answers. Only questions. Sorry.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “I don't know … who did it. I'll try to help. But I don't have … your resources.”

  “Or my fuckin' skills,” he says.

  “Or your … fuckin' skills.”

  Another long pause. If he's still trying to work me out, he's long since failed. He drinks his pint down to the quarter mark.

  “Y'know, your brother,” he says, “he was a good grass. Always gave it up, but always took just enough punishment to justify the information, like he wasn't comfortable with it. Reckon he was a decent bloke underneath all that fuckin' baggage he was carrying around with him.”

  “Don't,” I say. “Don't bother.”

  He looks up at me. Finishes his pint. “What?”

  “You didn't know him.”

  “You think?”

  “I know.”

  “Spent more time with the bastard than you did, if I remember rightly. Once a week at least while you were inside, and what was that? Two years? Bit more, you think?”

  “What you doing?” I say.

  He grins wide. “I'm just wondering what you're playing at.”

  “Well,” I say, shifting out of my seat. “You're the copper. You work it out.”

  22

  DONKIN

  Innes pulled himself out from behind the table. For a second, I reckoned he was going to get some more beers in, but he stood there waiting for us to stop him.

  “You leaving, then?” I said.

  “Thought I might.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah, don't change your phone or anything, mind, or else I'll fuckin' batter you.” I pointed at him. “You're my eyes and ears now, aren't you? I mean, we're fuckin' clear on that. You get any other ideas working for Tiernan, you let them come my way, I'll see what I can do for you.”

  “I won't need any help.”

&nb
sp; “Innes, someone like you will always need a friendly copper. Don't bite the fuckin' hand, alright?” Talking of which, I held mine out to shake. He looked at it like I'd offered him a lolly stick with a dog turd on the end. I wondered what the fuck was the matter with him until I realised, that was the hand he was using to hold onto his walking stick. I put my left out. He shook it, and pulled this half-a-smile.

  “Right.”

  “Keep in touch,” I told him.

  And then watched him gimp his way out the door. When the doors shut behind him, I pulled out my mobile, turned it on. One missed call from Annie. She would've left a message, but I didn't want to listen to it right now. Instead, I called Adams.

  “Derek, you got anything for us yet?”

  “Iain, is that you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “I just said. Wondering if you had anything for us.”

  “I'm sorry, I thought I made my position clear. I can't help you out here, Iain.”

  “I need you to check on something for us, then. Might change your mind.”

  “No.”

  “Buy you a drink next time I see you, alright? Check to see if anyone picked up on a long hair on the body. Then let us know what Kennedy's thinking about it.”

  “You're joking.”

  “I'm fuckin' not.” I got to my feet, nodded at the landlord as I headed for the door. “Listen to us, Derek. You check into that, I guaran-fuckin'-tee you he's dropped that evidence, still playing this like it's a robbery.”

  “And it's—”

  “Can't be a fuckin' robbery, alright? First off, who the fuck robs junkies except other junkies?” I let the doors swing shut behind us, pulled at my jacket as I headed out to my car. “Second, who the fuck beats the shit out of someone who's just lying there? Something else you might want to check — his fuckin' blood work. Got a feeling that Mo was nodding at the time, so check for smack.”

  “Wait a second—”

  “I'm telling you, check this stuff, I bet Kennedy's doing fuck all with it.”

  “Iain, hang on a moment.”

  I reached the Granada, unlocked the door. “What?”

  “Do you even realise what you're asking me to do here?”

  “Yeah. Absolutely.”

  “And what in God's name makes you think I'm going to do it?”

  “Because you know as well as I do that Kennedy's a bad copper.” I put one hand on the roof of my car, felt the cold fade. “You know he's bent. I told you he was bent. And I'm telling you now that he's fucking this case up on purpose.”

  “You don't have any proof, though.”

  “That's what you're going to get me.”

  Adams let out this long, noisy sigh into the phone. “No.”

  “The fuck you mean, no?”

  “I mean, you're already suspended, Iain. You're not a copper. You're a civilian who's looking to get arrested if you keep on at this. And even if you were a copper, you don't rank me, so I'm not duty bound to do whatever you tell me to do.”

  “Alright,” I said. “Okay, maybe my tone was a bit—”

  “I don't give a fuck about your tone,” he said, and he was a fine one to talk because he came off right snippy just then. “I'm warning you. Stay away from this case. Stay away from any case.”

  “Come on, Derek, don't play that game.”

  His voice dropped in volume. “There's people at this nick who're waiting for you to fuck up, Iain.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “You don't know. Because if you did know you wouldn't be acting the way you are. You're fucking this close to losing your job, did you know that?”

  “Thanks to you, you fuckin'—”

  “You think that's it? You think the brass haven't been keeping an eye on you all this time? The only thing you should be worried about right now, Iain, is preparing for your meeting with Ali. Because you'll be fucking lucky if you just lose your job. There's whispers around the nick that Reece is going to press charges.”

  I looked at the ground, suddenly dying for a fucking ciggie.

  “Right,” I said. “I get you.”

  “You understand what I'm saying, Iain? Don't be bullish about this. I mean, I appreciate you've got problems at home—”

  “I don't,” I said. “Everything's fuckin' dandy round mine.”

  “I meant the divorce,” he said.

  “I know what you fuckin' meant, and it's not a problem.” I scratched the back of my neck, felt the cold creep in under my jacket.

  Fuck it.

  “Look, you're right,” I said, as convincing as possible. “I need to get this thing with Ali sorted first. Makes sense to put a pin in that, right? In the meantime, all I'm asking is keep an eye on Kennedy.”

  “I can't.”

  “Then do what you can.”

  I disconnect, pop the phone back into my jacket pocket. Then I get into the car, crank the heater up until I can feel my fingers again.

  Didn't know they were pushing Reece to press charges. Adams was right; there were plenty of wankers at the station who'd happily see us on the dole or, even better, in prison. But I never reckoned they'd be so fucking proactive about it.

  Well, they weren't the only ones who could turn the fucking screw.

  I drove out to where I cornered Paddy the last time, cruised around the estate. By the time I got there, it was already getting dark. Paddy had a mate who lived round here, and I wouldn't have been surprised if that mate happened to be a fucking dealer, judging from the company that Paddy used to keep.

  As I drove, I pulled out my phone. Called a grass I knew, Coldfeet. The lad was like a Yellow Pages for dealers. Gave him the area I was driving around, he gave us three addresses.

  “You know these people?” I said.

  “Like, am I bothered if you nick 'em?”

  “No, as in have you ever bought from them before?”

  “Yeah. Off and on. You know me.”

  I did know him. He had a habit as long as the A1. “Any of 'em have a lady friend?”

  “Funny question, that.”

  “Just fuckin' tell us.”

  “Just funny you should mention it. Daryl Goines. His missus is something fuckin' special.”

  I already had the address, and it all fit together perfectly. See, Daryl Goines was a black bloke, moved up from Birmingham because he thought he'd have plenty of easy trade routes further north. Stood to reason that his missus would be a black girl, and she was. A fucking looker, too, by all accounts.

  I parked outside the house, watching the front from across the road. Paddy, as long as I'd known him, was a sucker for the dark meat. And if this woman had even been slightly nice to him, that would be him thinking he had a fucking chance. Even though, from what I could find out about Daryl Goines, he was a nasty piece of shit who'd rather cut you up than shoot you. There were stories of pig farmers and plastic bags, people going missing and ears turning up in the post. And yet, there was Paddy, still reckoned he could what, get his end away? It explained why he wasn't off his tits when I grabbed him on the street. Explained why he didn't want to tell us where he'd been, too.

  So, what was the plan? I could sit in my car, listen to my Dido CD, and wait until Paddy showed his face again. But there was no real certainty of that happening. For all I knew, he'd been and gone. Or I could get out of the car, march up to the front door and kick it in. Announce to Goines and his woman that if they saw Paddy Reece again, he better give us a ring. Then, course, there'd be the chance that Goines would carve us the fuck up, or else expect to be arrested. Because who the fuck was I but a fat bloke with a temper right now?

  I dug into my jacket, pulled out my wallet with my identification in it. Stared at the picture of myself.

  A good copper would have left it well enough alone. But then a good copper wouldn't have found himself in my position.

  I snapped the ID wallet shut and looked out at the house again. If
I collared Paddy, what was I going to do? Beat fuck out of him? To be fair, that was what'd got us in the shit in the first place. So, what, then go in and maybe get Goines to do my dirty work?

  Shook my head. I was headed for a dive if I did either one of them things. They had us on Paddy; no getting around that. Better I kept it filed away, get the fucker later when he wasn't expecting it. Right now, the best thing I could do was carry on with the investigation, act like the copper I knew I was and not get fucking sidetracked by personal errands.

  So I turned the key, started the engine, headed home.

  Because after all, Paddy Reece wasn't the target here, was he?

  Nah, that role belonged to Innes.

  23

  INNES

  My hand shakes as I pour another drink.

  Even now, when I'm at home, with four or five good stiff vodkas inside me, half a pack of Embassys smoked and ground out, there's still a tremor that's not a side effect of the stroke. I'd get up and walk it off — probably the closest I could come to home physiotherapy — but there's the chance that moving around might make it worse. So I keep parked on the sofa, drinking. Light another cigarette. Wonder why the fuck Morris Tiernan just called.

  On the face of it, I already know — he wants to see me again. Yeah, I saw him this morning, he wants to see me again. For an “update” he says. I don't know how much of an update I'm likely to give him, to be honest.

  Which gets my mind rolling on other things.

  Like, he's picked up some information I don't want him to.

  Like, he's suspicious.

  The way he was talking to me this morning, all that shite about loyalty, hypothetical situations, my brother. He's got other things on his mind, definitely, not sure if he can trust me yet.

  Fuck it, not sure if he can trust anyone yet.

  My mobile rings. I put down the glass of vodka, check the display.

  Paulo.

  “Y'alright?”

  “I'm okay,” I say.

  “Where are you?”

  “Home.”

  “Doing much?”

  I tap ash. “Going out soon.”

  “Right. Look, there was something—”

  “How's Frank?”