Beast of Burden Page 15

I hear him shuffling on the other end of the line. “Yeah, he's fine.”

  “Still working?”

  “He's out every night, keeping an eye on the Sadler house. You know what he's like, thinks he has to keep the place on a twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

  “Nothing happened yet?”

  “Not according to Frank, no. Any day now, he says.”

  “Right.”

  “You ask me, he needs help. He can't be sitting out there all night by himself.”

  “He's a grown up.”

  “That's not what I mean. He's not sleeping. You know how he's like.”

  “Like I said … he's a grown up. He can handle … himself.”

  “Wouldn't hurt for you to help him out, though, would it?”

  “I'm busy.”

  “On what?”

  I blow smoke. “You know what.”

  There's a long silence at the other end. A year ago, I'd have been scared of that silence. It meant Paulo was thinking, probably about my situation. Now, though, he's not thinking about me. He's thinking about himself.

  “That paying, is it?” he says.

  “Not yet.”

  He sighs down the phone at me. “Look—”

  “Doesn't matter.”

  “It fuckin' does matter. I want you to—”

  “No.”

  “Callum, I know what you're doing here. And, y'know, I've been thinking about it. You have to stop it. Right now.”

  “You don't … make that choice. Not for me.”

  “You're doing it for all the—”

  “Leave it, mate. I talked to … Tiernan.”

  “When?”

  “The other morning. It's a case.”

  “You don't have to do this.”

  “I do.” I shift position on the sofa, stretch an aching leg. “When this is … finished. I'll help Frank. You're right. It's not fair.”

  Silence at the other end.

  “How's it going?” he says.

  “Fine.”

  “Donkey was here.”

  “I know. You gave him … my number.”

  “I had to.”

  “I know,” I say, nodding despite myself. “It's fine.”

  “You talk to him?”

  “Yes. It's sorted. He's fine.”

  Another sigh. “You're not going to tell us anything, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it's not … in your best interests. To know.” I check my watch, and get a sick, fluttery feeling against the pit of my stomach. “I've got to go.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “It'll be fine. Don't worry.”

  And I kill the call, put my mobile back on the coffee table. Stare at it, then finish my drink. I probably shouldn't be driving, not with all this alcohol in me, but what the fuck. There's a good chance I'm going out to the Wheatsheaf to my fucking death anyway, right?

  I struggle upright, grab my stick. Look down, and I can see the dried blood still on the handle. I bring the stick closer, pick at the blood furiously until it's all gone. I've got to be more careful. You never know what disparate things people like Morris Tiernan is likely to connect, and even if they're just thrown together, there could still be a grain of truth in there that I can't possibly deny. And if that happens, I'm fucked.

  I close my eyes for a moment, concentrate on taking deep breaths. I can't go in there nervous. It won't look right. I'll look like I have something to hide, which won't be good. When it feels like my heart rate is back to a normal level, I open my eyes again, limp across to the door, and then I'm gone.

  24

  INNES

  The Wheatsheaf looks different when it's dark and the place is locked down. Nobody on the streets when I pull up in the Micra, which just adds to the desolate look of the place, broken by a single light in the lounge bar, burning yellow. I finish my cigarette in the car, watch the light cut out as someone moves in front of it.

  Tiernan's in there. He's not alone.

  I try to swallow. Can't, because my mouth is too dry. I flick the cigarette out onto the road as I struggle out of the car.

  When I get to the front doors, Brian's already there waiting for me. He stands to one side to let me in, and I see the bloke, size of a fucking house, standing in front of the door to the lounge bar. The house looks at me evenly, then nods to where Tiernan is waiting.

  “You want to leave us alone,” says Tiernan to the big guy, in a voice that sounds like he's gone through a pack and a half.

  The house leaves, closes the door quietly behind him.

  We're alone in the lounge bar, right enough. The shadow must've been Tiernan himself. Now he's settled, watching me, and looks like he's aged five years in twelve hours.

  “What do you have?” he says.

  “It's been a day.”

  “And?” He doesn't take his eyes off me now. Already used to my face and what happens to it when I speak.

  “And … nothing.”

  He remains still. “You were talking to your copper friend.”

  I close my mouth. Rethink my current situation. I can't lie to him, can't say that nothing's happened. So I have to step this up, tell him stuff has happened that he needs to know about, that I didn't want to tell him before I had all the facts. Also, I need to watch my fucking back from now on, because he's got people out there following me.

  Which makes me wonder how much he already knows.

  “I talked … to him. Yes.”

  “You want a seat?”

  Shake my head. “Rather stand. If you don't mind.”

  “No.”

  “Can be a little … difficult. To get up again.” I try a smile, defuse the tension, but it doesn't work. Clear my throat. “I saw my … police contact.”

  Tiernan moves one hand like I should continue.

  “He told me some things.”

  “Which were?”

  I look at the floor. “They have leads.”

  “Who?”

  “Wouldn't tell me.”

  “Then what the fuck good is he?”

  I look up. Tiernan's hands have started moving on the table. Tiny little lurches, the fingers tapping each other once, twice.

  “They found a hair,” I say.

  He stops moving. Then he shakes his head once and quickly, pats his pockets. Brings out his Rothmans and shakes the pack: there's only about five left. “Do us a favour, hand us one of those glasses over there, would you?”

  On the lounge bar are stacks of pint and half-pint glasses that Brian hasn't bothered to shelve yet. Behind the stacks is a dark bar, deep shadows that could hide anything.

  Maybe this is it.

  “You need to stop,” I say, not moving.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Having me followed.”

  “I didn't.”

  “Someone saw me? Talking to my contact?”

  “No. You said you were going to do it.” Tiernan has a cigarette in his mouth, a lighter in his hand and he nods towards the glasses. “Not supposed to smoke in here. Fuckin' law says so, but then the fuckin' law says this place isn't supposed to be open right now.”

  I move painfully over to the bar. Stop when I'm at arm's length and grab a half-pinter.

  Nothing happens. There's no one behind the bar.

  “Callum,” says Tiernan.

  I turn. He moves his chin.

  “The glass?” he says.

  Look down and I'm still holding the half-pint glass. I put it down on the table in front of him, and he lights his Rothmans.

  The first drag makes his voice thick: “You said they found a hair.”

  “A long hair,” I say, moving away from the lounge bar. “Female.”

  His eyes flicker narrow for a second. “Female.”

  “Just an assumption. Could be male.”

  “How long?”

  “I don't know. Shoulder?”

  Tiernan visibly retreats into himself for a moment, blowing a long, st
eady stream of smoke into the air. I stand there, too tense to move, wondering if that'll be enough for him right now. Looks like he's on the right track with it when he asks, “He have a girlfriend?”

  “Only one. That I know of.”

  He looks up at me. Shakes his head, but it's a warning. “No.”

  “You asked.”

  And as it turns out, the hair does belong to Alison, but I'm not going to push that. Not yet. Still, it might be worth sowing a few more seeds.

  “I have to tell you … when I'm sure. At the moment … Alison—”

  “She's not involved.”

  “I know. She told me.”

  Tiernan shows his teeth, then moves his attention back to his cigarette. Appears to smoke half of it in one draw. “When did you see her?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “What for?”

  “Needed to check … see if she'd seen Mo.” I wipe my nose and sniff. “Had to check … everyone. Didn't I?”

  I let that hang in the air between us for a minute or so.

  “Was I wrong?”

  “She doesn't have anything to do with this.”

  “You sure?”

  There's an angry glint in his eyes when he looks at me again. “I'm fuckin' positive. Don't push this.”

  An after-growl in his voice, like the roll of thunder after a flash of lightning.

  “She said she … hadn't seen him. So it doesn't matter.”

  “You should've told us you were going to see her.”

  “I didn't know I needed … permission.”

  He moves in his chair suddenly. A split-second, and he's a scrapyard dog on the end of a short, thin chain. I flinch.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  He seems to settle a bit, repeats himself in a tired voice: “She doesn't have anything to do with this.” He runs a hand briefly over his eyes, as if the glare in here is too much for him. “She couldn't have. She's working. Did she tell you that?”

  “No.”

  “She's working. Not much, like. I mean, her age, there's not a lot out there. Working at a stylists in Oldham. My day, they were called barbers, but not anymore, right? Don't think they even cut the hair anymore. Not much money, but I help her out, whatever she needs for the kid.” He makes a show of clearing his throat, then swallows whatever he's brought up, takes another drag off the Rothmans. “She doesn't come into Manchester. That's the deal. She works in Oldham, she lives in Oldham. Whenever she needs something, I go out to see her.”

  I nod at him. “Okay.”

  “So she wouldn't come to Manchester for anything anyway. Least of all to kill Mo.” He pulls a quick, disgusted face, and plants the cigarette in his mouth. “Not without telling us. She wouldn't do it. So there's no point in telling her about …” He looks up at me, staring hard. “She know about him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told her?”

  I pause for the count of three, as if I'm trying to remember. “Don't think so.”

  “What's that mean?”

  “She already … seemed to know.”

  Tiernan returns his gaze to the pub table. Removes the cigarette and replaces it with his thumbnail, which he nibbles absently. “Right.”

  “Someone must've … told her.”

  “Yeah. That's what happened.”

  The room falls into silence, apart from the slight, quiet click of Tiernan's thumbnail against his teeth.

  Then he stops. Looks at the cigarette that's almost burned down to his fingers, and disposes of it in the glass.

  “Anything else for me?”

  “Not yet. When I find out … you find out.”

  “You have my number.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  He nods, sucks his teeth. “Okay. Then you can go. Keep me up-to-date.”

  I head for the door.

  “Do yourself a favour, Callum,” he says as I reach the exit to the lounge bar.

  I turn to look at him.”Yeah?”

  “Leave Alison out of this.”

  “And if she's … involved?”

  “She won't be.”

  “But if she is?”

  He fixes me with a stone glare. Don't go any further with this.

  “She isn't. And even if she is, according to the police, she isn't. You understand me? Something comes up in that vein, you come to me, I'll sort it.”

  I smile with half my face and indulge him with a slow nod, one hand on the doors to the hall. “You can trust me.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I better.”

  25

  DONKIN

  Crack of dawn, I was out and about. I had the scraps of a hangover, but I didn't drink that much the night before to put us in a slow mood. A coffee and a sausage and bacon from the dirty van in Levenshulme, and I was ready to get to work.

  I couldn't do anything about Paddy Reece, so I just had to fucking suck it up, hope it all went for the best. Maybe if I got a head start on this Tiernan thing, got that wrapped up all nice, I could use it as a cudgel when it came to Kennedy thumbing his fucking nose at us. Either way, when I got the bastard in cuffs after that Scouse twat already jacked in the case, it would look good for me. And I had come to the understanding that anything that made us look good would have to off-set that six-storey pile of shit that was looming over us right now.

  The only way for us to get in there, though, was to verify what Innes was telling us the other night. When he was talking, I reckoned I played it off alright, acted like I knew what I was supposed to be doing, knew about any scene evidence that he brought up. But the problem was, if it ever came to an arrest, I knew I'd need more proof than the word of a mong jailbird.

  Which was why I was in Levenshulme nice and early, and hammering on the door of a bloke called Mickey Watts. About five years ago, the bastard was mixed up with some of the nastiest fuckers in Manchester. He'd always been a bottomfeeder, nothing worth getting too het up over, and mostly forgotten by the dangerous people. But he was still paddling in the same pool, privy to some of the same information. So he was close to being the perfect grass.

  Especially now he was straight, working the night shifts down the local Aldi.

  Banging on his door now, I reckoned the fucker should still be up. It was early enough, and I remembered when I worked nights, the last thing I wanted to do when I got in was sleep. Normally stayed up for a couple hours drinking, just so's I could sleep.

  I heard some thumping from behind his front door, and then his mug close to the frosted glass, giving us the eye. He must've seen the suit, not recognised us, because he opened up and pulled a face like he was expecting someone important. Mickey wore an old Sabbath T-shirt, boxer shorts that were hanging a little bit too open in front, and three days' worth of stubble on his face, surrounded by a wiry shock of metaller hair.

  First thing out of his mouth was, “Shit.”

  Might as well have been “good morning” the amount of time people greeted us like that. I grinned at him. “Need a word with you.”

  “I just got in.”

  “You work in your skivvies, then?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I waved him back inside, stepped into the hallway. As I was closing the door behind us, blocking out all the light that came into this place, I said, “Won't take a minute, I promise.”

  He was already heading up towards the kitchen. “You'll want a brew.”

  “Wouldn't say no.”

  Thing was with me and Mickey, there'd never been any real aggro between us. Like I said, he was a bottomfeeder and as such, he never really gave a fuck for the people he helped put in the jail, just as long as he wasn't fingered as a grass. All Mickey Watts really cared about was that expensive stereo system I caught a glimpse of as I was walking up the hall to the kitchen. He loved his music, did our Mickey. Fucking right headbanger he was an' all. That Sabbath T-shirt was a rare nod to the fucking mainstream for Mickey. Norwegian death metal, speed and thrash from places I couldn't
point on a map. The bloke was only a couple years younger than me, made us feel like his dad.

  Mickey put his back to the kitchen counter, pointed at the table and chairs. “You still milk and four?”

  “Three.”

  “Cutting down.”

  I patted my gut. “Yeah.”

  “So what is it, Detective? Who's pissed you off today?”

  “No one.”

  The kettle bubbled behind him. Mickey grabbed two mugs, dropped tea bags into each. “Aye, right. You want information on someone so's you can fuck them over.”

  “Just need to ask 'em a few questions,” I said, sitting at the table. I held out my baccy tin. Mickey shook his head. I rolled a cigarette. “Need to talk to one of Mo Tiernan's lads.”

  “Why?”

  “None of your fuckin' business.”

  He poured water on the tea bags, went to his fridge. “Just wondering. Because what I heard was that Mo was out of the game, and so were his boys.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nobody's seen Mo for a while.”

  “What about his lads? Which ones do you know are straight?”

  Mickey dumped tea bags, started shovelling sugar into my brew. “Don't know anything about Baz, but I think Kevin Ross is working out at the Trafford Centre.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Currys. Selling tellies for a living.”

  “Right, get us the Yellow Pages, then.”

  Mickey stopped making the brews, shook his head at us, then trudged through into the hall. Came back and dumped the Yellow Pages on the kitchen table. I blew smoke and pulled it open. Looked for Currys' number. When I found it, I pulled out my mobile. Rang for ages before someone picked up. Nice and lazy did it.

  “That Currys?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You got a Kevin Ross working there?”

  “Who's calling, please?”

  “Just answer the fuckin' question.”

  There was a cough, and I could tell whoever this arsehole was on the line, he was wondering who the fuck I was, and whether he should hang up. My guess was Rossie worked in a place where they had an idea of his past, which was why this conversation was still taking place. Nobody wanted to be the one to hang up on the bloke who'd come round and take their fucking kneecaps.

  Then again, nobody wanted to be the bloke who grassed out a colleague.