Beast of Burden (15 page)

And it's obvious from the inside of the house that Tiernan isn't hurting for a bob or two.

I step into a massive living room, wooden floors throughout, buffed to a high shine. None of your laminate, either, which makes me think he's basically rebuilt the inside of these houses from scratch. Cream soft leather furnishings in solid geometric shapes, dark wood elsewhere. A huge LCD screen hangs on the wall above an obviously fake fireplace with a blue-flame pebble fire inset. The television's on, showing a muted BBC News 24. Looks like football highlights. Classical music, or something that sounds like it, comes from somewhere in the house.

“Mr Tiernan says take a seat, he'll be right with you.”

Trying to be posh, but the “you” comes out like “yoh”, and the bloke still has the wide shoulder walk of a scally on the piss. But I still do as I'm told, take a seat on a surprisingly comfortable cream couch and watch the ticker along the bottom of the telly screen. Before I get a chance to stretch out, the music dips in volume and I hear footsteps, the wet sound of bare feet on floorboards.

Behind me, one of the doors opens and the guy who showed me in tries to straighten up. I turn in my seat to see Morris Tiernan, bleary-eyed and pale as milk — possibly even slightly medicated, the way he's walking — clutching a mug and wearing a soft cotton tracksuit that looks a couple of years older than me. I always thought of him as a big guy, but without that aura of quiet menace, that barely concealed malicious energy, and taking into account the fact that he's basically wearing his jammies, the wrinkles on his face look more like cracks in his armour.

“Callum,” he says.

I start to stand, but he waves me down.

“Don't bother. You want a cup of coffee or something?”

“No, thanks. I'm fine.”

“Okay.” He pulls on an easy chair, tugs it nearer to the sofa, and sits down. Then he leans forward and places the mug of coffee on the floor next to his foot. I inch towards him on the sofa. A closer look, and it's obvious that he hasn't slept. Tiernan reaches into his trackie bottoms, pulls out a pack of Rothmans and waves a hand at one of his bodyguards, who swings past a coffee table by the door, and delivers a small glass ashtray into Tiernan's hand. Tiernan balances the ashtray on the arm of his chair.

“You want to smoke,” he says, “feel free.”

Another nod to someone behind me. Another ashtray, smaller than Tiernan's, appears by my side. I wasn't going to smoke, but now I feel kind of pressured to light one. So I do, and because it's the first cigarette of the day, I get a mule-kick of nicotine to the head that makes me glad I'm sitting down.

“Rough night,” says Tiernan, running one hand over his stubble.

“When did they call?”

“About one. Fuckin' police are quick to give you bad news. But then it's not like we didn't expect this, is it?”

I tap ash and don't look him in the eyes.

“It's alright, Callum. Obvious to anyone with a brain in their head that's what'd happen if he kept on the way he was. Just a matter of time.”

“I was there.”

Tiernan doesn't speak, watches me.

“I called it in.”

“Right.” He moves his hand, leaving a thick plume of smoke in the air. “You called. Okay.”

“The police. I was the one … who found Mo.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again. I don't buy it. He must've known already. If he didn't, it wouldn't be long before someone let him in on my telephone spaz attack, and then he'd wonder why I didn't tell him when I had the chance.

He says, slowly: “
You
found my son.”

I nod. Don't say anything else. Let it sink in. Tiernan clears his throat, then he reaches for his coffee. He takes a sip, replaces the mug on the floor, and returns his gaze to me.

“Why'd you call the police?”

“I had to.”

“You could've called me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He's your son.”

“Which is why you should've told me first.”

“No. You're too attached.”

“What?” There's a flare in his eyes.

I tap the side of my head twice. “You're too …
emotional
. If I told you.”

Tiernan's eyes narrow as he exhales smoke through his nose.

“You wouldn't think,” I say. “Not clearly.”

I hear something shifting behind me and for a moment I think I've pushed it too far, reckon best case scenario is that I'm about to get my head kicked in. Worse case … I don't want to think about it.

“I did it … to protect
you
. If you knew Mo … was
dead
, you'd …
do
something.” I shake my head. Stop and think it through, try not to let the panic choke me now. “Even if … it was right. It's still a
reaction
. And you needed … to stay
out
of this. Trust the police. Even if you don't.”

He's still staring at me. The expression on his face hasn't changed. I can't tell what he's thinking now, or even if he understood what I just said to him.

“Mr Tiernan.”

“You're right,” he says. “I don't trust the police. They won't do their fuckin' jobs on this.”

I nod. “I know. But they have procedures.”

He blinks as if he doesn't understand.

I take a deep breath, run through what I rehearsed last night. “You can't care. Can't be seen … to care. Let the police work. It's easier for me … to find out. What
they
have. So you let
me
use them. But you're not … involved.”

Tiernan looks at me for a moment longer, then he picks up his coffee again. Takes a sip, lets the coffee linger in his mouth before he swallows. “You have contacts in the police?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

I want to tell him that I'm supposed to be legitimate now, but that word would never make it out of my mouth, so I say, “I'm clean. I'm trusted.”

“Right, you're the local hero.”

“If you like.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.” He rubs his eye, half-smiling. “And if they ask who you're working for?”

“Confidential.”

“And what do you have so far?”

That's the question I was brought here to answer. Now that he's aware that I found Mo, it's a question that must have some kind of answer, too. I take a long last drag off the Embassy, grind it out in the ashtray.

“Couple of leads,” I say.

“Already?”

I nod.

“Who?”

“Can't say.”

“Can't or won't?”

“Okay, won't.”

“Why not?”

“Same reason … I didn't call you. Nothing definite.”

“I should still know.”

“No,” I say. “Not yet. Let me do this.”

Tiernan breathes out. He smothers his cigarette in the ashtray, keeps grinding even when it's long stopped burning. Then he lights another Rothmans. “So that's you on this.”

“If you say so.”

He looks around at the two bodyguards, tells them to leave. He keeps silent until he's positive they're both out of the room, then he says, “I appreciate you don't want to name names in front of other people—”

“I can't.”

“You want me to trust you on this?” he says.

“If you
trust
me … you trust me. You'll know when I
know
. Not when I … have a
lead
.”

“There's people talking,” he says, glancing at the door. “You know that.”

“Yes.”

“People who think that maybe fucking up my son is a way to get their foot in the door, make some kind of statement of intent.”

I nod. “I know that.”

“So if there's anyone I should be keeping an eye on, even if you're not entirely sure, you need to let me know.”

“There's nobody.”

He leans further forward, and I notice the coffee sloshing right to the edge of the mug as he does so. “Look at me.”

I do. Tiernan doesn't blink.

“You're not daft, Callum. Your brother wasn't daft either. He just had some bad habits, some misplaced loyalty. But I'd understand it if you didn't see it that way. Like maybe you'd be harbouring some resentment towards my family on account of what happened to the pair of you.”

My jaw feels like it's locked. I want another cigarette, but I don't think I'd be able to smoke it. I breathe out through my nose and my sinuses hurt.

“But that resentment better be saved for Mo, not me. Like you said, this is an emotional situation, and I'd hate for another situation to crop up that tested your loyalties. Say if that contact you have in the force decides that I'm more of a career-maker than whoever killed my son. I'd like to think you'd do the right thing in that situation, that you wouldn't let your past interfere.”

I nod. Still can't speak.

“Yeah?” he says, a hard glitter in his eyes.

“Yeah.” Tough word to say, but it huffs out of my mouth in a single breath.

“Because this is delicate,” he says. “Mo wasn't much fuckin' good when he was alive. He was a crack in the operation, and that hasn't changed much now he's dead. If people hear about it, they might get the wrong idea that they can fuck about with me. And that's not the case. Never has been.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” He gulps the rest of his coffee, then jerks his head at me. “You let me know the minute you find anything out, and I'll get payment sorted for you.”

That's my cue to leave. I struggle to my feet. Tiernan calls for someone called Nathan to come back into the room. “You need any help?”

Nathan arrives, and it's the big, bald bloke who showed me in.

“No,” I say.

“Nathan, you want to show Mr Innes out. Callum, just a quick thing.”

I turn to look at him.

“I'm sorry to hear about your brother,” he says.

I know I'm supposed to say something, but I shrug instead. Then I turn back to the door, where Nathan is waiting to escort me off the premises.

DONKIN

Adams wasn't answering his mobile. Probably already got wind of what happened in the office, so he was keeping a low profile.

Didn't matter. He couldn't duck us for too long.

There was this greasy spoon down Piccadilly — blink and you'd miss it — one of those places that looked little more than a front window and fluorescent star stickers with the specials written on them. But this place stretched way back into the building, further than you'd ever think. Kind of caff you could go into, eat your breakfast in peace. No way could anyone see you from the street, which meant Adams loved the place, and also that he wouldn't get a chance to bolt until I'd already made it clear that I'd seen him.

The scrawny little bastard was regular as clockwork. Bang on ten o'clock, he scuttled in for a late fry-up. By the time he managed to dodge round the people leaving the place, he was already spotted. I got out of my seat and shouted, “Detective Sergeant Adams, what a surprise to see you here.”

He looked my way and nearly sighed his fucking shoulders off, then he looked at the door. Trying to work out if he could escape before I got to him.

He couldn't.

I put a hand in the centre of his back, and the impact forced him into a cringe. I nodded at the lass behind the counter. “Whatever he wants times two, eh? We'll be over at the back there.”

Adams ordered like it was his last meal, and he was disgusted about it. I prodded him on to a free table at the back of the place.

“Glad I caught you,” I said. “There's something we need to have a natter about.”

“I really don't have the time, Iain.”

“I know you don't, but you were going to eat anyway, so we might as well kill two birds with one stone, eh?”

I got him to the table, kept a solid hand on his shoulder until he sank into his seat. Adams pulled one hand over his mouth, glanced over his shoulder at the door. I sat opposite, put both my hands on the table, and stared at him until he looked my way.

“You know what just happened at the nick, don't you?” I said.

He turned to me, sighed. Turned his face down.

“I've just been in a meeting with the DCI.”

“Right,” he said. “Saw you go in.”

“You know what it was about?”

His eyes got slightly wider, but he didn't look scared. Interested, maybe.

“Paddy Reece,” I said. “Amongst other fuckin' things. But Paddy Reece was the main topic of conversation. How some daft cunt let him make a formal complaint.”

“If he wanted to make a complaint, he was entitled.”

“Even if the upshot is me getting fuckin' suspended?”

Adams shifted his hand across his mouth again. “Hmm.”

“Hmm? Fuckin'
hum
at us? It's your fuckin' fault, Derek.”

“My fault?”

“You talked to him, didn't you? I mean, you're the only stupid bastard in that place who still deals with the shite.”

“He wanted to talk to someone in charge.”

“And you were the closest they had at the time, right?”

“I was the only one who didn't run out of the office, yeah.”

There was a look in his eyes, a flash of something that he wanted to say, but he didn't have the stones to follow it up. Instead he puckered up his mouth so his lips disappeared.

“You let him make a formal complaint, Derek,” I said.

“I did my job.”

“Didn't fuckin' think about what it'd do to
me
, did you, mind?”

“He was—”

“I mean, yeah, fuckin' hell, they're
allowed
to make a complaint, allowed to make it formal, we all know that, but here's the way you're supposed to run it: make out like it'll be a long, drawn out process, that you can't be arsed and that they
shouldn't
be arsed because it'll probably end up doing fuck all except getting a copper pissed off at them. That's the way I was taught to handle it. That's the way you should've handled it.”

“He was well within his rights to make a complaint, Iain. You assaulted him.”

“So then you come to
me
,” I said, trying to keep my voice down. “You talk it out with us, you give us a heads-up, and I tell you what to do from there.”

Adams' eyes dropped half-closed. “You don't outrank me.”

“I don't give a fuck about
rank
, Derek. Just common fuckin' courtesy to let a bloke know when he's going to get fuckin' chewed, give him a head start on it.” I pointed at him. “What you did was play the fuckin' cunt. Put us out to the brass.”