Beast of Burden (29 page)

“I'm paying you—”

“I know. But not on … the phone. Trust me.”

“The Wheatsheaf,” he says.

“Twenty minutes,” I tell him, then hang up.

Sit in the car some more, staring at the rain that's now rattling the windscreen. Then I turn the key in the ignition, warm the engine up a little before I head out to the Wheatsheaf.

Brian the landlord looks like he's about to shit a cat as soon as he sees me push the doors. He stops a Guinness halfway down the pint and shouts at a small, busty blonde to finish it off once it's settled a bit. He scurries down to the end of the bar just as I'm approaching. To be fair, he needn't have bothered rushing. I'm taking my time. Old aches have surfaced again. Must be the cold. And I'm thirty next year. What a fucking waste.

I nod at Brian. His face is white, and already moon-shaped. Looks like he's this close to passing out, hating every second of this meeting and it hasn't even taken place yet.

“Where is he?” I say.

“He's upstairs in the function room. You're to go right up.”

I want to ask if he's alone, but I realise it doesn't matter if he's brought an entire fucking army with him. The man has to be told at some point, and if he doesn't trust me then so be it. We'll deal with whatever arises. Or I will.

Brian shows me to the stairs, which is good because I need a fucking pointer. Which he also does. He honestly looks like he's pointing the way to hell when he backs off from the staircase. I take it slowly, the way I take all stairs now.

Push into the function room, which is just a normal room with a laminate six foot square in the middle that acts as a dance floor. The place is harshly lit right now, not the usual lights, I'm guessing, considering there's a DJ booth set up in one corner of the room. Looks like it should have Fisher Price written on it. In the opposite corner, facing the door and the booth, is Morris Tiernan.

And he's alone.

He doesn't move as I approach. But I notice there's a chair already pulled out opposite him.

How very fucking thoughtful.

I don't take the chair. Look around the place.

“Well?” he says. “You got a name for me or not?”

“Yeah.”

“Who?”

I take a moment, wonder how I'm going to phrase this, but then that's all I've been doing since I made the decision. There's no easy way, like I said.

“Alison,” I say.

“You what?”

“Alison.”

He blinks once. I can see his hands tighten a little as the idea flits across his mind. I let it churn around in there for a bit, make sure he's seriously considered the idea before I open my mouth again.

“I have proof.”

He nods. “Right.”

She has motive. That jaunt up to Newcastle was spoiled by Mo's appearance. She lost a boyfriend to him, and she had a kid by him too. Could be argued that Mo Tiernan ruined his little half-sister's life. And it was obvious to her that her dad couldn't handle the situation, so she decided to take matters into her own hands. Hell, maybe Mo brought it on himself. Tiernan knows as well as everyone else that his son was hardly the kind of bloke to leave well enough alone. His trek up to Newcastle in hot pursuit of her was testament to that.

But then Morris knows all of this, doesn't he? He's thinking about it right now.

“You going to tell me what proof?” he says.

“Police found a hair,” I say.

“A hair,” he says.

“In Mo's hand.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Under his … fingernail.”

“Right.” He looks at the table. “And that's it?”

“No. There's more.”

“You know what I said would happen,” he says.

“I know.”

“Someone's responsible, they've got to be made an example of, right?”

I don't say anything. He looks up at me. And for the first time since I've known him, I really get what people are so fucking scared of. His blue eyes flash almost white and there's this granite-set look on his face that means he made a decision about his life a long time ago, and he's had to stick to it, come hell or high water, ever since. And that's been eating him the fuck up from the inside out.

It's the kind of look people see before they're killed.

“You're sure about this?” he says.

“I'm sure enough. To come to you. With the name.”

“Her name.”

“Yes. Don't think … it was
easy
.”

He puts one hand on his face, pinches the bridge of his nose like he's suddenly got the worst headache in the world. He's one comment away from throwing the table over. There's a part of me that wants to ask him if he's okay. But I know that won't do any good. Morris is way into himself now. He'll come out when he's ready. Too much to take on right now. He removes his hand and sets it on the table. His fingers are crooked in a way that means his heart is hammering the inside of his chest.

I stand there. Watching. Waiting.

Tiernan sucks his teeth, breathes out through his nose. “I think you should go downstairs.”

I nod. Turn towards the door.

“Have a pint or something. Not too much. But wait down there for me.”

Another nod. I make it to the door without falling down. Then I close it quietly behind me before I take the stairs.

It's a shitty thing to do, dropping Alison's name. Especially considering I've seen her since Newcastle. Especially considering it looks like she's trying to do something with her life, be a decent mother to a kid that she mustn't be able to look at without picturing Mo on top of her. That alone should be enough punishment.

Should
be, but it isn't. Not really. These people fucked my life. They deserve everything they get.

Besides, who's going to believe that Paulo killed Mo? And who's going to believe that I took my fucking stick to him?

Then again, who's going to believe that a single mother did the deed, either?

Only one person has to. And that person is tearing himself apart up there.

Good.

I get to the bottom of the stairs, haul myself round to the bar. Brian makes his presence known almost immediately. Same expression on his face as before, and seeing me doesn't help it.

“Well?” he says.

I lift my chin at him. “What?”

“How is it?”

“How is what?”

Brian wags his head. I lean closer.

He lowers his voice: “How is Mr Tiernan?”

I lean in close. “None of yours.”

“Come on, I need to—”

“You don't.” I point at the pumps. “Kronenbourg.”

Brian locks stares with me for a moment, then he backs off towards the pumps. I lean against the bar, wish I could light up in here. I was told to sit down here like a good boy, which means I don't get to leave the place for a sly cigarette. Which is a bastard, but I'm sure I'll be able to ride it, knowing full well that any discomfort I might go through is like a fucking pin prick compared to the agony he's dealing with upstairs. My only real problem is keeping the fucking smile from my face.

I look down and there's a pint of Kronenbourg. I reach into my pocket, but Brian's already waved me off. There's no paying, not while I'm supposedly a guest of Mr Tiernan's. I pick up the pint and hobble over to an empty table. Set the pint down and breathe out.

When I'm about halfway down the pint, I wonder if I'm going to make it out of this pub alive. It's not so much a sudden thought, more one that creeps out from my subconscious. There's a chance Morris is keeping me down here so that I won't do a runner. Making me stay in one place so he knows where to find me when he plucks up enough energy or courage or whatever it is a man like him needs to come down here and finish me off. But then I look around the place and realise that even Morris Tiernan wouldn't kill someone in front of a pub full of people.

Two-thirds down the pint, there's a noise from outside. I turn in my seat, squint through the frosted pane at the road. There's Tiernan's usual ride, the SUV, gleaming in the streetlight. A thump from upstairs and I turn back to see Tiernan emerge from the hall. You can feel the temperature of the entire room drop, the oxygen going with it as everyone turns and breathes in at the same time.

Tiernan stops by me, holds out his hand. “Lead the way.”

I put my pint down. Get to my feet. “Sorry?”

“You know where we're going.”

I look at the unfinished pint, then nod to Tiernan. I haul myself towards the door, step out onto the street.

Here goes nothing.

DONKIN

I knew it would take balls, but I also knew that nobody reckoned us dogged enough to do it by the book. In fact, it was abundantly fucking clear to us now what everyone expected — they expected us to go right after the cunt, all guns blazing, not give a fuck about the consequences of my actions, all emotion and no fucking brains. And if they were basing it on past experience, then they were probably right.

But here was the thing. They'd never managed to kick us off the force before because I always got the bastard responsible. Now I was suspended, it'd be the same deal, except I had to be really fucking careful. Which meant there was no way I could do it on my own. Innes already knew I was suspended, wouldn't take being cuffed without a good kicking, and that wouldn't help us in the long run.

I didn't need to put the cuffs on him myself, though. And not everyone knew I was suspended. Which was why when I showed my ID to the first streak of piss constable I saw back at the nick, he said, “What's up?”

“Need your help on something,” I said. “Urgent, like.”

He nodded, followed us out to the car. He was staring at my nose, wondering who'd mashed it up like a poof's arsehole. I kept my head down.

“What's your name?” I asked.

“John,” he said.

Excellent, he was a fucking probationary.

“Alright, Constable John, you better drive us. I think I've had a few too many sherberts and I don't want us pulled over.”

PC John looked at us funny then, so I gave him my best I'm-just-kidding grin and got in the driver's side. He was a conscientious bastard, this one, which meant he'd be a good one to have on my side when the shit eventually hit the fan.

“Where are we going?” he said.

“We're going round to see someone that I want a word with.”

“And you need me—

“As back up.” I put my seatbelt on, started the engine. “The lad we're going to see, he's got form — did two and change in the Ways not so fuckin' long ago, and it looks like he's itching to get back inside. Thing is, though, me and him, we got something of a past.”

The constable looked at us cock-eyed.

“Which is one of the reasons you're here. This history me and him have, it might make him think he can prod us into something that would be detrimental to the case. So you're adding a bit of balance to the proceedings, you get me? I mean, I got the right bloke, didn't I? You're good at your job, you're impartial?”

He nodded, then looked confused.

“You know the name Callum Innes?”

“No.”

“You will by the end of tonight, I'll tell you that.” I put my hand in my pocket, pulled out my baccy tin and rested it against the steering wheel as I rolled one-handed. “That stretch he did, it was for the Tiernans, so he's connected. You'll know the Tiernans.”

“Morris,” he said.

“You're that familiar, huh?”

The constable swallowed. “No, I didn't mean that.”

“Thought I might have to second-think my back up there, son.”

Shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

“But you know
of
him, which is a good start. Means you know we're not dealing with the small fry here, right? You know what the cunt's capable of.”

Constable John got noticeably paler. So I decided to put the bloke's mind at ease a bit.

“Innes is connected,” I said, “but he's not
that
connected. What I could make out, Morris might be keeping him on a salary, but Innes is spinning him a cunt's yarn. The lad's up to his balls in shite.”

“Right,” said PC John, his voice low; like he was trying to be all manly. “So you want to bring in Innes to roll on Tiernan.”

“No. We don't go for the big fish. No fuckin' point. You grab Tiernan on something to do with Innes, he'll just chuck cash at it, pull a few strings and that case you had vanishes into thin fuckin' air. The man's got briefs so good, Tiernan could skin you — you personally, a fuckin' copper — and it'd come out self-defence. Flay you alive. With witnesses. Broad fuckin' daylight, middle of Piccadilly Gardens, and he'd get off. That's my point.”

I put one hand up to the back of my neck, pushed at the flesh. Christ, not only was I battered to fuck and could hardly fucking breathe, I had to have a stress crick, too.

“No, we just go for Innes. Innes is our target here.” I pulled onto Regent Road. “Usually, I wouldn't need any back up on this, but the situation's different.”

“Your history.”

“Aye. Nice to see you've been paying attention. Now if he kicks off, you just leave it to me. No sense in getting your nice new uniform all messed up. And if he does kick off, I want you to back me up when it comes to the paperwork, alright?”

He kept it shut.

“It's all legit here, Constable, I promise you. I wouldn't have it any other way.” My mobile started ringing. I looked across at PC John. “Okay?”

He was staring out the windscreen at the road. Chewing his lip. Knew he'd agreed to something that would end up biting him in the arse. His own fucking fault, of course. I knew the look in the bastard's eyes the moment I saw him — he was a career copper, but one that didn't want to do things the usual way. So he saw us, figured us for an easy promotion if he helped us out.

“Okay,” he said.

Soon as he answered me, I answered my mobile. “Detective Sergeant Donkin.”

“Donkey, what the fuck d'you think you're doing?”

Kennedy. I scratched my good cheek, watched the road but didn't really see it.

“You hear me?” he said.

“Yeah, I heard you.”

“So?”

“I'm wondering how the fuck you got this number.”

“How d'you think?”

“Derek.”

“If you want.”

“Anything that cunt
hasn't
told you, Colin?”