Cleaning Up (19 page)

Jimbo called him just after eight see if he fancied a swill but he was too tired, there was nothing on his mind but rest and sleep.

Pasquale and his mum had had the weekend together and it was OK between them; a couple of DVD’s, some clothes shopping and a takeaway, it was all right enough. Pasquale felt like there was space between them now, a space that he had never known before, which was awkward in a way, but it was kind of better too, he was starting to feel more like his own man now not just her little boy. It was nice to have his old room for the weekend though. Lurch was noisier in his sleep than he was in his waking hours. Lots of bad dreams and nightly three a.m journeys to the kitchen for a soothing hot chocolate.

Pasquale had taken the opportunity of the weekend visit to stash his money up in the rafters above his bedroom, just
an easy arm’s grab from the hatch. He’d moved the chest of drawers across to get up there, it was all done nice and quietly - his movements masked by the sounds of her ever present Motown.

He had well over a grand saved up now - fucking mind boggling! He and Junior had talked about going into business together, maybe a recording studio or something, Jess had a great voice and though he wasn’t that big on chicks rapping she was pretty good at that too. They often bounced rhymes off each other at the ref much to Neil and Kats’ delight. Their free styling promptly and predictably followed by Neil snatching back the spotlight with a campy version of a show stopping tune that some wannabe had been chirping on the previous weekend’s X-factor. He was as funny as fuck though and he and the girls were planning to give Britain’s Got Talent a shot - pin dick Al had scoffed at that but a few words to the wiser from Kat quickly had Al singing from the same page.

His mum had dropped him off on the Sunday evening and it was a warmer goodbye between them this time. All the crew were in their usual places; Kat, Neil and Jess were out the back of the ref, Rob was blobbing out in the office, Lurch and Al were in the lounge watching some action film on the telly. The three of them had asked him about his weekend and he asked them the same about the ref. It had been quiet they told him, they’d had a one nighter in yesterday, some girl that Sonny had brought in for an emergency bed. Neil had partied a little bit down the Quarter but had pulled the pin early - saving it for next weekend.

Pasquale asked him what he had on.

Neil feigned coyness, ‘a little private party next weekend
P, a night with my daddy or daddies to be accurate.’ He pumped his eyebrows and pursed his lips at the girls.

‘Hmmm I’ll be a little saddle sore but flush with goodies - a girl has to make a living after all.’

Neil gave Pasquale a little once over.

‘Pity you’re straight P, they’d love you.’

‘No fucking chance pal.’

‘Alright, alright, chill. We all know how butch you are.’

‘Tell him how much you got last time,’ Jess prompted.

Neil feigned deliberation, ‘500 for the night - not bad eh P?’

Pasquale nodded, not bad at all, but he was working overtime trying to keep his thoughts away from what Neil had to do to make the money.

‘Down the Quarter is it then - the party? Pasquale asking him just for the sake of saying something.

‘Oh no P, it’s all much more upmarket than the fuckin’ Quarter. The Quays no less, we have a gorgeous flat to play in; city views, a spa, cock-tails on the terrace.’ Neil did a little shimmy of his head - very pleased with himself.

‘And that, dear boy, is all you need to know - Neil doesn’t kiss and tell.’

‘Kiss and tell,’ Kat said, ‘more like suck and tell, you slag.’

And that was much more than Pasquale wanted to know. He made his excuses and dropped his bag off in his room stopping at the office to let Rod know he was back. He went out to the lounge and joined Lurch and Al for the tail end of a Van Diesel movie.

Darrin had just done a few days of plod, teamed up this time with Johno, both of them out on the manor wearing short
sleeves in the bright sunshine. The Summer was well on its way. Nothing much had happened during the week - all was quiet in Dodge. They’d chatted their shifts away with shopkeepers and local faces, helped a couple of Japanese tourists with directions to the cathedral and had kept an eye on the kids in the shopping mall and the precinct. An old Ukranian lady had been knocked over in the High Street. Her bag had been nicked and the poor old bird had dislocated her shoulder in the fall but, in a surprising, and increasingly rare show of community spirit, a couple of builders who were on their butty break had given chase and actually nabbed the fucker. He turned out to be, surprise surprise, some toe-rag from the Barrington. Go to jail son and don’t pass go! Next day the builders were on the front page of the local paper looking well and deservedly chuffed with themselves. The pair of them pictured giving it the thumbs up with matching cheesy grins.

Young had called him up on Wednesday afternoon and had asked him to come down to their squad’s office late afternoon the next day. He had cleared it with Sarge Thomas then hurriedly changed into his civvies at the end of his shift. He made tracks and hopped on board the light-rail across to the twin city. He knew where to find him, Young and his crew where housed in an ugly, utilitarian concrete block, which was half a dozen storeys high. The building was the nerve centre of all of the conurbation’s major crime ops.

At the ground floor reception he showed his ID to the alert middle-aged cop behind the desk. Darrin got a measured nod from him and made his way on up to the fourth floor.

When he exited from the lift he couldn’t see any signs to
lead him to where he needed to go. He approached a couple of fast moving, file carrying coppers who, when he asked them the way, looked at him like he was some kind of a plonker before giving him, with an overt reluctance, brusque final directions.

Young and his team were housed in a largish, corner office that Young appeared to be sharing with three other detectives. All the desks were currently occupied and everybody looked busy. Young stood up and waved him over with an easy smile and made him the offer of a brew. He said yes and Young went off to do the honours.

He took the time out to gaze through the large window that was situated behind Young’s comfortable looking padded office chair. Darrin could make out the tall white columns and propellers of the wind farm up on the distant moors. A look to his left gave him a wide scope panorama of the city centre. Very fucking nice indeed.

Young quickly came back and handed him the tea, he cleared his throat and introduced him to the other men in the room. He received a smile, a couple of nods and a
one-fingered
salute hello.

Young took his seat and pushed a moderately thick file over the desk to him.

‘Some background in there for you to peruse Darrin.’

He flicked it open, an old photo of Dalton and some personal info paperwork; his record, briefings on an Operation Holland that had taken place back in the eighties, more photos of guys who all looked vaguely familiar. They were capable, tough looking men one and all. They were the O’Brien boys and Johnny, ‘they call me Mister’ Tibbs.

‘Yep, our very own and very infamous Saltt crew,’ Young
said.

Darrin looked at the file again, ‘I’m curious like Sarge, why the two t’s- you know Saltt?’

‘Well it’s a pun PC May.’

That didn’t help him and he showed it - definitely none the fucking wiser.

Young explained it to him with a slightly irksome grin on his mug.

‘Well, here’s one for your detective skills PC May. You’ve got the O’Brien boys,’ Young counted them off on his fingers; ‘Niall, the dearly departed Ambrose, Callum and Leo plus the one and only Mr Tibbs.’

‘No, I’m still in the dark there Sarge.’

Young smiled at him again - gee the fucker loved stringing things out.

‘It’s the initials of their first names constable, N.A.C.L-Sodium Chloride, Salt - a t tacked on the end to account for Mr Tibbs.’

Darrin nodded, vaguely impressed, he guessed, and Young gave him another pleased looking grin like he’d thought of it all by himself.

‘Cute bastards eh, and this manor’s top criminals for more than thirty years now. Let me count the ways; drug smuggling, people smuggling, money laundering, prostitution and drugs. Links in the Middle East, Africa and of course, plenty of contacts in dear old Ireland.’

‘Fuck!’

‘Yes, fuck indeed and they are obviously, a very, very tough nut to crack.’

Young was stating the bleeding obvious there. According to the Saltt file there was barely a conviction between the
main players. In fact, there was nothing at all on any of them since the late seventies. Talk about hiding in plain sight.

‘So, these guys are Dalton’s employers then?’

‘Undoubtedly, now, speaking of which, that is where you come in. Observation of the flat - you’ll be logging all the incomings and outgoings. It’s all grunt work but you never know, PC May, stranger things have happened. We have a list of residents’ cars and we want to know of anybody parking up there whose car is not on that list. Any taxi drop-offs that may be related to Keith Dalton etc. We’ll be using a Portakabin on that bit of waste ground opposite and diagonal to the block, close enough to the entrance for a nice clear view. Our team will be looking out and nobody will be seeing in. We’re going to get some boys inside when we get the go ahead too, set up some mikes in there. You never know he might get sloppy, talk some business.’

‘And that, PC May, is that, I’ll let you know when we know. Should all be sorted in the next few days, you never know, we might crack these cocky bastards yet.’

Darrin nodded at him. DS Young, he thought, patronising, irritating but somehow impressive too, only a little older than he was and already swimming amongst the big fishes, showing Darrin where he could be in a few years time. He wouldn’t be top of Darrin’s role mode list but, fair play to the guy, he was bang square in the middle of the real action.

Pasquale had had a good week at the refuge, Wendy had got him on this learning programme, which meant that he would be able to do his assignments and his exams away from school even if he was to go back home. He would still be able to access the ref ’s services for tutors and go to the college to
use their facilities.

Up at the Coleshaw, Dwayne had been keeping them busy too. On the Thursday Johnny Talbot hadn’t been there to meet them, instead it was an older guy weighed down with plenty of jewellery, putridly ponging from yards away of too much Brut cologne. The dude had thick, moist lips that reminded him of a picture he had once seen in a magazine of a large tropical fish. Much more disconcertingly, the guy had mad eyes. He was an obvious barm-pot, the nutter instantly let on that he knew who Junior was too and had front up asked him all the usual shit about his brother Wes.

‘Did some bird together me and your kid like,’ the dude told them. ‘Used to run together back in the day we did, just like you and your quiet pal here.’

Junior smiled disinterestedly but politely at the new guy, reaching over as he did so to grab Pasquale’s pack from him. Junior handed both packages over to the stranger, who, on receipt, yawned widely showing off a mouthful of gold whilst ostentatiously tugging on his tackle with an unencumbered left hand. As he did so, he exposed a scripted tattoo that started just below his ribs and ran on under his shiny red boxers.

Fishlips turned and left them without any further comment, just a desultory wave goodbye like he had much better places to be and things to do. He and Junior rode back down to the mill to have a leisurely puff. He had a few hours up his sleeve before he had to get back to the refuge, nine o’clock he’d promised them.

They parked up and Junior nimbly rolled a couple of three paper jobs.

Pasquale took a pull and they sat quietly in the warm
stillness, half listening to the muffled sound of traffic on the nearby Platt Road.

He had to ask.

‘Who was that then Junior?’

Junior kept a few moments of silence and rubbed on what were the makings of a goatee.

‘That, my friend, was the one and only Bazzer Dougan. Old Mad Dog himself.’

‘Fuck really - wacked looking bastard in’t he?’

Junior nodded, ‘truly - hope it was a one off, I prefer Johnny T’s pizza faced acne to that loopy fucker’s ugly mug.’

‘That’s true man - not too pretty down the Barrington - are they?’

They had a good laugh at that and then they chilled out with their smokes for a nice stretch, neither of them mentioned M’s phone call but Pasquale spent the next half an hour or so thinking about it. No degrees of separation now.

Neil came back to the refuge late on the Sunday afternoon. He was dressed head to toe in new gear with his old stuff folded up in a plastic Primark bag. He was also sporting a new earring, a diamond stud that the girls cooed over.

Neil reckoned it was worth a grand. Pasquale doubted that but it didn’t look cheap either.

‘New admirer then sugar boy?’ Kat asked.

‘New-ish pet, Daddy D introduced him to yours truly a couple of months ago - he made good on his promises this weekend.’

‘Good party then?’ Jess asked.

‘Yes lover girl - boys only this one but Daddy D does like to mix and match sometimes. I told him about you, told him you were hot and he seemed interested. Maybe I’ll get
you along for the next one, if I decide to go. My new daddy might want me all to himself of course.’

Jess nodded along, ever the eager pup. She had a boyfriend of sorts - Sean, a middle class kid who came to see her at the ref now and again. Sean’s Mum didn’t approve of the teenage romance though and Sean didn’t like hanging around at the ref for too long. He was intimidated by Kat and more than a little freaked out by Neil who flirted outrageously with him.

The others made their way inside to watch the repeat of X-Factor. He heard them laughing and squealing, telling Al to shut the fuck up when he plucked up enough bottle to ask them to be quiet.

Pasquale thought about Neil’s ball squirming story for a little while. Despite the new clobber and the earring, Neil was looking rough, like he hadn’t slept for a week. He was slightly wild eyed and continuously licking his lips as if he’d been stumbling through the desert for a few days. Neil was cool right enough but there was something a little bit creepy about it all.