The Wild Heart (4 page)

     ‘ I don’t know’ said Graham ‘ But it seems like the dead can come back to life’.

CHAPTER THREE

Ian had always enjoyed the camaraderie of the building site. Just a bunch of lads working to pay their bills, feed their kids, look after their part in life’s ongoing cycle. None of them were trying to be something they weren’t. They were working-class and proud. He didn’t employ anybody younger than their mid-twenties because he’d found that the young guys these days didn’t have the same respect for the job that his own generation did. The young ones wanted paying but didn’t expect to do much for it.

     He was drinking his tea sitting on the steps of the site office. It was lunchtime and the rest of the lads were stood about, smoking cigarettes, going through the red tops, swigging from cans of coke. The two Polish lads he’d taken on,
Marek and Tomas, dark eyes, olive skin, expected nothing but the chance to show how hard they could work and they were grafters alright, nice lads too, standing with their heads back so their faces could catch some of the bright sunshine. Standing with them was Colin, just turned thirty and the bricklayer of bricklayers as far as Ian was concerned, a real team player. Colin went out clubbing every weekend with Marek and Tomas and Ian imagined their combined scorecard must run into high figures. The three of them were fit, handsome, and had van loads of the right chat with which to snare the ladies. Ian had been out with them a couple of times. They were a treat to watch when they were on the pull.

     He looked up just in time to see Ronnie, sat on the ground with his back against the site office, pick his nose and flick it to the ground. Ronnie was in his late forties but could be said to be older because of the whisky-induced
potmarks on his face that made him look like a poor man’s Keith Richards. Ronnie had been engaged to Maureen for donkey’s years but they were one of those couples who probably wouldn’t get married and leave home until both sets of parents were dead. To Ronnie’s left was Len, the one that Ian had made into his foreman. Ian liked Len. They were the same age although that’s where the similarity ended. Len had five kids and his oldest, Kylie, who was seventeen, was about to make him a grandfather.

     ‘ What has she ever done anyway?’ Colin wanted to know. He was looking at the front page of the Daily Star which was running an ‘exclusive’ on the breakup of some Z-list celebrity’s marriage to a former Irish boy band member. ‘ This bird here? Can anybody tell me? I mean, I know she won I’m a celebrity get me out of here and that but … what else has she ever done? Found the cure for cancer or what?’

     ‘ She used to be in Atomic Kitten’ said Ronnie.

     ‘ Ah that explains it then!’ chuckled Colin ‘ They should’ve all been nuked’.

     ‘ Just another pointless celebrity who’ll do anything to get in the papers as long as it doesn’t have to do with showing any real talent’ said Ian.

     ‘ What’s talent got to do with anything these days?’ said Len ‘ She’s just a mouthy bird, that’s all. She wants you to think she knows it all but she knows shit. It’s all just for attention. Yawn fucking yawn’.

     ‘ Too right’ agreed Colin. ‘ Mouthy birds are just that, all mouth and no imagination, completely useless in the sack. I think her husband’s had a lucky escape there. He should go and find himself a proper woman who’s got something between her ears other than his prick in her gob’.

     ‘ Like you, you mean Colin?’ teased Ian with a wink to the others. ‘ How many proper women have you had this week?’

     ‘ Yeah’ said Ronnie ‘ Did you have sex with them or play university fucking challenge?’

     Colin raised his middle finger to them all ‘ Fuck off losers’.

     After they’d got back to work, Ian went into the site office to make some calls. Some more orders were coming in and later he’d have to drive out to Bolton to meet with some developers who wanted his firm to do a major new build for them. He’d just got off the phone from another set of developers when Kevin came in. Kevin hadn’t joined the rest of them at lunchtime. He’d said he’d had some errands to run.

     ‘ Hey, buddy’ said Ian. ‘ What
ya up to?’

     ‘ I’m not up to anything’.

     Ian noted the defensiveness in Kevin’s response. ‘ Who rattled your cage?’

     ‘ Nobody’ said Kevin ‘ Nobody at all. Don’t know what you’re on about’.

     Okay, thought Ian. He didn’t want to talk about whatever it was. Fair enough.

     ‘ So what can I do for you?’

     ‘ I need to get some stuff at cost and store it at the yard’.

     Ian had always let the lads order D.I.Y materials for their houses using his wholesale account and store them in his builder’s yard just off Chapel Street until they were ready for them. Kevin wanted to order some piping. He said he planned to gutter the whole house but Ian had been to Kevin and Sandra’s house in
Burnage only a couple of weeks ago and the guttering had all looked fine.

     ‘ You know how she’s always got to have me doing something’ said Kevin, in response to Ian’s quizzical look ‘ This is it this week. Next week it’ll be something else’.

     ‘ It’ll take more than a week.  Do you want me to give you a hand?’

     ‘ No, you’re okay’ said Kevin ‘ My brother’s
gonna come over’.

     ‘ Ah, right. Well there’s no need to pay me until the end of the month’.

     ‘ Oh I’ll pay you when it comes in. Cash’.

     ‘ Cash?’ Ian questioned. Kevin didn’t normally pay until he absolutely had to and he normally charged it to his credit card. ‘ Have you robbed a bank or something?’

     ‘ No, no. We’ve got some put by, you know? I wanted a holiday but as always, I’ve been overruled’.  

     ‘ I see’ said Ian who realised that Kevin had been avoiding his eyes throughout the whole conversation. He’d been looking at the floor, the desk, the walls, out of the window. He seemed embarrassed. What was that all about?

     ‘ Did you have a good time back home by the way?’ asked Ian, referring to Kevin’s recent visit to Northern Ireland to see his relatives. His parents had moved the family over when Kevin was two but he went back regularly. 

     ‘ Oh yeah, always do’.

     DCI Jimmy Kent had to let Derek and Shaun Campbell go. All his instincts told him that, particularly in the case of Derek, their hands were all over the murder of Jamie Robertson but he had nothing to charge them with, no hard evidence, no snouts coming forward, nothing to hold them on. Derek had been barely out of prison a few weeks.

     ‘ You’re not letting him go, Sir?’ said Graham. He’d been waiting in the corridor outside the interview room and collared Jimmy as soon as he came out. He’d decided not to share the intelligence Jamie Robertson had shared with him during their last meeting. If Duncan was alive and Campbell was intent on killing him, then Graham wanted Campbell behind bars for as long as possible. Maybe that way he could get to Duncan in time to warn him. That’s if he knew where he was.

     ‘ My office, DI Armstrong’ Jimmy instructed.

     Graham followed Jimmy into his office and closed the door behind him. Jimmy sat down at his desk. Graham remained standing.

     ‘ You know as well as I do that I’ve nothing on either of them. We’ve just been applying the pressure, making them know we’re onto them and waiting for them to step out of line’.

     ‘ What I know, Sir, with all due respect, is that my daughter is wetting the bed every night, my three-year old won’t leave his mother’s side for a second, and my wife is having to take sleeping tablets. She's got a plain clothes police officer with her at all times, even just to nip down to the shops. That’s what I know, Sir, and Campbell is responsible. You and I both know it’.

     ‘ Take a week off, Graham’ said Jimmy.

     ‘ What?’

     ‘ I said take a week off and … ‘

     ‘ … Sir, are you saying I can’t hack it because of what’s going on at home?’ He ran his hand through his mane of wavy brown hair. He’d not been able to settle all day but he didn’t need Jimmy fucking Kent to show concern or worse, understanding.

     ‘ No I’m not saying that. But your family have been through a traumatic incident and you need to be there for them. Now this isn’t a choice, DI Armstrong. I’m ordering you to take that time off’.

     ‘ You’re ordering me?’

     ‘ Yes, I’m ordering you. I am the DCI here in case you’d forgotten’.

     ‘ Oh how could I forget that. Sir’

     Jimmy Kent was on the verge of losing his temper. He leaned forward and spoke in as measured a tone as he could muster.  ‘ Now you listen to me, Armstrong, and you listen good. I am sick and tired of your petulant attitude towards me since I got this job instead of you and we both know that your objections run along sectarian lines. Well I’ve got news for you, sunshine, I’m here and I’m staying. So I suggest you use some of your time off to deal with it. Because if you don’t I’ll have you back in
uniform so fast your feet won’t touch the ground. Understood?’

     Mark got off the tram at his usual stop and started down the street towards home. When he got to the building site he noticed that the big guy he’d had his eye on was clearing up outside the site office. He decided to take a chance. He took a deep breath, crossed the street and walked up to him.

     ‘ Excuse me?’ he said.

     Ian looked round and his heart gave a sudden lurch. ‘ Can I help you?’

     ‘ I live on this street, number fourteen. I’m Mark
Earnshaw’.

     ‘ And I’m Ian, Ian Taylor. Hi!’.

     ‘ Hi! Well Ian, I wonder if you would come by and give me a quote on some building work I need doing?’

     ‘ Yeah. Give me twenty minutes to finish off here?’

     ‘ Fine. I’ll see you then’.

     Twenty minutes gave Mark enough time to rush home, have a shower, dry his hair, slip into a blue polo shirt and beige chinos and light a candle in the lounge. He hadn’t stopped before there was a ringing of the door bell and he let Ian in.

     ‘ Thanks for coming’ said Mark.

     ‘ You’re welcome’ said Ian, a notepad and pen in his hand although he got the feeling he wouldn’t need it. This boy was hot, no getting away from it, and those eyes gave it all away.

     ‘ You look like you could do with a beer’ said Mark as he watched his visitor wipe his brow with the back of his hand. ‘ It must’ve been baking out there today’.

     Ian wasn’t used to acts of kindness even if it was just the offer of a beer. ‘ Yea. That would be great, thanks’.

     ‘ Go and sit down in the lounge and I’ll bring it through’.

     ‘ You must’ve put a lot of pennies in your piggy bank when you were a kid to be able to get your own house at your age’.

     ‘ This place? Me and my brother inherited it from our parents. They were killed a few years ago’.

     Ian felt awful. ‘ Oh look, mate, I’m really sorry’

     Mark smiled reassuringly ‘ It’s okay, you weren’t to know’.

     ‘ So you live here with your brother?’

     ‘ No, he’s married and lives over at Whaley Bridge in the Peak District. I’m all alone here’.

     Ian raised an eyebrow. ‘ Is that right?’  

     ‘ I’m trying to place your accent, Ian. Are you Scottish?’

     ‘ No, Northern Irish. But I’ve been over here twenty years so my accent has got a bit mixed up’.

     ‘ It sounds great to me’ said Mark ‘ I’ll go and get that beer’.

     Mark took a couple of beers out of the fridge and went through to the lounge with them. He handed one to Ian and said ‘ I didn’t think you’d be bothered about a glass’.

     ‘ No, that’s fine’ said Ian taking the can from Mark and holding it up. ‘ Cheers’.

     ‘ Cheers’ said Mark, clinking his can with Ian’s before sitting down.

     ‘ You don’t want me here for any building work do you’.

     ‘ No’ said Mark, feeling that flutter in his stomach. This man sitting in his lounge was built like a
Tonka toy, straight up and down solid, shoulders wide enough to land a jumbo jet on, his face covered in five o’clock shadow, short black hair, dark eyes, a glow on his skin that comes from working outdoors all day, his big arms covered in black fur and tufts of it coming over the top of his white t-shirt that was tucked into a pair of faded blue jeans. There was no mistaking the masculinity of him.

     ‘ So do you always eye up young men in suits?’ Mark asked.

     ‘ Only when they’ve got an arse like yours’.

     Ian ended up staying the night and when Mark woke up Ian was out of bed and getting dressed. Mark looked at the bedside clock and saw it was only just after five.

     ‘ Hey, big man’ said Mark, propping himself up on his elbows. ‘ What are you doing? It’s still the middle of the night’.