Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (13 page)

‘
My
fuckin’ gear?’

I
nod guiltily. I should’ve known better to enlist a junkie in palming off goods
for me. Malkie might as well have shouted it from the rooftops.

‘It
isn’t gang related, Marcus.’ I say in my defence.

‘Me
fuckin’ ‘no dat!’ he spits, ‘Me de fuckin’ gyang leader!’ He sucks air through
his teeth which comes out like a whistle. ‘Yi tink dey need an excuse to crawl
all over us?’ he hisses.

I
drop my gaze to my hands sitting limply on my lap.

‘OK,’
he says wearily, scratching the scalp visible between his mini dreadlocks. ‘Dis
is what me do.’

I
raise my head a little; try my hardest to meet his eye.

Devlin
has brought me to a derelict townhouse in the city centre that Gus McEwan’s
construction company is turning into flats. Work was suspended due to lack of
vehicle access during the tram works and McEwan’s lawyers are locked in
discussions with the council over compensation as the buyers subsequently
pulled out. It’s a perfect place to keep my head down as it’s right under
everyone’s noses. Marcus has sent me the two mobile phones I asked for, both
pre-paid,
pay as you go
, and after copying the numbers I needed onto my
new phone Barrington took my old one away to be destroyed.

They’ve
given me cash, but not too much, Gus’s shipment of guns is arriving soon at
Leith Docks and Marcus wants to keep me close and needy. I don’t blame him. If
the job goes according to plan our original agreement still stands: Marcus will
get me the name of the armed robbers who terrified the shit out of Candy, with
the additional condition that he’ll give me enough cash to help fund me clear
my name.

After
a fitful sleep I wake early and ring Ken the cabbie and arrange to meet him at
the corner of York Place and Broughton Street, the high visibility vest and
hard hat I found in one of the townhouse’s empty rooms give me the perfect
cover. Ken is waiting where we agreed and I climb in to the passenger seat
grateful to see him. We nod at each other and I hand him the second phone,
already populated with my new mobile number. The beauty of Ken is that he never
asks questions. If he’s wondering why I’m dressed like someone from Village
People he doesn’t show it. Instead he looks at my leg, ‘See the limp has gone.’
he says.

‘Aye,’
I nod.

‘Swapped
it for the broken nose, then.’

‘Right
enough.’ I grin like a mad man to show him my broken teeth.

‘Aye,’
Ken laughs, ‘Ye might want to rethink that look when this poor girl agrees to
see ye.’

If,
I remind myself.

‘So
you’re pickin’ her boss up tomorrow afternoon?’ I check.

‘Aye.’

‘And
you’ll tell her to hide it from her Dad like, and that I’ll call her on it as
soon as I can.’

‘Aye,
Roger that,’ Ken rolls his eyes at my fussing, ‘I’ll get the phone to her even
if I have to absail from the fuckin’roof.’

‘It’s
a single storey building, Ken,’ I remind him, ‘but I take your point.’

‘Thank
Christ for that.’ He grumbles good-naturedly.

I
hand Ken some cash for his trouble but he pushes it back at me. ‘Keep it,’ he
says, ‘Ye never know, there may be somethin’ ye can dae for me in the future.’
I nod, happy with that bargain, although something tells me he already has a
job for me in mind.

We’ve
been sat in the cab for no more than five minutes but the traffic wardens are
circling around us and Ken gets fidgety. I climb out of the car, pulling my
hard hat low over my forehead. There’s a newsagents across the road and I call
in to buy a bottle of coke and a couple of papers. The Asian man behind the
counter doesn’t give me a second glance yet I’m shaking when I hand him my
money: Jude and the twins are on the front page of the Scottish papers. It’s
the same photo as on the cover of the early edition of the Evening News yet the
sight of them jolts me, a reminder that the nightmare I’m living is real. I
need to hurry back to my room, see if anything new has been written.

The
sun shines steadily as though it’s forgotten this is Scotland and people are
walking about wearing clothes they’d normally save for Spain: tattooed men in
wife beater vests and women in skimpy tops with bras showing. Workmen wear high
viz vests over bare skin. Pavement cafes are doing a roaring trade as workers
jockey to find somewhere to tan during their break. Every available bench or
patch of grass is taken, yet still the crowds keep coming.

I
wish I could stay out here, take my top off and catch the rays, spend the day
drinking with Candy.

I
wish I could see Jude again.

The
traffic lights at the crossing on Broughton Street take an age to turn red, as
though the council are making amends for the years of tram disruption by
allowing cars to move freely, unhindered by road crossing pedestrians. I turn
to look at the crowd behind me to gauge their mood. Stepping into the traffic
to force it to stop only works if there’s ten folk behind you, preferably
disabled or pushing oversized prams. I catch the eye of someone several rows
behind me and he looks away so quickly I feel a ripple of alarm.

I’m
being followed.

I
take my chances and step into the road. A BMW driver slams on his brakes before
banging his horn in a tune of shame as I avoid making eye contact and scuttle
across the remainder of the road. The other pedestrians, smiling at my
discomfort, take the opportunity to step around the car as the shaken driver looks
on. As I reach the other side I check the crowd behind me once more but all I
can see is a wall of people going about their business, none of them showing
any particular interest in me. I increase my pace. I need to get back indoors
as soon as I can to scan the papers, see what’s been written since Marcus
showed me the early issue. I look about me but can’t see anyone I recognise, or
even strangers who look shifty for that matter, yet the uneasy feeling in the
pit of my stomach won’t go.

I
let myself into the building through the main door, climbing cautiously up the
three flights of stairs to the third floor where I’ve set up camp. My knee is
miles better but still creaks a little when I bend it and what pain there is
I’ve got used to. The rooms are spacious with high ceilings edged with ornate
plaster cornices which knowing what I do about Gus McEwan will eventually be
stripped out and replaced with artex. I’ve been told to only use one room, so
I’ve chosen one at the back of the house which hasn’t yet been stripped out: a
small settee will double as my bed and Devlin dropped off a microwave and
kettle and a box of Pot Noodles earlier which will see me through the next
couple of nights.

I
throw myself onto the settee, working my way through the papers to see what
information has come to light since Jude and the twins’ murders had initially
been reported. I suppose there’s some daft laddie in me expecting to see a
picture of MacIntyre being led to the cells in cuffs, the evidence against him
overwhelming. But then as Jude and I used to joke, there’s no such thing as a
happy ending, why the hell should this be any different? MacIntyre will make
damn sure I’m in the frame and just because my name hasn’t been mentioned in
the press doesn’t mean to say I’m not already banged to rights with the police.

There’s
a small breaking news item in the City Roundup section:

Two
men found dead in a hostel in Leith, a spokesperson for Police Scotland said
they were treating the incident as suspicious.

No
shit. The Evening News continues their front page photo of Jude and the twins
with an article on the centre pages. The story is a rehash of the earlier
report, with one new development:

Police
are keen to speak to a man seen leaving the crime scene in the early hours of Tuesday
morning. He is described as white, medium build, wearing ripped jeans and
walking with a pronounced limp.

At
least my leg won’t give me away any more. The article is followed by a feature
on the state of prostitution in Scotland, the journalist claiming these deaths
wouldn’t have occurred if the police had continued their ‘live and let live’
stance concerning Edinburgh’s notorious saunas. I screw the paper into a ball
and throw it across the room. To reduce Jude’s death to a point scoring exercise
is insulting.

I
move my hand instinctively to my pockets to feel for my cigarettes and realise
I smoked my last one with Ken. I’ll not settle without a fix of nicotine inside
me so I push myself to my feet even though I’m in no hurry to go back outside;
I feel safe within these walls; safe and useless. I move over to the large
dirty window, scanning the street below for some sign that I’m being watched, a
man in a raincoat standing beneath a lamppost striking a match perhaps, or a
surveillance van with a steady stream of people climbing in and out of it.
Instead all I see are the same fat workmen dismantling traffic barriers and
dumpy girls wearing hot pants Rihanna would baulk at. Sighing, I head for the
door.

It’s
when I step out of the newsagents for the second time that I see him. He’s
startled that I’ve caught him out, like he’s been found taking photos of his
genitals. He’s sitting across the road in a café not meant for people like us:
it has tablecloths and teapots and women with large handbags sipping from china
cups. He’s so out of place, like a BNP supporter in a Gospel choir, that I feel
almost sorry for him. I wave at him to confirm he’s been rumbled; he nods
sheepishly and practically runs out of the café.

‘What
the fuck?’ I grab his arm in case he’s planning to out-run me but he stops dead
in his tracks without a struggle.

‘Were
you following me before?’ I demand.

Brad
looks away as though eye contact will answer my question. He shrugs.

‘I
was looking for ye.’ He says simply.

‘Well
ye fuckin’ found me, Brad, man, then ye disappeared.’

Brad
continues to look everywhere but at me, scanning the crowd as though storing
their faces to memory.

‘I
lost ye when ye crossed the road,’ he says as though it’s me that’s done
something wrong. ‘I wasn’t sure where ye went.’

‘So
ye thought ye’d take tea while ye waited me out?’

Brad’s
neck reddens and he finally turns to face me. ‘Look,’ his face is serious, his
eyes roam over my shoulder for so long I turn to see what he’s looking at but
no one is there.

‘Can
we go somewhere else?’ he asks, and I’m torn about taking him back to my
hideaway. I stand my ground. ‘Whatever it is ye’ll have tae tell me here.’

He
stares me down.

‘I
think ye being fitted up for murder, Pal.’

‘OK,’
I say, stopping him from saying anything else, ‘I think we do need to go back
to mine.’

Brad folds himself
onto the settee, his knees and feet jutting out at awkward angles. He’s a big
man and there’s no room for me without us both feeling awkward so I perch on an
arm, my feet resting on the seat cushions, while he tells me what he knows.

‘Polis
came in the VA looking for ye, night before last.’ he begins. ‘Dinnae worry,
naebody said that they knew ye. They passed a photo round; barmaid said she
didn’t remember ye.’ I smile my gratitude.

‘Thing
is,’ he continues, ‘this cop, he kept asking the same questions over an’ over,
“
Did we know ye aunt was a prozzie?”
’ Brad raises his hand as though
fending off my objection, ‘nae offence like mate, then he asked if ye mebbe had
a problem wi’ prozzies.’

I
throw my head back and laugh; a hollow laugh that resembles a witch’s cackle.

‘My
Ma’s a fuckin’ prozzie!’ I shout with pride, ‘How the hell can they say I hate
prozzies?’

Brad
stares at me as though I’ve lost the plot. ‘Because three prozzies are dead,’
he states calmly, ‘an’ he’s saying you were the last person to see ‘em alive!’
He catches the look on my face. ‘I’m sorry, mate.’ he mumbles, only I’m unsure
whether he’s referring to the murders or Mum’s occupation.

It’s
my turn to shrug. ‘This copper, the one asking all the questions. What did he
look like?’

Brad
runs his fingers across the top of his shaved head and grunts. ‘Dunno, all look
the same to me.’

‘Fat
fucker with a red nose, mean lookin’ eyes….?’

‘Looks
like a sly twat?’

‘That’s
him!’

‘Bastard.’
We say in unison.

‘I
had a copper after me once.’ Brad confides, ‘Got a name for meself growing up,
right enough, mine was the first house they came knocking on when something
went down, but this last time he stitched me up. Charged me with stuff I hadn’t
even heard about, never mind done. I got sent down for two burglaries I didn’t
commit; an article in the local paper reports arrest rates have doubled, he
gets promoted to sergeant.’

It’s
my turn to say sorry.

‘It
disnae matter,’ Brad shakes his head as though to emphasise the point. ‘There’s
many would say I’m guilty of mair than that; so it was justice in a way, I
guess.’

I
tell Brad about MacIntyre’s vendetta against me. About him killing Jude and the
twins in cold blood. As I retell the story I study his face for a reaction but
instead of shock or horror there’s just a disappointing sadness; ‘It’s what
happens when they turn,’ he says matter of factly, ‘They get so full of
themselves that they lose sight of right and wrong. They need to win no matter
what; to prove their point at all costs.’ He pauses, as though trying to find
some moral to the story and if he has one I can’t wait to hear it.

‘At
least my copper got promoted out of the area.’ He says sympathetically, ‘If he
was still here he’d come after me, right enough, just to show who’s in
control.’

I
nod my understanding. ‘But killing?’ I still can’t believe it.

‘Ye
putting the police on a pedestal Davy, when the only difference between them
and the people they serve is they get to wear a uniform which gives them access
all areas. It’s mad innit?’ he adds, ‘Look at me - most people cross the road
to avoid me but put me in that uniform and they’ll let me walk straight into
their homes.’

He’s
right.

‘But
there’s more Davy. This copper - MacIntyre, ye say? He came back to the bar the
next night, trying tae provoke someone into saying somethin’ bad about ye.’I
look at him, waiting. ‘They didn’t, like,’ he reassures me. ‘But he had a
different photo this time. It was a photo of Malkie Clements.’

My
heart quickens. I didn’t even know Malkie’s surname. ‘How de ye know Malkie?’

Brad
shrugs. ‘When I came out of Saughton they put me in the same bail hostel as him
‘cos my missus wouldn’t take me back. I was there for three weeks. Malkie was a
rent boy…..’ he adds for my benefit. Brad looks at me as though he’s trying to
work something out; either that or he’s trying to hold back a fart.

‘I
don’t have a problem with folk who sell sex, for fucksake!’ I remind him. Brad
reddens, holding up his hand in mitigation, ‘Fair enough! Fair enough! Thing
is, this copper was asking if we’d seen ye together. Well of course we all said
no, we had to whether it was the truth or not - how could we say we’d seen you
together when we’d told ‘im the night before we didn’t even know ye? So the
question was pointless in way.’

‘Good
thinkin’,’ I nod.

‘Only
next thing Daz strolls in, cocky like, and when he gets asked this same
question he turns round an’ says yeah, he’s seen ye both together loads o’ times.’

‘Lying
bastard!’ I shout, ‘I only met him a couple o’ days ago!’ I punch the arm of
the settee with my fist. ‘It’s a set up! Daz was givin’ that copper a blow job
the other day.’

‘No
way!’ Brad finally looks shocked.

‘Yes
fuckin’ way.’ I tell him about what I’d heard in the toilets under Dean Bridge.
About my subsequent run-in with MacIntyre in the cells.

‘Christ,
Davy,’ Brad says quietly, ‘Now I know why the copper wants tae get ye out o’
the picture. Ye shouldnae o’ told him that you’d seen them.’

‘I
know that now!’ I snap, wishing like hell I could turn the clock back. We sit
in broody silence. Still, something bothers me. ‘I don’t get it,’ I say,
thinking aloud,

‘MacIntyre
is trying to frame me for Malkie’s murder, and I can see that Daz will do
whatever MacIntyre asks of him to keep on his good side. But how the hell did
MacIntyre know I’d been at the hostel in the first place?’

Brad
looks smug. ‘That’s what I’m getting’ to,’ he says, ‘Daz told him.’

‘But
how did
he
know?’

‘Because
Malkie phoned
him
.’ He says this slowly, giving me time to keep up, ‘I
was there when he took the call.’ He rubs his eyelids with the heel of his
palms.

‘We
were in the bookies. Daz had just placed a bet when he gets this this call.
“Alright, Malkie, Man,” he says, you know, the way how junkies let on to each
other. He nods a lot then he finishes the call. “Mate o’ mine’s got some gear
if ye fancy it,” Daz says to me only I’m like “Na, yer alright, Mate.” The
horse race is due to start in five minutes but he doesn’t want to watch it any
more. “Gotta go” he says and he’s off, faster than the nag I’d put my beer
money on come to think of it… Christ, when I heard Malkie was dead I thought
Daz might o’ done it at first but he’s a lanky streak o’ piss and it didn’t
make sense.’

I
start to join up the dots. ‘So he goes round to Malkie’s. Malkie’s so chuffed
that I’ve given him this gear he can’t wait to brag only Daz knows that
information is worth something. He owed MacIntyre money - it’s what they were
arguing about in the toilets.’ Information about me has a currency; enough to
maybe wipe out his debt with MacIntyre.

Brad’s
nodding: ‘So he phones MacIntyre and lets him know you’re dealing at the
hostel, gives him Malkie’s name to prove he’s not making it up.’

Put
like that it all makes perfect sense.

‘Kin’
‘ell Davy,’ Brad exhales slowly, ‘if this guy hates ye so much, why does he no’
just kill ye?’

I
sure as hell don’t know the answer to that.

Brad
offers to stay over and I’m in no position to refuse, I mean, why the hell
would I? He’s a brick shithouse right enough, hardly inconspicuous, but his
bulkiness is reassuring. It’s the kind of build that naturally intimidates
people. He lives on a bad scheme yet has never had any bother; walks home all
hours yet has never been jumped. His stomach may be flabby and hang over the
waistband of his jeans but you know if you punched him there you’d still break
your wrist. Besides, it feels good not being on my own, with only my thoughts
to brood over. Brad coils into the settee using his jacket as a pillow. He
doesn’t look at all comfy. I turn out the light and hunker down into my
sleeping bag. The room is draughty and I switch the gas fire on and lie in
front of it, but that just accentuates the chill settling into my bones.

The
security lighting from the multi-story car park across the road fills the room
with a yellow glare. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, my eyes burning.

‘If
I hadn’t gone to Jude’s place she and the twins would never have been killed,
and if I hadn’t got Malkie involved he’d still be alive too. I’m fucking up
people’s lives.’

‘Not
you.’ Brad answers sleepily. ‘That prick.’

Then
something occurs to me: ‘I could be putting you in danger.’

‘Ach,
I put myself in danger the moment I took my first breath. Dinnae worry yersel’
about me.’

Given
the past seventy-two hours, how can I do anything but?