Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (14 page)

Today is the day
I’ve to move a shipment of guns across the city. It’s also the day Ken will
slip Candy a
pay as you go
phone so I can call her, reassure her everything
will be fine again after the trauma of being threatened by an armed robber. As
well as a coward I’m now a hypocrite and I don’t know which of those shames me
more.

I’ve
had my instructions from Marcus: sit tight and he’ll be touch when it’s time.
I’m to wait in the house until I hear from him but my nerves are making me
narky. He’s told me nothing about the job – the less I know the less I can slip
up and blab to someone, which suits me fine, if there’s a cock up I don’t want
to be on the receiving end of another of his bollockings.

Brad
got up before me and nipped out to the café I saw him in yesterday to get two
carry out lattes. His face was beaming when he came back: ‘They’ve given me a
loyalty card.’ He bragged, as though being encouraged to return somewhere was a
new experience for him.

Breakfast
consists of the lattes and half a pack of my smokes each, as we listen to the
local news on a radio left behind by the builders carrying out the renovations.
Even though we’re doing this to check any progress with the investigation it
comes as a body blow to hear Jude’s name in the same sentence as
murder
victim
. The newsreader’s tone is impassive as he refers to her and the
twins in the past tense:

“Police
are continuing their investigation into the brutal murder of three prostitutes
in Leith last week. Jude Kennedy and sisters Lorella and Marcia Davies were
killed in their own home in what appears to be a motiveless attack. A man seen
leaving the premises in the early hours has yet to come forward and police are
urging him to do so. A spokesperson for Police Scotland confirms that this man,
thought to be known to the women, is a person of interest and urge him to
contact them so he may be eliminated from their enquiries.”

There’s
no mention of Malkie but the truth of it is dead junkies don’t make the news.
Being shot will have raised his profile far more than he’d ever managed during
his lifetime but even so there is little about his murder to keep the press
interested.

Brad
helps himself to another ciggie and throws one over to me which I light from
the dying embers of the one I’ve been smoking. The room is thick with tarry fog
like pubs before the smoking ban.

‘Ye
think Marcus would jist take MacIntyre out after he did that to three of his
girls.’ Brad observes reasonably.

‘Aye,
but where dis that leave me?’ I remind him, ‘I need to be sure any evidence
MacIntyre’s planted is destroyed or I could still be sent down for their
murder.’

Brad
nods, scratching himself absentmindedly. ‘But how are ye goin’ to do that? How
will ye know who to trust?’

He
has me there.

‘Listen,
I’ve got to do something later, but we could speak to the people the police
have questioned, see how bad the case is against me.’ I suggest, ‘You in?’

Brad
nods. ‘Aye,’ He finishes scratching then cocks his leg up off the settee to let
out a fart, sniffing the air as if to check its potency, ‘Ah, good one,’ he
says proudly. I kick the base of the settee and tell him he’s a dirty bastard,
while wafting the smell away with my hand. ‘So,’ he says grinning, ‘What ye
doin’ later?’

I
consider lying to him but if he’s staying around he’s going to work out that
I’m up to something.

‘Got
a job to do for Marcus.’ I say truthfully.

‘Doin’
what?’

I
shake my head. ‘Better if I don’t say.’

‘Or
ye’ll have te kill me.’ Brad laughs.

‘Jeezo,
don’t even go there.’

Brad
looks stricken by his thoughtlessness. ‘Sorry, mate.’

‘Look,
Marcus is helping me with all this,’ I point to the room we’re in and the food
by the microwave, ‘but I’ve to steal a car and take it to a job for him this
afternoon.’

Brad
whistles. ‘Are you desperate to go back inside or what?’ He looks at me as
though I’m mental. I’m beginning to wonder if I am. Maybe it would be better if
I did have a slate loose, then none of this would matter so much. Or hurt.

‘The
way my luck’s going I could end up inside for five murders I haven’t

committed,
I remind him, ‘so what difference will it make?’

Brad
tilts his head as though conceding I have a point. ‘Right enough.’ he says.

I
try to explain: ‘Look, earlier in the week, the firm where my girlfriend works
was robbed.’

‘Aye,’
Brad jerks his head in a nod, ‘I heard aboot that.’

‘The
robbers threatened her with a gun; it terrified the shit out of her.’

‘It
would.’

‘We’d
only just got together. Well, not even really together like,
you know,
but
we’d planned to go out and then the robbery happened and everything between us
changed. Her Dad’s keeping her under lock and key, I can’t even speak to her on
the phone. If I find out who did it….’

‘Be
careful, Davy.’

Brad’s
concern makes me feel better, like it’s not just me against the world. ‘Cheers,
Pal.’ I tell him.

‘I
mean it,’ He says, ‘Just go easy, eh?’

‘I
just want to….’ I pause, after everything that’s happened this week I’m not
sure exactly what I want to happen anymore, ‘…..they need to know they can’t go
round fuckin’ pointin’ guns at people…..They need to know that.’

And
this afternoon I’ll be bringing in a shipment of guns for Marcus, just because
he’s asked me to.

I
can’t face the bus. I phone Ken and ask if he’s available to drive me around
this morning while I wait for Marcus to get in touch. Ken’s been as good as his
word, carrying me about the place: ‘The cops won’t think you’re going aboot the
toon in a cab.’ he promises. This time I insist on paying the fare. As I climb
into Ken’s cab I see a pile of discarded newspapers on the passenger seat. One
paper has been folded open on the page where police have described the person
of interest they’re keen to speak to – a man with a limp. Ken sees me staring
and throws the papers into the back of the car.

‘I’m
sorry to hear about….’ He trails off mid-sentence
.

‘What
exactly have ye heard, Ken?’ I turn to look at him.

He
shrugs ‘Och, ye know, the shite ye always get after these things.’ He pauses,
as though realising the answer he’s given me is bullshit and I deserve better:
‘I heard ye wiz shaggin’ the sisters….’

‘Fucksake!
The older woman, Jude, she was a mate ‘o me Ma’s. She was my friend.’ I scrunch
my eyes tightly to block out her terrified face, the hope in her eyes when I
ran into the room.

Ken
stares at me, unwilling to be fobbed off: ‘So ye weren’t shaggin’ the sisters
then?’

‘Jude
rented a room from the girls - that’s how I knew them!’

I
shake my head in frustration. It didn’t take a genius to work out where the
rumours were coming from but even so it galled to think people could believe
this rubbish.

‘I
didn’t do it Ken,’ I say simply, ‘Ye know that don’t ye?’

‘Ye
were there though?’

I
nod. ‘Aye, but….’

‘Jeezo
Davy, do ye think that’s what the polis are about? Catching the right person?’
He smiles kindly, as though talking to someone simple.

I
splay my arms out in a helpless gesture. ‘That’s why I had to get out of the
way – I need time to clear my name.’

‘So,
what’s the plan?’

‘I
need to find out who the police have been talking to, then go and talk to them,
find out what they’ve said. I need to find people willing to speak out about
the bastard who did kill them.’

‘So
what’s the big deal? If you were there you know who did it.’

My
shoulders sag with the weight of it. ‘It was a cop. A cop who’s got it in for
me.’

Ken
doesn’t even blink. ‘How so?’

I
tell him about MacIntyre. He listens without interrupting, staying silent when
I’ve finished as though calculating worst case scenarios and plans of action.
He scratches his head absent-mindedly; several skin flakes settle on his
shoulder.

‘Ye’ll
get no help from the polis,’ he agrees, ‘I see that now. And ye can forget
trying tae make a complaint cos they won’t want to know. They won’t want some
scrote tryin’ to tell them how to do their job, interfering with their clean-up
rate. The same wee scrote they’re after pinning it on.’

Brad
and I had said as much the night before.

‘So
what are ye saying?’ I ask Ken, ‘I should contact my MSP?’

He
throws back his head and openly laughs.

‘Are
ye serious?! How long have ye got Davy? Only go te them if ye happy to spend
the next ten years in clink while they get to the bottom of it, and even then I
wouldn’t bet on the outcome. Christ Davy, even if ye spoke to someone who
believed ye they’d hate ye for bringing it to their door. This has got career
suicide smudged all over it.’

The
high midday sun shines in through the car windscreen. The interior smells of
air freshener and stale tobacco. Ken opens the windows and turns up the radio,
The Proclaimers are singing Sunshine on Leith.

‘You’re
a High Bee, then?’ I ask him, as he pulls out into the traffic.

‘Every
fuckin inch.’ Ken says with such ferocity we drive the remainder of the song in
silence.

Our
first stop is Mo’s kebab shop, the one around the corner from both mine and
Jude’s place.

‘Davy!’
Mo flings his arms wide as I enter the shop, as though he’s proud of his sweat
stained armpits and wants to show them off. I look back out onto the pavement
and put my finger to my lips. Ken’s waiting for me in his cab but I need to be
careful I’m not spotted by passers-by.

‘Come!
Come through to the back!’ Mo gestures with his arm that I’m to follow him, and
I step through a curtain of thin plastic strips into a stockroom containing
pallets of fizzy drinks piled on top of each other creating a makeshift table,
with a plastic kettle and a cup on top. Mo points towards the kettle but I
shake my head, keen to get on. He nods excitedly when I ask if he’s been
questioned by the police.

‘Zay
ask me whether I see anyone covered in blood walking down the road late Tuesday
night or Wednesday morning.’ He gushes, using a dirty tea towel to mop the
sweat from his brow.

‘And
did ye, Mo?’

‘I
say not bloody likely.’ He shakes his head as if to make his point. ‘Weekends,
yes, it’s no big deal,’ He nods so much I start to worry about whiplash, ‘but
week days, not so much.’

‘So
ye didn’t see this fella they’re talking about, the one they want to speak to?
‘Young fella with a limp?’

Mo
eyes me shrewdly, his gaze moving down to my legs. I follow his line of sight,
see that my right knee is still slightly swollen compared to my left.

He
shakes his head. ‘I didn’t see you Davy,’ he states quietly, ‘if zat’s what
you’re asking.’ I smile at him, this man who used to fuck Jude and give her
curled up donner on the house. It occurs to me that life is a series of
barters, and in the grand scheme of things there’s always someone giving and
someone taking away. Mo was kind to Jude, in his own way.

‘I
saw that bastard copper though,’ Mo says fiercely.

I
turn my attention back to him. ‘Say that again.’

‘Ze
bastard cop who took away my licence. Ze one I told you about. I saw him zat
night.’

My
heart skips a beat. ‘Mo, this is important. Where was he?’

‘Getting
into his car. It was parked at ze end of ze alley. He wasn’t wearing his
uniform but I recognise him all ze same. He drives an old beamer right?’

I
shrug my shoulders. ‘Don’t have a Scooby, Mo. Fat fucker though….looks a sly
twat?’

Mo
nods, swatting away my lack of car knowledge with his hands. ‘No bloody matter
what he drives, I saw him.’

‘Have
ye told anyone?’

Mo
carries on nodding. ‘I tell his bastarding colleagues of course! Coming in
here, asking all zeir questions, typing my answers into zeir little bastard
machines.’

‘And?’

Mo
laughs as though I’m being particularly dense, ‘Zey ignore it of course. Didn’t
type a bastard word I said.’

‘Are
ye sure ye want to do this?’ Ken throws me a wary look, as though he’s not sure
this is the best idea I’ve had but is too kind hearted to tell me outright. I
want us to drive by Jude’s place so I can see what’s going on. Holed up in my
hideout, reliant on news reports, it’s hard to get a measure of how hard the
cops are working on this; if they’re simply paying lip service or being as
thorough as they would if the murder victims were school teachers.

‘The
house was all cordoned off, ye know, with police tape all over the place. They
had a cop on the doorstep like ye see on the telly,’ Ken tells me, as though
giving me a belated running commentary will satisfy my curiosity. ‘Mind you I
think they’re just there for the TV crews, makes the rest of us think something’s
being done, even when it isn’t.’

‘So
you don’t think the cops are doin’ much?’

‘I
wouldn’t say that, I think all the routine stuff has been done, right enough.
The place was teaming wi’ detectives the next morning, uniforms turning up
every so often then going away again. I suppose they do the fetching and
carrying for the big yins. They put a screen up by the gate, so ye couldn’t see
them carrying the bodies out.’ Ken glances at me sharply, ‘Sorry, Davy.’

‘S’OK,’
I tell him, ‘Look, I know you mean well, but I’d still like to see for myself.
I won’t get out of the car, I promise, I just……..I just need to go there.’

Ken
sighs but starts the engine anyway; he knows I’m not going to change my mind.
Minutes later as we turn into the road Ken’s earlier reluctance is forgotten: