Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (20 page)

If
the police know where I am they’ll just pick me up,
I remind myself,
it’s
not like I’m dangerous or anything.

Except
they think I’ve killed five people.

After
a couple of minutes I hear the Audi’s car lock beep and I shift my position to
check out its owner. A guy is approaching the car from the direction of
Multrees Walk, the row of high end designer shops behind the bus station. He’s
carrying a take-out coffee from Café Nero and a sandwich in a paper bag. He’s
slim built, similar height to me with a base-ball cap low over his eyes. At
least he’s on his own; I reckon I could take him if I need to but I stay still,
I’d rather he doesn’t clock me till I’ve worked out what the hell I should do.

He
puts the coffee cup on the roof of the Audi while he opens the car door. Is it
my imagination or does he glance over towards the townhouse where I’ve been
staying before he climbs in? Shit. If he knows where I’ve been hiding then I
can’t go back there. He doesn’t start the engine; instead he unwraps his
sandwich and takes a sip from his drink, all the while staring at the
building’s main entrance like a mad stalker. I look along both sides of the
road once more – none of the other vehicles are occupied and there are no
Ninja-type figures lurking on the top of neighbouring buildings.

He’s
on his own, and something about that is wrong.

I
step back from the shop window and turn to face his car so that he will see me
in his rear-view mirror. It takes a minute. He must be hungry as the contents
of his meal take up all his attention but as he uses the back of his hand to
wipe his mouth he checks himself out in the sun visor mirror and I can sense
his confusion that the fugitive he’s after is staring straight at him.

He
doesn’t seem to react and it occurs to me he could be using a Bluetooth headset
to call for back up but his lips don’t move other than to utter
fuck.
He
opens the car door, cautiously, as though frightened I’ll make a bolt for it.
He steps away from the vehicle, all the while eyeballing me. We’re staring each
other down like two cowboys in a Western when he removes his baseball cap.

‘Jesus
it’s you!’ I spit, as Kiddie Cop holds out his arms in mitigation.

‘It’s
no’ what ye think!’ he stammers, moving towards me slowly.

‘Stay
where the fuck ye are!’ I shout back warily.

‘I’m
on my own, honest!’ he yelps, his eyes darting along the pavement and at the
shop behind me.

‘I
saw ye in the car just now,’ I remind him, ‘when ye clocked me ye stayed put
for a minute, ye were calling for back up!’

‘I
canny, man!’ Kiddie Cop shouts. He’s agitated, but hours drinking lattes can do
that.

‘How
no?’ I shout back.

‘Cos
I’m no’ on fuckin duty!’

He
runs at me then but his heart’s not in it. When he’s right in front of me he
stops. I shove him a couple of times to show that I’m raging. ‘What the fuck...?’
I yell.

A
couple of workmen dismantling road work barriers look over in our direction.
Not through alarm, more that we’re in their line of vision.

‘Who
knows you’re here?’ I hiss.

‘No
one!’ Kidde Cop stammers, ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell ye! When I saw ye

there
a minute ago I thought you were setting a trap but then I figured either way
I’m fucked, so you might as well call your pals out and get it over with!’

‘There’s
no one here.’ I tell him honestly. Kiddie Cop looks uncertain.

‘The
big man?’ he asks, his eyes darting about me as though Brad was concealed
behind a lamp post.

I
shake my head. ‘He’s no’ here.’ I tell him, ‘We saw your car and agreed to
split up.’

Kiddie
Cop considers this, ‘He’s no’ gone fe reinforcements?’ he asks nervously. To be
fair, I can’t be certain. ‘I didn’t ask him to.’ I say truthfully.

Kiddie
Cop replaces the base-ball cap on his head and shoves his hands deep into the
pockets of his jeans.

‘I’m
not a killer.’ I tell him.

‘Ye
would say that though, wouldn’t ye?’

I
throw my arms in the air in frustration, making Kiddie Cop start.

‘I’m
no’ gonnae hurt ye!’ I snap but we’re so close we’re facing each other off so I
move back a couple of steps.

‘I’m
not a killer,’ I repeat, ‘I’m being set up and I need to prove it!’

I
study Kiddie Cop’s face but he’s giving nothing away. ‘I reckon you believe
me,’ I add, ‘or else you’d have had me picked up the moment you sussed where I
was.’

I
move a step closer. ‘So why didn’t ye?’

‘Look,’
It’s Kiddie Cop’s turn to look shifty, ‘can we go somewhere private? Only I
can’t be seen talking tae ye and then no’ bring ye in.’

I
look towards the Audi. ‘I’ll drive.’ I tell him.

He
starts to protest: ‘I’m no’ insured fae other drivers-’

‘-Like
that’ll make a difference if ye caught hanging out wi’ me?’ I cut in.

‘I’ll
say you kidnapped me!’

‘All
the more reason for me to be drivin’ then!’ I say finally, holding my hands out
for his car keys. He hands them to me reluctantly before climbing in the
passenger seat, just as Brad saunters round the corner on his return from the
St James’ Centre, his arms outstretched in a
What the fuck?
gesture when
he clocks us. Two seconds later my phone vibrates alerting me to an incoming
text. It’ll be Brad wondering if I’ve lost the plot; I decide not to reply till
I know the answer to
that.

Kiddie
Cop stares out of the car window as I take us down Leith Walk, tutting when I
press the Audi’s cigarette lighter. ‘I dinnae smoke,’ he says sourly.

‘Poor
you.’ I shoot back, de-pressing the button anyway to show I’m not a complete
twat.

I
turn up the radio but it’s a weather report, pretty pointless in Edinburgh as
we get rain and sun no matter what the season. I turn it back down.

‘Where
we goin?’ Kiddie Cop asks not unreasonably, but I don’t answer, I’m too busy
forming questions I want to put to him. That’s assuming he’ll play along.

I
park in the open air car park at Ocean Terminal, it’s busy with shoppers going
about their business and I reckon we’re as invisible as we can be in daylight.
Kiddie Cop relaxes, as though he’d feared I was going to take him out to The
Wisp and I’m flattered he thinks I’m capable.

I
switch off the engine.

‘OK,’
I begin pleasantly, ‘What’s ye name?’

‘Paul.’
The word is said reluctantly which gets my back up.

‘Look,
Pal, we operate in different worlds, I get that. But that doesn’t mean ye can’t
be civil. I’ve seen the way ye look at me and write me off because I live on a
scheme but I know for one thing I’d rather be in my shoes than yours.’

‘Why’s
that?’ Paul says defensively.

‘I
know
who I am and where I’m from. I’m no’ kidding myself about my
shortcomings, whereas you want to fit in to something that doesn’t even exist
anymore.’

‘What
de ye mean?’

‘Well,
your idea of crime for a start. The most notorious bank robbers work on the inside
these days, turning over bonuses the most skilled con artists can only dream
of. And accountants are just as bad, helping rich folk avoid paying tax. And as
for lawyers…..’

‘-Aye,
well, we can agree on that one at least.’ Kiddie cop smiles as he says this.

‘Right
enough,’ I concede, ‘but you come down on schemies like me like we’re
responsible for the state the country’s in. How ye can do that when you’re
working with a bent bastard, watchin’ his back like-’

‘-I’m
not,’ Paul cuts in.

‘Ah,
there ye go defending him!’

‘I’m
not!’

‘Not
what?’

‘I
don’t watch his back, Davy.’ Paul says quietly. ‘Look, can we start again?’

We
both fancy a coffee but neither of us trusts the other so we both walk over to
the Costa counter inside the shopping centre then chum each other back to the
car. Paul tells me he joined the force two years ago because his girlfriend’s
dad was a sergeant and he wanted to impress him. By the time he’d completed his
training the girl was long gone but by then being a cop was the only thing he
knew about.

‘I’ve
seen her dad a coupla times since,’ he adds, ‘she’s married to a banker now.’

‘It’s
not what I thought it would be though,’ he says cautiously, ‘I suppose I
watched too many episodes of
The Bill
when I was growing up but I thought
I’d be part of a community, someone people could turn to in a crisis but is
doesn’t work that way. The public don’t trust us, and career criminals take the
piss. We’re not all like MacIntyre, though, ye know,’ he says defensively when
he sees my expression, ‘but, yeah, there’s a lot get worn down by it.’

He
removes the lid from his latte before blowing across it though the sound comes
out like a sigh.

‘Even
the officers I respect tell you to give up thinking you can make a difference.

Turns
out we’re no better than a fuckin’ contract cleaning company. In, out, wiping
up the mess.’

‘Ye
dinnae even do that well.’ I throw in, thinking of Candy after the robbery.

‘You’re
welcome.’ Paul throws back.

‘Look,
that’s all very well.’ I tell him, ‘Ye made a career mistake. Mebbe’s you
should have gone into social work instead.’ I say irritably, ‘I’m not being
funny like, but what’s this got to do with MacIntyre, or me for that matter?’

‘I
know MacIntyre’s bent.’

‘Well,
woopy-fuckin’-do, tell me something I don’t already know.’

‘Aye,’
Paul says solemnly, ‘but I can prove it.’

Beneath the bluff
and bullshit there’s something about Paul that I like. I think in different
circumstances we could have been friends. Maybe I’m drawn to him because he
holds a key to my freedom, either way I’m listening.

‘MacIntyre’s
been taking money from local businesses.’ Paul states matter of factly.

‘How
do ye know?’

‘Because
I’m in the car when he collects his payments.’

‘Who
does he take money from?’

‘Older,
mebbe more dubious businesses in the town that have been trading as long as
he’s been in uniform. Where it pays for him to turn a blind eye.’

‘Like
the betting shop?’ I ask. ‘I used to work in the café next door and I saw him
slip in once while he was in uniform, when he came out and saw me watching him
he looked like he’d been caught stoning his granny. I’ve got proof he gets a
back hander from them every week.’

‘Aye.’
Paul nods. ‘I have the names of other businesses he’s on the take from too, and
the days and dates he’d go to them.’

He
pulls out a notebook from his jacket pocket, opens it at a certain page then
hands it to me.

There
are row after row of entries, names and dates, all neatly recorded. ‘You wrote
this?’ I ask suspiciously, I’ve never seen a man write as neat. Paul reddens as
he nods.

‘Why
go to all this trouble?’ I ask him.

‘I
had to be sure at first that I wasn’t imagining it, or that it wasn’t just a
series of isolated incidents.’ Paul laughs, as though reminiscing about happier
times: ‘He was always full of excuses at first, “Och, I’ve te call in on so and
so, they think they’ve had an intruder,” or “So and so’s getting crank calls
again,” only it was never ending, the number of people he had to call on to
reassure, and you know yourself he’s a mean spirited bastard.’

‘Aye,
right enough.’ I agree.

I
scan down Paul’s meticulous handwritten list, ‘Jeezo,’ I say in admiration,
‘you’ve even logged the free dinners he gets from the kebab shop,’

‘It’s
hard to miss.’ Paul explains, ‘He comes out with shedloads o’ food and not once
puts his hands in his pocket.’

‘Did
you eat any of it?’ I ask, remembering what Mo told me.

‘Nah,
he’s the reason Statins were invented, I’m strictly a ham salad man.’

I
look back at the notebook. ‘So why bother?’

‘I
had to do something to keep meself busy.’ He shrugs, ‘He wouldn’t let me go in
any of the places with him. He said I had to stay in the car. I suppose that
was the final straw, whatever excuses I’d been making for him, I couldn’t
ignore the fact him not wanting me around was putting both our jobs on the
line.’

‘And
he never caught ye recording his comings and goings?’

‘Nut.’
Paul shakes his head proudly, ‘I used my phone, logged every activity onto my
calendar, he thought I was texting my girlfriend. He was glad of it really; he
knew I wouldn’t mind being left so often if I had something to do.’

‘How
long you been doing all this?’

‘Since
I got transferred here, about eight months ago. I’m sure I don’t know the half
of it. We’d be paired up on a shift but I’d go out to the car park in time to
see him drive off. I covered for him,’ Paul looks sheepish as he admits this,
‘I thought he was just taking the piss out of me, making his point – that he
didn’t want to be saddled with a probationer. I never said anything to anyone,
didn’t want to rock the boat.’

‘What
were you planning to do with all this?’ I hold his note book aloft.

Paul
looks thrown, ‘I dunno, I hadn’t really thought that one through.’

‘You’re
not going to keep it to yourself though, eh?’

‘No.
No, I was intending to hand it in, though to be truthful I wasn’t sure who I
can trust. Then you came along.’

‘What
about me?’

‘I
saw the way he treated ye,’ he holds his hands up to stop my obvious question,

‘Wait!
You’ve got to put this into perspective,’ Paul shrugs, ‘he treats everyone like
that, like…’

‘...Like
you’re an enemy of the fuckin’ state.’ I interrupt.

Paul
nods, ‘Aye, right enough. We all do, to a certain extent though,’ he admits,
‘sometimes we keep score, ye know, on quiet nights, who can make the most
arrests, who can come up with the most charges, who we can wind up, but it’s
mostly harmless,’

‘Now
you’re talking like them.’ I say harshly.

Paul
blushes. ‘You belong to a gang,’ he reminds me, ‘you know how it works.’

‘It
doesn’t work like
that
,’ I say sharply, ‘besides, we don’t pretend to be
something we’re not.’

‘Listen,’
Paul throws his arms wide, ‘You asked me a question, I’ve answered it. Ye canny
greet if ye don’t like the answer.’

He
has a point.

‘Look,’
Paul says, ‘I know he beat you up that time. I mean, I’d have had to have

been
stupid not to notice that ye left the cells with a limp ye didn’t have on the
way in.’ he explains, ‘and I can’t turn a blind eye to that. Christ Davy, that
was the reason I came with him when he took you home, I didn’t want you to be
alone with him…What I’m saying is that if you want to make a complaint about
him the notes I’ve made in this book will discredit him. I know it’s probably
not much use to you given…everything else, but you deserved to be treated
better and you weren’t.’

I
don’t know what to say so I concentrate on the book, flicking though the pages,
stopping at random to see any changes in MacIntyre’s pattern. Page after page
of day, date, and times. Paul must be verging on OCD the amount of detail he’s
put into this. I turn to the first page, started when Paul transferred to
Lothian and Borders before the police regions merged and became Police Scotland.
Christ, he’d only been in the job a couple of weeks when he saw that things
weren’t right.

And
then my eye catches the final entry.