Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (23 page)

‘Where’s
this cop based?’ he asks, ‘What rank is he?’, it’s as though a switch has been
flicked and Gus is back in his default setting, weighing up the pros and cons
of a job before agreeing to take it on. He asks a series of rapid fire
questions about the night of Jude’s murder: where I was standing, what did I
touch, who saw me leave, as though trying to trip me up.

‘I
didn’t fuckin’ do it if that’s what you’re getting at!’ I hiss, the single malt
making me bold.

‘So
ye fuckin’ say, Son,’ He hisses back, ‘but ye no’ givin’ me much tae go on!’

‘There’s
a probationer cop come forward, based at the same station as the bent one,
partnered him more often than not.’ I see a flicker of interest light up behind
Gus’ poker straight face, ‘he’s kept a record of all MacIntyre’s backhanders
over the last year. Names, addresses,dates, all in a notebook.’

‘How’s
he know they’re backhanders?’

‘OK,
he doesn’t. But without explaining the reason MacIntyre drives them to
addresses where he’s promised to look in on someone only Paul – that’s the
probationer – mustn’t go in with him, makes him sit in the car. Five minutes
later he comes back out, says nothing about it. ‘S’all in his notebook. Same
people, week after week, month after month. How’s tha’ no’ dodgy?’ I ask.

‘Can
ye get me the notebook, Son?’

My
bowel twinges. ‘I can get you a copy.’ I say bravely.

Gus
tips back his head and laughs. ‘Ye right tae not trust anyone, Son. I dinnae
blame ye fae that, but if ye want me tae help ye I’m gonny need more than the
say-so of a laddie on the run.’

I
think about it. ‘What if I get Paul to come and show you this book? Anywhere
you like, of course.’

‘Of
course,’ Gus mimics.

‘Mr
McEwan,’ I say seriously, ‘Without your help I’m going to go down for this, and
I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘Ye
think you’re the only innocent man been sent tae jail, Son?’ he growls harshly
and I know I’ve misjudged him. I sit up straight in my chair.

‘I
got you all wrong.’ I tell him matter of factly, ‘My auntie and her prozzie
mates are dead, a wee Ned and his case worker were killed in the hostel he was
staying in. These are ordinary people. Not one fucking thing about them was
special ‘cept they had the bad karma of knowing me. They weren’t killed in
anger or because of something they’d done; they were murdered in cold blood by
a cop who wants to put me away for a very long time.’

I
get to my feet. ‘JESUS!’ I yell, ‘THIS HAPPENED ON THE STREETS OF YOUR CITY
GUS, THE CITY THAT THINKS YOU GIVE A DAMN!’ I’m shouting at the top of my lungs
but not one drinker turns to stare at us. A gorilla in a lounge suit and ear
piece appears at the bar’s doorway but I’m already on my way. ‘Ye know, I’m
outta here!’ I say for the benefit of the room, ‘I’m choosy about the company I
keep!’

I
walk towards the exit but instead of dragging me through it the gorilla blocks
my way, holding out his hand like Kanute at the sea.

‘Ye
dinnae leave till Mr McEwan says ye can leave.’ And when I turn round sullenly
to glare at Gus he is watching me with an amused look on his face.

‘Pick
up your dummy and come sit the fuck back down,’ he says pleasantly but there’s
ice in his eyes and I know when to cash in my chips. I return to our table,
slowly like, to make my point.

‘There’s
a Superintendent on my team,’ Gus states matter of factly, ‘amongst others. I
could get him to make a few enquiries, get your mate assigned to the murder
squad so his interest doesn’t look out of place. He can lean on the people who
would mebbe have blocked the boy’s path.’

‘What
will that do?’ I demand rudely, I hardly dare hope this is the breakthrough
I’ve been looking for so I need Gus to spell it out for me.

‘It’ll
give your friend a chance to gather evidence without getting people’s backs
up,’ he explains, ‘and it’ll put this cop – MacIntyre?’ I nod quickly, ‘he’ll
go under a microscope the likes of which he’ll never have experienced before.’

‘Is
your Superintendent from that station?’

‘Why?’

‘What
if he can’t wield that kind of power over officers in another division?’

Gus
laughs like he’s talking to a child, a not very bright one at that. ‘What do I
do for a living, Son?’

Questions
like this terrify me. There is no correct answer without causing offence. I
think of the townhouse I’m currently staying in. ‘You’re a property developer?’
I say meekly.

‘Right
enough, Son.’ Gus indulges me. ‘And more senior officers choose McEwan Homes to
live in than any other house builder in Scotland.’ He says proudly. ‘For some
it’s the preferential rates that attract them; for others, further up the
greasy pole I might add, let’s just say no money changes hands at all.’

My
head is swimming. I’m finally going to get the help of someone senior in the
police, but only because they’re on the take from the most powerful crook in
the city.

‘When
ye got big pockets like mine, Son, ye no’ short o’ folk tagging along fae the
ride.’ Gus adds as though reading my mind.

‘We’re
gonnae have to play this carefully, your man’s got to find some serious
evidence to nail this bastard, dae ye think he’s up for it?’ I swallow hard,
brushing aside the look of panic on Paul’s face when I asked if he’d help me.

‘Aye,’
I feign a confidence I don’t feel. ‘He’s up for it.’

‘Davy,
It’s me.
Paul
.’

‘What
is it?’

‘The
knife we found at the murder scene…the one that killed your aunt’s...
friends
...’

‘What
about it?’ I ask urgently. There’s something about the tone of Paul’s voice
that has me on alert.

‘The
report’s just come back from the lab...’ he pauses, then seems to begin a row
with himself about calling me, ‘Jesus I shouldn’t be telling you this…’

‘You
know you should!’ I remind him, ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have bothered calling…’

‘Shit.’
Paul’s voice is disembodied, as though he’s walking around a force nine gale,
‘It’s just that I know what you’re like, you’ll go off like a rocket-’ he sighs
into the phone.

‘-Just
say it! Whatever it is, for fucksake!’

‘The
forensics came back on the knife,’ Paul falters, ‘that’s what I’m trying to
tell you.’

‘And?’
I bark.

‘They
found unidentified blood on the blade. Only a small amount….’

‘I
don’t understand….’

‘The
girls had the same blood type,’ Paul explains, ‘they were identical twins, it’s
not that uncommon, yet the volume of blood found on the blade wasn’t consistent
with two arterial bleeds.’

‘What?
You’re gonnae have tae spell it out for me.’

‘When
an artery is cut it forms a pattern as it sprays out, however the pathologist
reports that there was other blood present, its pattern not consistent with an
arterial spray,’ Paul pauses for breath, ‘Sorry to tell you like this, over the
phone,’ he says quickly, ‘Only I thought you’d want to know this as soon as
possible.’

‘I’d
want to know what?’ I prompt. I still don’t get it.

‘The
pathologist has says it’s not unusual, when the killer attacks someone so
ferociously, they end up cutting themselves.’

‘Jesus
Paul, what the hell are ye telling me?’

‘There’s
unidentified blood on the knife.’ He says patiently, ‘It’s layered between each
of the girl’s samples, so it had to be either another knife victim – and as you
know yourself, there wasn’t one – or the killer.’

The
penny drops: ‘MacIntyre cut himself when he killed them.’ I say quietly.

It’s
too much to take in. ‘Let me get this right, you’re saying…..’

‘I’m
saying MacIntyre’s tripped himself up after all.’

At
last, this is the break I’d been waiting for.

Brad
and Ken look up at me as I end the call. We’re sitting in Ken’s Skoda, waiting
for the owner of a rival cab firm to return to his car. The house we’re outside
is on a new scheme in Niddrie, the gardens are all identical squares, the
paintwork fresh and bright. Not all the homes are occupied yet but the
residents of number 27 moved in a month back. I keep my eyes trained on the
upstairs window as I tell them Paul’s news.

‘Jesus,
that’s massive Davy,’ Brad says.

‘So
what happens now?’ Ken asks, ever the practical one.

‘Someone’s
opening the bedroom curtains,’ I say quickly. We turn our attention to the
maisonette’s upstairs window. A woman looks out onto the street below but she
doesn’t see us. She’s around Mum’s age with brown hair; if she’s wearing
clothes they’re flesh-coloured. She opens the window slightly and a stream of
smoke seeps out followed by a hand holding onto a cigarette. She is talking to
someone, her head turning slightly to look back into the room. A man appears at
the window behind her, he pushes her hair to one side to kiss her neck. ‘That
him?’ I ask Ken.

‘Aye.’

It’s
hard to get a proper look, all that is visible is the top of his head as he
works his way along the woman’s shoulders.

‘I
could have him.’ Brad states confidently and none of us doubt it.

‘We
said no violence,’ I remind him, ‘only the threat of violence.’

A
small child walks along the road dragging a broken scooter. One of the wheels
have come off it but every few steps he climbs back on to see if another has
grown in its place. Each attempt to ride it is met with frustration and he
kicks the other wheel as though by being in place the loss of the other one is
all the more annoying. He turns in at the gate of the house we are watching and
flings his toy onto the path in disgust. The woman sees him first and the sight
of him makes her snap to attention, wafting the man away from her like a stinky
fart.

‘Poor
kid,’ I mutter, remembering the men that lingered after screwing Mum. I used to
think they were old fashioned sorts, equating sex with care, pawing at her
afterwards like there was something between them.
‘They’ll have paid extra
fae that,’ Jude told me once, ‘some crave the intimacy even more than the
shag.’

The
front door opens and the man rushes out flattening his bed hair with his hands.
He passes the child on the doorstep but neither acknowledges the other.

‘He’s
not the father, then.’ I observe.

‘He’s
not the husband either.’ Ken says knowledgeably.

‘The
dirty bastard.’ Says Brad.

Two
beats and Brad’s out of Ken’s cab, two more and he’s pinning Mr Lover Man up
against his own car, holding him high enough that his feet leave the ground. I
stifle a laugh as the man pumps his legs angrily but Brad’s grip round his
throat is firm and steady and soon Lover Man runs out of steam. And oxygen.
‘What’s the hurry Pal?’ Brad asks him, ‘could ye no’ see the wee bairn needs a
hand?’

‘Or
are happy families jus’ no’ your thing?’ I throw in, still smarting. The man’s
eyes dart about wildly before resting on Ken who steps calmly from his cab.

‘Aw,
I should’a known it was you!’ he spits, ‘Can ye no’ take a joke?’

‘Making
hoax calls is funny then, is it?’ I ask him, ‘sending Ken’s drivers so far out
of town ye pick up all the local trade, spreading rumours one of his drivers is
a peado so he loses a school contract.’

Ken
watches me like he’s proud of the way I’ve turned out and is grateful I can do
this small thing for him. He’d been almost embarrassed on the phone:
‘Davy,
de ye remember I said I might have a favour to ask? Well, I’m needing yer help,
Son.’

I
turn to Ken now, ‘De ye think ye mebbe missed the joke there?’ I ask.

Ken
shakes his head. ‘No, Davy, I dinnae.’

‘I’m
sorry, Ken,’ his rival squawks, ‘I wis messing with ye, I admit, but tell ye
son an’ his mate I didnae mean anythin’ by it.’

Neither
Ken nor I correct him though we look at each other shyly. ‘Let’s make a deal,’
Ken offers generously, ‘Ye leave ma drivers alone, ye move outta ma patch, an’
I’ll no’ tell yer wife where ye get to when she’s oot at the bingo.’

The
man’s face reddens; a quick glance at the upstairs window tells him his lover’s
been watching us, he smiles weakly up at her while nodding his head vigorously
to show his compliance. ‘A deal.’ He splutters quickly.

Back
in the car Brad is basking in the glory of roughing someone up. ‘Did ye se the
tosser’s face?’ he grins, but it’s all good natured revenge. He’d never lay a
hand on someone who hadn’t done wrong, he’s never harmed a Boy Scout in his
life.

Ken
turns to me.

‘Seems
like Gus came good on his promise then,’ he says, ‘there’s no way Paul would
have access to that kind of information without help from the higher ups.’

He’s
right, of course, but it still feels half-hearted, ‘They’re making sure no one
block’s Paul’s path, right enough, but they’re not nailing MacIntyre to the
cross either.’

‘But
you know what to do now,’ Kens says encouragingly, ‘a blood or DNA sample will
prove it.’

‘But
who’s going to sanction that against a serving officer?’ I reason, ‘Paul says
the Police Federation won’t allow it, the only evidence is my word against
his.’

Brad
tutts: ‘So no one’ll listen till ye give ‘em hard evidence like DNA, but they
canny request he takes a test without hard evidence against him?’ It’s the
longest sentence I’ve head Brad utter. Sometimes I completely underestimate
him.

‘In
a nutshell, aye.’ I agree.

‘S’a
bastard.’

Then,
‘Can ye no’ break in to his hame like?’ he asks hopefully, ‘Nick his toothbrush
or razor?’

‘Paul
says it’s not admissible in court.’

‘That’s
shite.’ Brad and Ken say in unison.

‘What’s
even more shite is that Paul remembers MacIntyre had a cut on his hand recently
but didn’t pay it any mind.’ I add. I try to imagine MacIntyre slicing his way
through Lorella and Marcia with such force that he cut into his own skin. I
don’t know how he can sleep at night. I’m surprised no one’s tried having a pop
at him the way he forces himself onto other people. And then it occurs to me.
‘The evidence I need has been right in front of me all along!’ Brad and Ken
stare at me. ‘Well put us out of our misery then!’ Ken barks.

‘Daz!
Remember, he gave MacIntyre a blow job in the toilets under the Dean Bridge.’

Brad
and Ken exchange glances. ‘He’s hardly a credible witness, Davy.’

‘I
know that,’ I say impatiently, ‘but there’ll be DNA evidence on his clothes,
you know…from MacIntyre’s spunk.’ I can hardly say it without feeling sick; the
thought of Daz having to… ‘He probably spat most of it out.’ I say to no one in
particular but Ken and Brad both see the relevance.

‘We
need his clothes, then.’ Brad says.

‘Davy,
when was this?’ Ken asks, ‘Over a weeks ago? Nearer two? There’s no way ye
gonna find anything, his clothes’ll be washed and put away long since.’

Now
it was my turn to exchange glances with Brad. ‘He’s a junkie, Ken.’ I remind
him, ‘he’s probably still wearing ‘em.’

‘So
we find him and take his clothes,’ Ken says, ‘what happens next? There still
needs to be a connection made between him and MacIntyre. Don’t you see? Daz is
going to have to make a complaint against him, tell the police MacIntyre raped
or assaulted him, offer up his clothes as evidence.’I know what’s coming next.
‘Why will Daz want to do that?’ Ken persists, ‘MacIntyre’ll make his life hell,
even more so than now. At least he gets handouts and a blind eye turned from
MacIntyre, what’s he going to get from you?’

Brad
looks at me. ‘He’ll need protection, for a start.’ He says practically.