Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (24 page)

Brad’s right. I can’t
go charging round to Daz’s place and strip him of his manky clothes without
giving him a cast iron guarantee he’ll be safe from MacIntyre.

And
I can’t give him that.

I’m
going to have to make him safe first, and that will take time, time I don’t
have. I’ve arranged to meet Paul, he’s coming to the hideout after his shift –
I can hardly keep him at arm’s length when he’s putting his life on the line
for me. My phone rings and I answer distractedly, ‘What?’ I snap.

‘Charming!’
It’s Candy. I hadn’t looked at the caller display as so few people have my
number I can virtually predict who it’s going to be – Brad, Ken or Marcus and
occasionally Paul with an update. I’d completely forgotten Candy was the reason
I’d asked for a new
pay as you go
in the first place.

‘Sorry!’
I splutter, ‘I didn’t know it was you!’

‘I
should hope not!’ she jokes. She seems to have forgiven me for being so bolshie
with her on the phone the other day. Maybe things aren’t so grim between us
after all.

‘That
cop been round again?’ I ask her. I know, I just can’t help myself.

A
pause. ‘No. Look, I’ll ring you if he comes round OK?’

‘Fine.’

‘Dad
says the police aren’t looking for anyone else, though.’

‘He
would.’ I murmur.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing.’
Sigh. If we’ve a future together I need to be able to trust her, so I decide to
be as frank as I can: ‘I’m pulling together evidence that will clear my name,
Candy, prove it wasn’t me who committed the murders.’

‘What
evidence have you got?’

How
do I explain everything is hanging on a smackhead’s spunky top? I start from
the beginning, explaining how this will discredit MacIntyre and give us the
evidence needed to persuade Police Complaints to put him under the microscope
and even make him do a DNA test. ‘Once that goes on record,’ I tell her, ‘It
can be cross matched with the blood found on the knife used to kill Lorella and
Marcia.’

The
line goes so quiet I have to ask Candy if she’s still there.

‘Jee.
Sus. Christ. Davy!’ she blurts when I’ve finished. ‘You should have told me!’

‘But
what was the point? Ye Da’s made his mind up about me and I was worried he was
going to poison ye against me too.’ I admit.

‘Aye,
that’d be right.’ She retorts, ‘He’s never liked a single one of my boyfriends,
do you really think that I GIVE A SHIT?!’ She shouts the last bit which I guess
is for his benefit and the fact she’s doing it to reassure me makes me smile.
That and the fact she referred to me as her boyfriend. I’d do a cartwheel only
my life is already freewheeling out of shape.

‘Anyway,
by the sounds of it this bastard’s about to be nailed which puts you in the
clear.’

‘Not
quite,’ I explain, ‘first I need to get my hands on Daz’s clothes and for all I
know he or his missus could be throwing them into a washing machine as we
speak.’

‘Assuming
they have one.’ Candy reminds me.

‘I
know!’ I say impatiently, ‘So they use the local launderette instead! Either
way until I have the clothes Daz was wearing the day I saw him and MacIntyre
under the Dean Bridge I can’t take anything for granted. Ken’s taken Brad round
to Daz’s flat; they promised they’d call me when they have any news. In the
meantime I’ve got to find someplace he’ll be safe.’

‘Is
there anything I can do, Davy?’

Unless
she knows of a safe house where I can hide a junkie and his gormless wife then
I doubt it. ‘Nut,’ I say quickly, ‘if you get involved you could be putting
yourself in danger.’ Even more danger than she’s already in just by knowing me.

Candy
sighs. ‘That’s what Dad says.’

‘He’s
right about
that
,’ I tell her, though it pains me to say it.

‘Davy,
I-’ The door entry system buzzes, I look at the screen to see Paul’s face
staring back.

‘I’ve
got tae go Candy.’ I say, more swiftly that I want to, ending the call.

Paul
looks around at the cluttered settee and sleeping bag, the microwave in the
kitchenette with used Pot Noodle pots towering beside it, the plug-in heater
and old newspapers in the corner.

‘So
this is how a fugitive lives.’ He jokes.

He’s
carrying a large brown envelope in his hand which he passes to me without
comment. I open the flap and peer into it at first, fearful of what I might
find. Paul decides to help me out: ‘I’ve been taking photos of MacIntyre all
week.’ He reassures me. ‘Each time we’ve had a shift together and he’s asked me
to stay in the car while he pays someone a visit I’ve taken a shot of him,’

I
pull three 8x10 photos out of the envelope. They are poor quality, blurred,
‘obviously I had to take the photo through glass,’ Paul says defensively, ‘and
I could hardly ask him to pose and smile, could I?’ Even so there is no
mistaking MacIntyre’s fat ugly mug.

He’s
in a different location in each photograph, talking to or shaking the hands of
a different man in each one. In the first photo he’s talking to Jimmy the
Bookmaker and Jimmy looks like he’s raging. ‘S’after I paid him a visit.’ I
explain.

In
the next photo MacIntyre’s walking into a night club on Lothian Road. It’s
early evening, before the punters have finished gelling their hair and rubbing
on fake tan. ‘That’s Craig Dunstall,’ Paul informs me, ‘he owns that club and a
wine bar along the road. Fairly harmless,’ he adds, ‘passes off fake cigarettes
as the real thing, reckon MacIntyre is in on the scam.’

The
third photograph makes me look up at Paul questioningly. ‘I know this place,’ I
say to him confidently, ‘and I know that man too.’

‘Ye
can fuck right off, pal.’

Tam
scowls as he finishes buttering a morning roll, slapping bacon onto it before
squeezing the life out of the brown sauce bottle like he has me by the throat.
The customer he’s serving casts a sly glance in my direction, sensing it’ll
kick off when he’s gone. He’s right. Tam waves away the man’s offer of money
before walking him to the door and holding it open.

OK,
so I misjudged his reaction. I wasn’t exactly expecting him to roll out the red
carpet but I thought he’d at least be curious as to why I’ve come to see him. I
turn to go; I can’t risk staying where I’m not wanted. Tam glares at me then
slams the door shut before I reach it, turning the
Open
sign to
Closed
.

‘Second
thoughts,’ he snarls, ‘
you
can stay!’ he turns the lock then pockets the
key. His eyes are bulging and there’s a vein throbbing on each temple that
can’t be at all healthy. Anger pours off him in waves.

‘Tam,’
I say urgently, trying my best not to escalate his temper. ‘we need to talk.’ I
hold my arms out in a semi-begging gesture.

‘Nae
chance, Pal.’ He barks, pulling a business card from under the front of the
till then waving it at me. ‘But I’ll keep ye here till the cops come.’ He pulls
his mobile from his apron pocket then reads the phone number on the card.

‘I’m
not a killer, Tam!’ I shout, moving towards him with my arms still
outstretched. ‘Whatever he’s told you, whatever that cop claims I’ve done, I’m
not a killer!’

Tam
raises his eyes to the heavens like he’s dealing with a consummate liar – or a
moron.

‘It’s
on the fuckin’ news, Davy!’ he splutters, tapping the numbers with his index
finger. ‘s’all over the papers too, ye wanted for five fuckin’ murders.’

‘Not
me!’ I shout, inching closer. Tam’s got balls, I’ll give him that. To call the
cops in front of me takes some doing, and stare me down while he’s doing it.
Mind you, so does taking his phone. He a big fella, even if the cause of it is
too many pies. But I’m going to have to take it if I’m to stay out of jail.

‘The
cop who came here,’ I say to him, ‘what did he threaten you with?’

Tam
eyes me suspiciously.

‘You’re
no’ a grass, Tam.’ I say reasonably, ‘Don’t do anything you’d regret.’ I reach
forward while we glare at each other, knocking the phone out of his hand. The
back breaks off it as it hits the floor and as Tam tries to reach for it I kick
it beneath the counter.

‘Ye
little fucker!’ Tam splutters, rubbing the space between his elbow and his shoulder.
‘Ye kicked me fucking arm!’

‘I
didnae!’ I yell back, ‘I wiz going for the phone, same as you!’ he stares at me
like I’m a mad man then I realise that’s exactly what I am.

‘Tam,’
I sigh, ‘There’s a cop outside in the car, man, if that make’s ye feel better.
It was him brought me here. He’ll vouch for me, but then I need tae talk tae ye
about the cop that came to see ye.’

He
walks to the window and looks outside. Paul sees him looking and offers a timid
wave causing Tam to tut and turn his back on him. ‘He’s no’ the one been coming
here.’ Tam states, jerking his thumb in Paul’s direction.

‘I
know that Tam,’ I say patiently, breathing out as I speak. He’s calmer now,
willing to hear me out at least. ‘The cop who’s been coming here is a bad man.’
I tell him. ‘Paul – the cop in the car outside - is trying tae help me.’

‘You’re
a serial killer, Davy. How do I know the kid in the car isn’t some accomplice
going to come in after you’ve murdered me and clear up the mess?’

‘If
I was going to kill ye Big Man, believe me I’d o’ done it by now,’ I say
sourly. I look down at my hands, turning them over so my palms can be seen.

‘There’s
no blood on these hands, Tam,’ I tell him. ‘I’m a victim in this too. He killed
my aunt.’ Jude’s face flashes across my vision and I have to blink several
times to be sure she’s not real.

‘He
killed my fuckin’
aunt
.’ I tell him again. ‘He did it to set me up; he
murdered the others to pile on the charges. I’m a dead man walking if he gets
away with it.’

‘How
do ye know he did it?’ Tam asks.

I
tell him my story, conscious that Paul is sat outside in full view of MacIntyre
should he pass here on his rest day. I try to stick to the facts, ignoring the
stabbing pain every time I mention Jude’s name. When I am done Tam pulls a tea
towel from the counter top and dabs at his forehead.

‘He
tried to make out I knew where ye was.’ He says simply. ‘Reckoned I’d be sent
down for aiding and abetting a killer.’ Tam pauses, ‘He said Jamie would go
into care and everyone knows how badly the disabled ones are treated.’ He looks
as though he’s going to cry.

‘He’s
been calling in for backhanders ever since. Hundred quid every coupl’a days.’
Tam looks ashamed, ‘I didn’t know ye hadn’t done it, kid, I’d only just taken
ye on, I didn’t really know ye, did I?’

‘Disnae
matter,’ I reassure him. ‘The important thing is that we’ve got evidence on him
now. Or at least we’re getting some.’ I correct myself, terrified of tempting
fate. ‘He can’t hold anything over you any more, Tam, you and the wee one are
safe. Besides, ye did nothing wrong, did ye? Jist hold in there for a while
longer, OK?’

Tam
nods. His face is calmer now, the veins in his temple no longer throbbing.

‘And
if he comes in again?’

‘Jist
act like I’ve never been here.’ I tell him quickly, reaching under the café
counter to rescue the component parts of his mobile. The screen has a jagged
crack running diagonally from top to bottom. I turn it over quickly to check
the battery’s not dislodged before sliding the back of the phone into place.
When I turn it over I press the ‘on’ button and thankfully the screen saver
jumps into view, though Jamie and his wheelchair have been sliced in two by a
black bolt of lightning. Sheepishly I hand the phone to Tam.

‘Like
ye’ve never been here, right enough,’ he says sarcastically.

‘Jist
give him whatever he wants Tam, he mustn’t find out you’ve seen me. Trust me,
ye don’t want tae get on the wrong side of him.’

Tam
goes to the counter and opens the till. He counts out several notes which I
know will be the entire day’s takings. He holds the money out to me. ‘Ye must
be running low, Davy,’ he says kindly, ‘It won’t get ye far but it’ll give ye a
head start. If things don’t pan out ye gonna need to get away – and fast.’

I
place both hands in my pockets so he can’t force me to take his cash. ‘I dinnae
want money Tam,’ I say truthfully, ‘I could have run when all this first
happened but I’d never have been able to come back and anyway, why should I be
the one to be forced to leave? If I run now I’ll look guilty and I’m not giving
that bastard the satisfaction.’

Someone
chaps at the door and we turn to see Paul peering in anxiously. He jabs at his
watch with his index finger. ‘I need tae go, Tam.’ I say hurriedly, moving
towards the door and waiting while he unlocks it.

‘What
the fuck did ye do?’ Tam calls out, ‘I mean, tae make this bastard hate ye so
much?’

If
only I knew the answer to
that
.

As
I climb into Paul’s car my pocket vibrates alerting me to an incoming text.
It’s from Brad:

One shit fe brains
junkie and his scuzzy clothes in the back of the car. Julies cheesing cos she
thinks shes goin on a mini break. Kens bringing them to hideout but will need
minding round the clock.

‘We’ve
got Daz’s clothes!’ I say to Paul. ‘How fast can ye boss get them tested?’

The
superintendent overseeing the murder enquiry is one of Gus’s inside men and has
already been primed that Daz’s clothing is a crucial chain of evidence required
to topple MacIntyre.

‘Normally
it’s anything up to 72 hours,’ Paul answers, ‘but he’s been given clearance to
fast track anything relating to this case so my best guest would be 24 hours,
depending how quickly I get it to him.’

I
swallow my frustration. ‘I’ve got to find somewhere safe for Daz to stay. He’s
going to be next on MacIntyre’s list when it gets out he’s making a complaint
against him.’

‘Where
will you get that kind of muscle?’

‘Marcus
can get me a couple of bouncers willing to work round the clock.’ I reply, ‘I
just need to make sure we move Daz somewhere that’s out of the way.’

‘Ye
mean somewhere that MacIntyre would stick out like a sore thumb if he tried to
track him down?’

I
shake my head. ‘Somewhere Daz can’t slip out and score any gear.’

We
sit in silence as we think about this.

‘We’re
fucked, then.’ Paul says, deflated.

I’m
having none of it. ‘Nut. There’s a fella named Les Mahago, works fe Gus McEwan.
He looks after all his rental properties. Gus told me I only have to ask and
Les will help me.’

Paul
nods approvingly. It amazes me that for someone who was so up his own arse when
we met he’s taken to working outside the law easy enough. I don’t say this to
him now, of course.

‘Shall
I drop you there before I go and pick up Daz’s clothes?’ Paul offers. I nod
gratefully, giving him the directions.

We’re
so close to proving MacIntyre’s guilt and it all rests on the word of a
feckless smack head.

What
can possibly go wrong?