Witness (20 page)

‘Who’s JK?’

Joe Kitson. ‘What?’ Mike’s skin fizzed, his bowels loosened.

‘You heard.’

‘Oh, bloke at work, John King. I’ll prove it, shall I?’ He put his hand out. ‘Like a word with him, would you?’ Irate himself now.

‘Yeah, I would.’

Mike felt sick. He called Joe Kitson, praying the man would be quick on the uptake. Mike spoke quickly, a laugh in his voice. ‘John mate, Mike here, from work. Do us a favour, say hello to the missus, will yer? Settle a bet. I’ll tell you the rest at work tomorrow. I’ll put her on. Cheers, John.’

Vicky’s turn to look a bit sick. Mike passed her the handset.

‘Hello?’ Vicky said.

‘What’s this bet then?’ Mike could hear Joe ask.

‘Nothing really,’ she said awkwardly. ‘See you.’ Her face flared crimson as she handed Mike his phone. ‘I don’t remember you mentioning a John,’ she said, still not admitting defeat.

‘Course you do.’ Mike’s knees were weak and his heart was going like a pump hammer. ‘Worse at chess than I am. Quiet bloke.’ He grinned. ‘You daft cow.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly.

‘I should think so an’ all.’

She snatched the paper up from where he’d left it and started walking towards the kitchen. ‘Next time just bloody tell us, then.’

‘What? That I’ve got a bit on the side?’

Vicky turned and hurled the paper at him and then began to laugh. He loved her laugh, rich and dirty. He loved her. And he’d got away with it. ‘Get us a beer,’ he said.

‘Get it yourself,’ she told him. But she went to the fridge, anyway.

Oh, God. It was all going to be okay.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Zak

Z
ak gave his evidence via video link from Hull County Court. Hull was a dump. Freezing cold and nothing going on. It was by the sea and the wind blew from the east. Little said it came all the way from Siberia. With knives in it. Even the rain fell sideways. Zak’s bones hurt deep inside.

Little also told Zak it had been an important port for hundreds of years, a big trading post and a fishing port until the Cod Wars, but there were still working docks. Zak wasn’t impressed. Okay there was a marina and arcades and stuff in the town but the rest of it, the places Zak lived and worked, were minging.

Zak had been in one place for a couple of weeks, straight after they arrived from Manchester. Like a safe house with no personal stuff anywhere and alert alarms in all the rooms. From outside it just looked like all the other houses in the row. Little and Large took turns with him in the days, talking him through his new identity and what he was to tell people. At night another guy came, a minder. He stayed up all night watching the nature channel on satellite TV. He only spoke when Zak spoke to him and then never gave anything away. Like words were money and he was skint. The worst thing was no drugs, not being able to have a puff or a snort and chill out. He even had to have his cigs out in the back yard.

They let him walk Bess, always one of them following him. At first he had felt safe, a bit like the hospital but the food not so good, then he got bored and by the end of those two weeks he was close to exploding just for summat to do. Then they got him the flat, and the job. The flat was in a three-storey block. Nine flats each floor, beside a dual carriageway. Zak’s was at the back so he could hear the traffic but his view was just rooftops, rows of them. He’d a bedroom, kitchen, living room and bathroom. Low ceilings, dark carpet. He got excited thinking about decorating it, making it comfy. Never had a place of his own for more than a few weeks, and most of those just a room in a squat or a place that only the desperate would pay good money for. Then something would happen, like gatecrashers turning the place into a war zone, or kids stealing the lead piping so there was no water any more, or a shortfall in the rent and he’d be off.

Little and Large made it clear that wasn’t an option. Banged on and on about it being his responsibility, his side of the deal. Large kept saying it was his big chance, turn his life around, settle down. But it was Hull, he didn’t know anyone, he didn’t belong. He missed Manchester.

Zak asked them about other destinations but Little snapped it was witness protection not a sodding travel agency. Same with his new name. Ryan Wilson. Ryan! He hated the name. There’d been a Ryan in one of the homes, a psycho bully who robbed everyone’s stuff and had pointy, baby teeth and asthma.

But they forced him to have the name and he had to practise writing it. He told them he didn’t go in for much reading and writing but they insisted he’d need a new signature. Not being good with reading limited the jobs they could find him. In the end he started at a recycling centre: sorting glass and metal. The rubbish came in on a wide belt and the ‘operatives’ as they were called stood either side picking off items for the different crates. You had to wear full protective clothing: overalls and gloves and boots. The place was cold and the work made a right racket, the crashing of glass and the metal clanging. It stank too from the bits of old booze and food and that. You got all sorts coming on the belt. A dead dog one time, just a pup. That cut Zak up to see it.

Zak’s new life story was that he’d grown up with his mam in Wigan. ‘I don’t talk like I come from Wigan,’ he’d told Large.

‘No one over this side’ll know the difference,’ Large said, fiddling with the braces on his teeth.

Then they’d moved to Hull.

‘Why? Why would anyone come here?’

‘For work.’

‘There isn’t any.’

‘She worked for Woolies before they went bust, transferred here. Died of cancer three years ago.’ Large looked at him carefully. Zak didn’t like him peering like that. Knew he was thinking about Zak’s real mam and all that bother. What did they know? She was all he had, her and Bess. He’d been really naughty, must have, and she had to punish him. Went a bit too far, that’s all. Zak shuddered, got up and stretched.

‘Her name was Julie Wilson. You never knew your dad.’

‘You got that right.’

They began to call him Ryan and he hated it. ‘Can’t I have a nickname?’

‘Like what?’ Little laughed. ‘Fingers?’

‘Behave!’ Zak said.

‘Willie – short for Wilson.’ Little kept laughing.

Zak went outside for a fag.

‘A middle name, then?’ he asked when he got back in.

Little shook his head.

‘Why not? Does it cost more or summat?’ Zak felt like crying. He did not want to be Ryan.

They wouldn’t budge. ‘It’s all sorted now, birth certificate and all. No can do.’

Ryan Wilson had no other family and had dropped out of school, drifted about for a bit. They kept it simple.

Once Zak got settled at work, he told the rest to call him Matt, said it was his middle name. He carried on like that. Only used Ryan for the official stuff. Handy in a way: if someone called asking for Ryan he knew it wasn’t a mate. Not that he’d much to do with the others outside work, the odd kickabout with the younger ones but mostly he’d go home, take Bess out then have some scran and watch telly. Little and Large had warned him not to get too pally too soon. Keep his distance. They’d be checking up on him. So once or twice a week he’d get a call from them, or one of them would pitch up at the flat unannounced.

A couple of months after he’d started the job, he heard one of the lads bragging about some weed. Zak asked if he could get him some. It arrived the next day. Zak got home, saw to Bess, had a pot noodle then fired one up. He was catatonic by 9 p.m. Next thing, Large is on the phone, on his case. Why wasn’t he at work?

‘Migraine,’ he told him. ‘Happens now and again.’

Zak should have been happy: he had Bess, he had a warm flat, a place of his own, didn’t have to look for somewhere to crash every night. He could lock the door and keep the world out, get up when he liked at weekends, watch telly all night long if he liked. He could afford to eat three times a day. But he felt lost and lonely. Zak accepted he’d have to stay in Hull till the trial.

‘What about after?’ he asked Large.

‘It’s not that bad,’ Large told him.

‘Compared to what? When can I move?’

‘We’ll talk after the trial. Look, we’ve sorted you out: nice flat, regular work. Not easy.’

Then it was the trial. He had to be kept close, they said. It was like going back to those first two weeks with Little and Large babysitting him. They took him to a motel outside town. Bess had to go into kennels.

‘No way,’ Zak said. ‘She’s never been in kennels, she’ll hate it.’ Why couldn’t they stay at the safe house again? Why couldn’t Bess stay at the flat and them take him back there after the trial? He tried facing them down, saying he wouldn’t go ahead if they sent Bess to kennels. Little went ballistic and Large sent him out to cool down and told Zak he was on very thin ice and that protection could be withdrawn if he wasn’t fully cooperative. So they were at the Travelodge for two nights and the day in between. Adjoining rooms. There was nothing to do but drink and watch telly. Then the second night Large told him they’d an early start in the morning. His time had come.

Zak didn’t sleep much. It was hard without Bess around. When he did nod off he had dreams that woke him up again, shadows coming after him, blows landing on his back, on his arms and his belly, words raining down like stones. Chained and he couldn’t get away. Bits in his mouth and flies on his face. The dark swallowing him.

* * *

At Hull County Court he had to sit in this room with a man and talk into a monitor. They showed him the room was bare, no picture on the wall, no notices, nothing that could give anyone in the court in Manchester a clue as to where Zak was. It hit him like a thump in the guts: Carlton’s crew would be doing all they could to shut people up and what Zak was doing today was painting a massive target on his chest. That’s why he had to be poxy Ryan Wilson once he walked out again. Ryan Wilson who didn’t know Manchester much and had led a blameless if aimless life.

The usher read out the oath and Zak copied him then they played Zak’s video statement that Little and Large had cobbled together from their early interviews with Zak. It meant Zak wouldn’t have to go through it all for the prosecution. Man, it was embarrassing: he looked a mess and he kept stumbling over his words and that. It covered the basics: that he’d been in the middle of a house burglary when he’d seen Derek Carlton shoot the boy crossing the rec. That Zak knew Carlton by sight, by reputation, and had scarpered, taking his dog and the proceeds of the robbery with him.

One of the lawyers told the court that Zak had been arrested in the process of committing another burglary and had volunteered information about the murder in return for immunity from prosecution and witness protection.

Then they played more of the video, the bit where he was saying how everyone knew it was Carlton and Millins who did it and how when they were picked up someone brought the gun to Midge for safe keeping. Zak hadn’t wanted to say that but they kept on at him; that it was all or nothing and the gun was vital evidence.

He’d seen it in his head, what must have happened next: the SWAT team raiding Midge’s. Midge and Stacey pulled out of bed and cuffed. The police finding the gun. Midge getting charged then realizing he’d not seen Zak for a while and putting two and two together and coming up with Judas. Midge, who’d always given him a brew or shared a spliff, who’d fenced his stuff. Midge, who’d taken Bess to the PDSA when Zak had the pneumonia. And he had to dob him in. That was the worst of it.

The woman asked him where he’d been living last June.

‘No fixed abode,’ he said. That’s what they called it.

‘Were you employed?’

‘No.’

‘In receipt of benefits?’

‘No.’

‘You were surviving on the proceeds from your criminal activity?’

‘And begging,’ Zak agreed.

‘Were you having regular eye examinations?’

She was cracked. ‘No!’

‘So you don’t know whether your vision is impaired?’

‘I can see fine,’ Zak said, catching up. Her making out he was short-sighted: shabby.

‘Can you read the sign above the exit?’ She pointed.

Zak stalled; he could see it fine on the monitor but reading was another matter. Then the other lawyer, the prosecution guy, was up complaining as Zak said, ‘I can’t read all that good.’ And the judge called the lawyers up and they had a bit of a barney then the woman carried on. ‘We don’t know how well you see but the house was about thirty yards away. Even with good vision it may have been difficult to identify who you saw.’

‘It were easy,’ Zak said, ‘I’d know him anywhere. He wears those baggy shorts and he had a yellow wife-beater on.’

‘What?’ demanded the judge.

‘It’s a sort of vest,’ Zak said, miming the shape on himself, sketching the armholes. ‘Big pits. And it was Sam Millins’ car, an’ all.’

‘Please confine yourself to only answering those questions put to you,’ the judge said.

‘Had you consumed any drugs that day?’

Took Zak a moment to remember. ‘No.’ He’d scored later at Midge’s.

‘What about alcohol?’

‘Just some cider. White Lightning.’

‘How much?’

‘Half a bottle?’

‘What size bottle?’

Zak sighed. ‘Three litres.’

‘How strong is that?’

‘Pretty strong.’

‘Seven and a half per cent proof, to be exact. And you drank a litre and a half. You would have been drunk.’ Her nose turned up, a flicker of disgust in her eyes.

‘No! I’m used to it,’ Zak said.

‘What about the previous night, did you take any drugs then?’

Zak shrugged. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Try.’ Her mouth set tight.

He came clean. ‘Maybe a bit of weed.’

‘Skunk?’

‘Yeah.’ He could do with some now.

‘For the benefit of the jury, skunk is the strongest strain of cannabis known and it remains in the system for up to ten days in regular users. Would you say you were a regular user?’ she asked Zak.

‘Yeah.’ He didn’t like the way she was painting him, a druggie, an alkie.

‘So when you broke into the property on Booth Street, when you saw events on the recreation ground, you were under the influence of drink and drugs. Surely these would affect your ability to see and remember what you saw?’

‘No,’ Zak contradicted her.

‘Did you work with Derek Carlton?’

‘No.’

‘But you were involved in stealing goods and the handling of stolen goods?’

‘Sometimes,’ he conceded.

‘And the supply of drugs?’

‘Not the drugs, well, not much. Personal use only.’ Zak grinned. No one else did.

‘Do you find today’s proceedings amusing?’ she asked him, her face all sour.

‘No.’

‘Then please refrain from making jokes. You are aware this is a murder trial?’

‘Course.’

‘And that we are here to get to the truth of the matter. You deny being involved with Derek Carlton but is it not the case that on more than one occasion you ferried packages between suppliers and dealers?’

Zak had done Midge the odd favour. Small scale. ‘Maybe a couple of times.’

‘I beg to differ. I suggest you were up to your neck in illicit drug dealing and associated violence and it would be very convenient for you to blame Derek Carlton for this murder thereby getting rid of the competition.’

‘No way! That’s mental!’ Zak said.

‘Is it true you said nothing until you were arrested in the course of breaking into a supermarket and attempting to steal goods?’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘Blaming Derek Carlton would be a way of evading justice.’

‘No, it’s not—’

‘I think it is. Two birds with one stone. You save your own neck and you see off a rival at the same time. You are a known criminal with a history of drug abuse, why should anyone here believe a word you say?’ Her words lashed at him.