Beast of Burden (17 page)

“I wasn't going to say that.”

“Either way,” I said, “you never fuckin' know. Which is why I need to talk to him.”

I wasn't about to tell the poof that yeah, it was Mo Tiernan that was dead. I wasn't going to tell him that the lad's face was a mess, either. And I wasn't going to ask him what he thought about Innes being on the crime scene an hour before it was called in. Just would've complicated matters, and from the look on the poof's face, he didn't know anything about it. And the idea was to keep as much information about this to myself, let other people give it out. This bloke knew something, mind. He was feeling guilty about something, came off him like a bad smell.

But it would have to wait until I came back. And I was going to come back, there was no doubt about it.

“If I don't get to talk to him soon,” I said, “I guarantee you it won't be long before the whole of Serious Crimes are down here to wait for him, and it won't be pretty. So how's about you break the lock on your fuckin' jaw and give us his mobile number before all this gets so dramatic even someone like you won't be able to handle it?”

He worked his mouth again. Then he came to a decision.

“Hang on a second,” he said.

The poof headed back to the IC Investigations office. I followed him to the door, saw him writing something down on a piece of paper. He ripped the sheet from the pad, came over and slapped it into my hand. Frank watched the pair of us with large eyes.

“There,” he said. “But that's it, right?”

“Yeah, alright. But if your boy's got anything to do with this—”

“Get a grip, Detective. You saw him. He's not capable of something like that.”

I pointed to him as I walked towards the exit. “Here, you don't know
what
that lad's capable of.”

INNES

I'm sitting in the corner of my local watching the inside of a half-empty pint glass. Joe's over by the television, staring up at the scores as they come in on Sky Sports. Waiting for Man City to come in, and he'll be there for a while, considering I think I saw them announce the score just now when he went to the toilet. As I watch the sports news scroll along the bottom of the screen in primary colours, I can't help but think of Morris Tiernan.

And that's when my mobile rings.

Pull the phone out of my pocket, look at the display. It isn't a number I recognise, so nobody I know, which makes me automatically antsy about answering it. The mobile's become an emergency tool only these days — anyone who knows me knows that I'm not at my best on the phone.

Still, I connect the call.

“Guess who?”

“How did you get—”

“How the fuck d'you think?”

I breathe out, look around the pub. Paulo. “I have an idea.”

He sounds like he hawks and spits. “So I'm thinking we should have a word in person, what d'you think?”

“Alright.”

I can almost hear the double-take. “You what?”

“I'm in the Long Ship. You know it? If you're at the Lads' Club, it shouldn't be too much of a hike.”

Kill the call, put the mobile on the table and stare at the dregs of my pint. Then I knock them back, get to my feet and leave the glass on the bar as I order another. It arrives just as Donkey does, making a blustering entrance, as if he's not sure I haven't already done a bunk. When he sees me, he tugs at his jacket, takes long steps towards the bar. He already has the landlord's attention, but I beat him to the punch.

“Pint?”

He regards me through narrowed eyes. Came in here, expecting to see me gone. When I wasn't, he expected a fight. So when he gets neither, and I offer to buy him a drink, I can almost hear the alarm bells ringing inside Donkey's head. He leans against the bar, pulls at his face as he looks at the pumps. If the man's on duty, he should really turn it down, but then I'd be surprised if Donkey turned down a free drink in his entire life.

“Whatever you're having,” he says.

I order two pints of Kronenbourg, Landlord pours them out, and I remain as relaxed as I can be with a copper standing next to me. I jerk my chin at the corner table, let him lead the way as I pick up my pint with one hand, hold the walking stick in the other.

Once we're both settled, Donkey says, “You happy to talk to us?”

“Depends. You arresting me?”

He puts his elbows on the table. “Should I?”

I shake my head.

“Then we're just talking.” He looks at his pint. “Thought you'd have done a fuckin' runner, mind.”

“No point, is there?” I say. “You always … find me. In the end. Might as well … get it
out
. In the open. Right?”

He chuckles, then wipes his mouth. “You wouldn't believe the shite I went through to get your number, son. That poof's really protective.”

“He is, yeah. He's a mate.”

Waggles a finger. “You two …?”

“No.”

The finger turns into a hand, palm out. “Just asking.”

“You wouldn't be … the first.”

“So,” he says, wrapping that hand around his pint. “You going to tell us what you were doing round Sutpen Court last night?”

“Already told you.”

“Tell us again.”

“A job. Looking for Mo. And I found him.”

“You call it in?” he says.

I nod.

“Why?”

“Let you lot … handle it. I'm not Jessica … fuckin'
Fletcher
.”

Donkey laughs. There's a slow wheeze attached to the end of it. He drinks some of his pint, happy in the knowledge that I'm not about to slam the glass into his face and bolt out the door. He replaces the glass on the beermat, sucks his bottom lip. “So you're willing to tell us what you know, eh?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Who d'you think did it?” he says.

Right off the bat. Kind of surprising. Makes me think that Donkey doesn't have the first fucking clue about this, which is interesting. Means he's reliant on my information. I'd hoped that was the case. Now it is, I feel like buying him a short to go with that pint.

“Don't know,” I say. “It was definitely …
murder
, mind.”

Donkey shakes his head, but he doesn't believe what he says: “His wallet was missing. We're supposed to be looking at it like a robbery.”

“Wasn't robbery.”

“His wallet—”

“Anything left?”

His lips bunch up as he breathes in through his nose. “Yeah.”

“ID card, right? Fallen on the floor?”

He nods.

“Right. Wallet was taken … to avoid identi-fi
cation
. Card fell out. Bad luck. It was dark. They didn't see it. Besides, you saw … the
mess.
”

Donkey keeps nodding. “Face was fuckin' minced.”

“Lot of anger.” I tap the side of my pint glass. “Probably asleep … when it happened. Right?”

“We don't know that for sure.”

“He's lying down. So he's relaxed. You rob a … sleeping man. You don't do that. Don't beat him. No need.”

“You just take the wallet. Or he woke up.”

“You saw him,” I say. “He was still asleep. I'm sure.”

Donkey sits back in his chair. I can tell he'd love a cigarette about now. So would I. But he's not about to break up this conversation, give me a chance to second-guess myself, change my mind. As far as he's concerned, I know he thinks I've always been jittery when it comes to sharing information with him. And getting it on a plate like this is starting to make him a little suspicious. I should tone it down, put it back on him.

“You know it wasn't … robbery,” I say. “If it was, you … wouldn't be
in
terested.”

“Alright,” he says. “Okay, so someone killed him.”

“Took his wallet. So you lot … wouldn't ID.”

“We'd still ID.”

“In time. And he'd be … end of the queue. It's a delay. All you need. Treat it like a robbery … watch it grow cold.”

Donkey runs a hand over his mouth, looks at the bar. Behind him, I can see Joe giving us worried glances. He's already clocked that Donkey's police, probably wondering what kind of trouble I'm in. Joe's the kind of bloke who'd help out if he could. Just as soon as that Man City result comes in.

“I knew it wasn't a fuckin' robbery,” says Donkey, nodding at me. “I knew it, told them it wasn't.”

“They?”

Waves his hand. “Some twat running the show.”

“You're not … investigating?”

“Course I am. Just not
running
it. But he's a twat, doesn't know his arse from a hole in the ground.” His face takes on a purple colour around the jawline. “Don't think for a fuckin' second that I'm not in charge on this.”

“I don't. You said—”

“Because if I hear you're going elsewhere, I'll fuckin' carve you up.”

“I'm doing you … a
favour
.”

He leans forward again. I can smell the beer on his breath, even though he's barely made a dent in his pint. “You're not doing us any favours, you're helping with enquires, you get me?”

“Okay.”

“I'm the one in charge here. You're
my
fuckin' boy.”

I look at the surface of the pub table, my head down. Wait for him to stop breathing so hard. Yeah, I'm his fucking boy. That's precisely the way it needs to be, and for all my instincts crying out that this is a bad idea, I told Tiernan I had a contact on the force, and I intend to make Donkey that guy. The only way to do that is to play nice, even if that's the last thing I'm used to with Donkey.

“So, you know the Tiernans,” he says finally. “You know who's likely to have a pop?”

“Nobody—” I stop, take a drink to wet my throat. “Nobody has … the balls.”

“I don't know, I'm thinking Tiernan's getting lazy, there's somebody maybe moving in, know what I mean?”

“Maybe.”

He looks at me. “You don't think so?”

“I don't
know
.”

“But what do you think?”

I look at him across the table. He's not drinking, seems genuinely interested. And there's something different about him, not so quick to jump to the aggressive, maybe because I'm the one that's invited him here, and he's still wondering what my game is, especially now the information I'm giving him seems plausible enough. Of course he'll check all this stuff out, most likely behind his gaffer's back, take the credit if it pans out. But I still need to be careful here. The way he's been lately, he's quick to rile if things don't look like they're going to go his way.

“Not a bloke,” I say.

His eyes drop to slits, his mouth the other way. “You what?”

“Might be nothing. The hair.”

“What hair?”

Possible that Donkey hasn't been privy to the forensic reports or whatever yet. And even if he has, and they've missed out, he needs to know.

“A long hair,” I say. “On the body. In Mo's hand. Rules out most of the …
blokes
I know.”

Donkey doesn't say anything for a while. He's chewing his bottom lip.

“And if he
was
asleep …” I try to catch his eyes, see what he's thinking.

“Then it was a probably a bird,” he says.

“Maybe.”

“Only way she'd be sure not to get overpowered, she'd wait until he was asleep.”

“Or nodding. There was a needle.”

Donkey looks back at me. “He was using?”

“Only a matter of time.”

He takes a long pull on his pint, wipes his mouth. “I don't know. Don't buy him as a smackhead. Why the fuck are you telling us all this, anyway?”

“Sick of running.” I shrug. “Tiernan asked me … to
find
his son. Not find his killer.”

Behind Donkey, the score's just come in for Joe. He moves away from the television looking for all the world as if someone's just kicked him in the gut. He orders a single malt and stares at himself in the back bar.

In front of me, Donkey has a similar expression. It's weird. I thought he'd be over the moon.

“But you have an idea who it is,” he says.

“No. No answers. Only questions. Sorry.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I don't know … who did it. I'll try to help. But I don't have … your
resources
.”

“Or my fuckin' skills,” he says.

“Or your … fuckin' skills.”

Another long pause. If he's still trying to work me out, he's long since failed. He drinks his pint down to the quarter mark.

“Y'know, your brother,” he says, “he was a good grass. Always gave it up, but always took just enough punishment to justify the information, like he wasn't comfortable with it. Reckon he was a decent bloke underneath all that fuckin' baggage he was carrying around with him.”

“Don't,” I say. “Don't bother.”

He looks up at me. Finishes his pint. “What?”

“You didn't know him.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

“Spent more time with the bastard than you did, if I remember rightly. Once a week at least while you were inside, and what was that? Two years? Bit more, you think?”

“What you doing?” I say.

He grins wide. “I'm just wondering what you're playing at.”

“Well,” I say, shifting out of my seat. “You're the copper. You work it out.”

DONKIN

Innes pulled himself out from behind the table. For a second, I reckoned he was going to get some more beers in, but he stood there waiting for us to stop him.

“You leaving, then?” I said.

“Thought I might.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, don't change your phone or anything, mind, or else I'll fuckin' batter you.” I pointed at him. “You're my eyes and ears now, aren't you? I mean, we're fuckin' clear on that. You get any other ideas working for Tiernan, you let them come my way, I'll see what I can do for you.”

“I won't need any help.”

“Innes, someone like you will always need a friendly copper. Don't bite the fuckin' hand, alright?” Talking of which, I held mine out to shake. He looked at it like I'd offered him a lolly stick with a dog turd on the end. I wondered what the fuck was the matter with him until I realised, that was the hand he was using to hold onto his walking stick. I put my left out. He shook it, and pulled this half-a-smile.

“Right.”

“Keep in touch,” I told him.

And then watched him gimp his way out the door. When the doors shut behind him, I pulled out my mobile, turned it on. One missed call from Annie. She would've left a message, but I didn't want to listen to it right now. Instead, I called Adams.