Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) (7 page)

Shane was instantly back on message, re-locking his fingers and leaning forwards like a praying

mantis with better hair and a shorter neck. ‘I got sober twelve years ago – it’s a battle every day but

being among so many people with the same problems keeps me on my toes.’

Before Jessica could stop him, he was away, giving her a history of everything he had done over

the past dozen years. Perhaps he wasn’t such a catch after all, well, unless he fell for himself as it

was clear that was the person he was most in love with. By the time he got to the end of year six,

where he’d gone to Tibet to try to meet the Dalai Lama for spiritual enlightenment, Jessica had to put

a stop to it. If she’d let him continue, she’d still be here the following morning hearing about how he

knitted Ecuadorian grass into a friendship bracelet for some homeless person he met in the Brazilian

favelas while simultaneously teaching the local kids how to do a stepover.

She said her goodbyes, told him she might be back in contact at some point – and that if he really

did intend to potentially ignore a court order, then he should probably get a solicitor. Either that or

piss off back to Tibet.

In the forty-five minutes Shane had spent giving Jessica his life story, the pool car had managed to ice over. Jessica sat in the driver’s seat with the heaters on full blast remembering the old days of her

little Fiat that had two settings for the blowers: furnace hot or arctic cold. Half the time it didn’t start, the other half the exhaust sounded close to death. Now she was stuck with some new-mobile that had

no personality – a car in which everything worked and she didn’t open it up in the morning to find a

random piece of plastic sitting on the passenger’s seat. A car where she turned the key and it actually

started without having a think about it. Perhaps because of that, since she returned to work, Jessica

had been using the pool cars where she could, enjoying the clunky gearboxes and glove boxes which

sprung open for no apparent reason. She could live without the vague whiff of sweat, curry and chips

though. It smelled like whoever had signed this one out last had done so to go on a night-crew

takeaway run to the local kebab shop. Either that or Fat Pat had borrowed it.

After another blast of the sirens helped her loop back to the other side of the city centre, Jessica

parked in a director’s named space outside an office building and headed inside.

Michael Cowell was already waiting for her in a side office, squeezed into a brown polyester suit,

face like a split coconut, straggly hair sticking out of a disproportionate amount of his face, including his ears.

Especially
his ears.

Jessica found it hard to stop herself from staring at the brown wiry tufts fluttering in the air-

conditioning. They were hypnotically horrific.

He was sweating, out of breath, and reeked of fags, making quick glances towards the door every

few seconds as Jessica introduced herself. ‘Are you all right, Mr Cowell?’ she asked, not adding:

‘Except for the ear hair, of course.’

‘When you called, I had to have a word with my boss to let me off the floor for a few minutes. It’s a

bit awkward with the police visiting me at work.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a senior telecommunications happiness enhancer.’

It sounded like a sex toy.

‘You do what?’

‘I’m a telecommunications happ— I phone people up and sell them stuff.’

‘Right, well, I’m sure you appreciate that time is of the essence, which is why I had to visit you

here. The alternative was the station.’

‘You didn’t say on the phone what you wanted to talk to me about.’

‘Luke Callaghan.’

Cowell’s face darkened, his bushy unibrow deepening in the centre. ‘What about him? Whatever

he’s told you, it’s bollocks.’

‘What do you think he’s told us?’

‘I don’t know, last time it was some shite about me covering his car in paint. He’s a maniac, he—’

‘Someone threw nitric acid in his face.’

The unibrow shot back up again. ‘Y’what?’

‘In Piccadilly this morning – he’s been in surgery all day.’

Cowell’s features hung in place for a moment before they cracked and he burst out laughing, huge

guffaws until he ended up bent over double, coughing in a way that only a smoker could. When he

recovered, the grin was carved onto his face. ‘That’s the best thing I’ve heard in years – I hope I’ve

got some Champagne in. Actually, fuck that, I’m all in at Obsessions tonight – I’m going to get utterly

bollocksed. Come along – everyone’s welcome. I’ll even invite this bastard lot along.’

Charmer.

Jessica stopped her eyes from rolling. ‘Much as I’d like to join you at the strip club, I’ve got other

plans. Now would you like to say what exactly it is you find hilarious about a local councillor being

attacked in public?’

Cowell smoothed the hair away from his face, or about thirty per cent of it, and then wiped a tear

from his eye. It wasn’t one of sorrow. ‘All right, all right. Look, I know it looks bad me laughing and

all that while he’s in hospital but you’ve got to understand that Luke Callaghan is one of life’s C-

words. I would say the actual word but, y’know, you being a lady and that.’

This time Jessica didn’t bother to stop her eyes from rolling. ‘Okay, perhaps we should continue

this at the station.’

She stood, reaching into her pockets as if going for the handcuffs but Cowell was on his feet too,

holding both hands out and bobbing them up and down as if patting a Great Dane. ‘No . . . I mean, all

my workmates are out there and everything. If we could get through things here?’

‘If we’re going to talk here, you’re going to have to actually answer the questions, rather than take

the piss.’ Jessica re-took her seat, as did Cowell, who took a literal sigh of relief, or perhaps the

exertion of standing had knackered him so much that he needed the extra breath. ‘Let’s start at the

beginning. How do you know Luke?’

‘We used to be friends when were at college together years ago. I hung around with him and his

girlfriend, Debs, and a couple of others.’ Jessica noted the details to check, asking what happened

after that. ‘When we were getting close to finishing college, Luke was always going on about starting

a business – “I don’t want to have a boss”, that’s what he’d say all the time. He’d go on and on about

it. My grandmother had died and left me some money about six months before, so he’d say we could

use my money and his brains and make a fortune. I was young and stupid and he was my mate, so in

the end I gave in. We set up this company fixing computers.’

‘Callaghan Computers, right?’

Cowell shook his head furiously, making his ear hair waggle. ‘That’s not what it was back then. It

was CCC – Callaghan and Cowell Computers.’

‘What happened?’

‘The bastard stole my money. CCC went bankrupt but somehow all of its assets transferred over

into his new company. It was basically the exact same thing we were already doing but with him as

the sole director. I got nothing. He had this fancy lawyer to sort all the paperwork and by the time I

realised what he’d done, it was all gone.’

‘How long ago was that?’

Cowell mumbled under his breath and used his fingers to count. No wonder his mate stole all his

money. ‘I’m thirty-four now, so that’s five, six, seven . . . er, what year is it?’ Jessica told him. ‘Right, so that’s eight, nine – nine years ago.’

‘When I first mentioned Luke’s name, you thought he’d been on to us about you – why was that?’

Cowell tugged at the collar of his shirt, looking as guilty as anyone ever had. It was a good job she

hadn’t taken him to the station.

‘We, er, had a few, er, run-ins, er, over the, er, years. But he stole my money – I mean the bastard

got a quarter of a million out of me, what would people expect me to do? I’m not just going to bend

over and take it up the—’

‘All right, I get the picture.’

It was an image that was more than enough to put her off any type of tea tonight. If his face was that

hairy, she didn’t even want to think what the rest of him looked like. He had almost certainly

committed a bunch of petty acts of vandalism directed towards his former friend over the years but

there was little they could do about those.

‘For now,’ Jessica continued, ‘can we skip the incidents you might or might not have been involved

in over the years and bring things a bit more up to date. What are you doing now?’

‘Well, I had no money, did I? I had to start again. I got taken on here a few years ago and worked

my way up to senior telecommunications happiness enhancer.’

Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask
.

‘What were you before that?’

‘Junior telecommunications happiness enhancer.’

Shouldn’t have asked.

‘Where were you at ten o’clock this morning?’

Cowell nodded towards the door. ‘Out there, on the phones – and don’t go thinking I hired someone

either, I know what you police types are like, all CSI Manchester and NYPD whatever it is. I’ve got a

shit flat – though not as bad as the last one, shit car, shit job, all because of Luke bloody Callaghan. I only wish I’d been there to see him getting his comeuppance. Check my bank accounts – there’s

nothing in there, and there’ll be even less after tonight.’

Jessica didn’t doubt it – he certainly didn’t have enough in his account to buy an ear trimmer. Aside

from double-checking with his boss he was actually at work that morning, Jessica knew there was

little more she could do here.

As she stood to leave, Cowell ensured he had the last word, holding his hands up to indicate his

innocence. Given his guilty look from before, she doubted he’d be able to cover anything up now.

‘Honestly, love, if I had a bloody clue what nitric acid was, or where to get it, I’d have done it years ago. Like I said – Luke Callaghan: one of life’s C-words. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a trip to a

strip club to organise.’

Jessica left the office feeling sorry for the pretty young teenager who didn’t yet realise she was

going to spend the evening with Michael Cowell’s ear hair jammed between her breasts.

7

Outside of the office, the pool car was frozen again, so Jessica sat in the driver’s seat with the heaters on full listening to some moron on the radio say that whoever was in charge of policing that morning

should be sacked.

Poor Esther.

Jessica tried calling again but her phone was off.

When the windscreen had cleared and Jessica had got the feeling back into her fingers, she returned

to Longsight, signed the car back in, told Fat Pat she’d get him a vanilla slice if he stopped gossiping about her, and then headed for the pub.

The evening air was even colder than it had been during the day, with frost glistening on the

pavement, despite it still just about being light. Although the longest day of the year was barely a

month away, the fixed dark clouds meant it might as well be night time. The unfortunate motorists who

hadn’t heard about the gridlock had their headlights on, heading into an hour-long traffic jam

whichever way they were going.

The closest pub to the station was on Stockport Road, opposite a primary school, presumably

because the only way the teachers could get through a day was to nick across at lunchtime. Niall was

already in a booth by himself cradling a pint of bitter and nursing the sad sense of someone who

didn’t have much going on in his life. If he was younger, he would have had his phone out; pretending

to be busy, pretending to have friends. Instead, he sat with his head bowed, striped jumper standing

out like a decorated Christmas tree in an empty room, inhaling the fumes of his half-finished drink.

Jessica slid in opposite him with a glass of wine and dropped two bags of prawn cocktail crisps and

a packet of flaming hot Monster Munch on the table between them.

Niall’s face lit up like Fat Pat with an iced bun. ‘Jess, I’m so glad you came.’

‘I even brought tea. You should be grateful – I don’t usually share crisps.’

Jessica tore open the first packet of prawn cocktail and split it along the side, splaying it onto the

table in front of them and putting three in her mouth.

Niall took a crisp and sniffed it, before biting it in half. ‘It’s not like the old days. Back then, we’d be in the boozer straight after lunch, getting pissed with the journos and hoping nothing happened.

Even if it did, we’d get in the car anyway and head off. I know it sounds alien to you young ones but it worked in its own way. Somewhere like this place would’ve been drowning in smoke, reeking of

booze . . .’ The older man tailed off but it was clear he was pining for the past. ‘Now, it’s the

grandkids, of course. They keep me busy since my wife died. You don’t have children, do you?’

He realised instantly from Jessica’s expression that it was the wrong question. ‘Sorry, I didn’t

mean—’

‘It’s fine.’

As Niall took another sip of his drink, Jessica launched into the Monster Munch, eating one of

those and a crisp at the same time. Sod your celebrity chefs – how many of them could create a

flaming hot prawn cocktail corn-and-potato-based snack?

She didn’t expand on the children comment, so Niall picked up where he left off. ‘Poppy and Zac

are my little ’uns – seven and five. My son Brendan usually brings them around with his wife on

Sundays and we’ll go out for lunch and then do something if it’s not raining.’