Dead Money (22 page)

I moved away from the reception area towards the doors so I didn't have to look at the nurse. Outside, it had started pissing down with rain.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr Slater."

"Fuck off," I said. "You seriously expect me to believe that you didn't put him in the hospital—"

"The hospital?"

My heart kicked up a notch. My voice jumped in volume. "Yes, the fucking hospital. The Salford Royal. I'm here right now, you prick. You want him, you want paid, you come and get him. Finish the poor sod off, why don't you? But I'm not paying you penny number one, you Paki bastard, you hear me?"

I didn't wait for an answer. I killed the call. I really needed a cigarette now. I turned back to the reception. An Asian family were sat on a bench right behind me. The father watched me, waiting for something. I didn't know what until I replayed the conversation with Ahmad in my head. I held up a hand and looked suitably contrite. Obviously a bit of Beale got in there, not that they'd understand it.

The nurse appeared from behind the desk. "I think you better take it outside."

"I'm finished." I held up the phone. "I'll put it on silent."

Behind her, the television showed the canal. Crime scene tape.

"Unless you're here to see someone—"

"Shut up a minute." I pushed past her into the waiting room.

Yeah, it was our canal. It was our crime scene.

They'd found Stevie.

I heard the nurse wittering on behind me, and remembered where I was. She sounded as if she was looking around for security, so I decided to make it easy for her. I didn't look back as I marched out into the piss-down rain and jogged back to the car, where I turned on the radio and looked for the local news.

Confirmed by the police spokesman: "The body of a man has been recovered from the water. Inquiries are at an early stage, but if anyone has any information they think can assist, then please get in touch."

Nice and formal, which meant they weren't as daft as I wanted them to be. I lit a cigarette and barely felt the smoke in my lungs. Now I came to think of it, it could have been any number of things that tipped them. Perhaps Phil or Dougie – maybe even The Waste – had noticed that Stevie hadn't shown up for work or home, and they'd reported him missing. Maybe it was the casino, but the more I thought about it, the more I doubted it. More likely it was the smell of a decomposing corpse left in a stinking canal for a week that had prompted a council call-out. I knew we should have wrapped him tighter.

My mobile rang again. That same unknown number. I watched it ring until I couldn't stand it anymore. I connected and didn't say anything.

There was a long silence. I could hear Ahmad breathing at the other end.

Then he said, "I'm a patient man, Mr Slater. I like to think of myself that way, anyway. Then again, I liked to think you were different to your friend, especially given your taste in mistresses."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"Unfortunately, that is clearly not the case."

I kept quiet. Too busy shaking. Too much invective. I felt my mouth tremble and hated myself for it.

"So I think we need to discuss payment terms. Obviously today is an emotional one, so shall we say tomorrow afternoon?"

I blinked. "Fuck off."

"Tomorrow afternoon, it is, then. And I suggest you develop a more positive mental attitude before our meeting, Mr Slater. I wouldn't want to get third parties involved in what is an easy situation to rectify."

And the click of a dead line.

I lowered the phone, then slung it over the dashboard. Sat there for a while, listening to the local news turn into local radio and then the dirge of shit music.

I had to hand it to Beale. Even when the bastard was unconscious, he managed to screw up my life.

24

I didn't mention it to Cath. Fact of the matter was if Ahmad wanted paid, he'd have to find me. And I wasn't going to make it easy for him. Not seeing Lucy was a good first step, and I'd already made a point of staying away from the clubs. Otherwise, I couldn't be too erratic. If the police were investigating Stevie's death, then any odd behaviour would be noticed and reported if they ever got round to seeing us. The innocent man went about his daily business without a care in the world. Then again, so did the man who didn't know he'd already been caught.

I couldn't think like that, though. I had to keep my volume. The sits yesterday were based on leads from a new canvass team so they'd been first-day blags, and the Alan Slater that could've sold them anyway was dead the moment I heard about Beale. So I'd had a word with myself this morning, and told myself that I was selling these two for this afternoon no matter what. Because I wasn't Beale. I didn't let the outside world affect my volume. I was better than that.

Figgis at two, MacReady at four. My sits for the afternoon. Clouds started to knit above me and when I got to the Figgis house, the first dots of rain appeared on the windscreen like an augur of the shitstorm to come.

Figgis were Mr and Mrs Donald Figgis, one foot in the grave, the other arthritic. Didn't have a pot to piss in and even if they had, they wouldn't chuck it out of a UPVC window. I got the whole spiel about how they didn't trust banks, especially after what happened with Northern Rock and how wasn't that a shame that all those people lost their savings like that. And I nodded and listened, which got them onto the other evils of the modern world: television, mobile phones, the internet ...

"No, love, we just like the wireless, don't we, Donald?" said Mrs Figgis.

"That's right."

"It's much more intelligent than the telly."

Mr Figgis screwed up as much of the loose skin on his face as he could in a disgusted expression. "It's all flashing lights and strippers, the telly. It's sickening."

"We can't be doing with that."

For the Figgises, life was nothing more than a series of board games, weak tea and a frantic distrust of the outside world. With that distrust came the hoarding instinct, and the place reflected that. They probably had money, but it was hidden under one of the many piles of newspapers and old jigsaw puzzles, or else stuffed under the mattress. And given the underlying musty odour in the place, I wasn't about to go rifling through their bedclothes no matter what the price.

Of course, like most of the bad leads, I'd recognised the name. Figgis wasn't that common a name, and there was something about the address that rang a bell, too. Halfway through the sit, I realised why they were familiar – I'd talked to these two before. It had been a long time ago, and they'd probably bored the shit out of many other salesmen since then, but this was definitely the same couple. They nodded, they smiled, even though the grins were as false as the teeth that made them. Fact was, they just liked talking to salesmen.

So I did the booklets, I did the pitch, and both fell flat. The inside of my mouth became itchy and raw. "Thing is, if you're looking to save money on your utilities ..."

But my heart wasn't in it. I should've blown this out on the phone and moved on. I began to wrap it up, calmly and positively and without the tiniest hope of a Hancock. They hemmed and hawed, made out that the little grey cells in their little grey heads were working overtime, and then they politely turned me down.

I stood. "Well, you have my card. Let me know if you change your mind."

"We certainly will," said Mr Figgis, who held out one hand.

I shook it as loosely as possible, the touch of his leathery skin enough to make my throat close. Then I was out of the door quick-sharp. As I left, I heard the theme tune to
Murder, She Wrote
.

As I thought, I was just another form of entertainment to these people.

I slumped into the car, turned on the radio and looked for music that wasn't shite. I didn't find it, so I switched it off again and hit the road.

MacReady was a bust from the get-go. By the time I got there, the skies had opened and the roads were slick with rain. I jogged to the front door of what looked like an ex-council house and leaned on a mute doorbell before knocking.

A huge bloke shambled to the door. He was wearing a T shirt and boxers and looked as if he'd just woken up. Night shift or on the dole. I hoped it was the former. A tougher sale was still a sale.

"Mr MacReady?" I asked, digging into my jacket for a card.

He looked at my sample case, beady black eyes under a thick monobrow. Pushed his lips out and said, "I'm about to get my tea," like that explained everything.

"I'm from Warmsafe." I tried to find my best smile, but had to make do with my second best instead.

"Warmsafe?" He turned to an invisible wife somewhere behind him and yelled at her, asking if she'd heard of Warmsafe.

"You what?" she shouted.

"Warmsafe."

"Who?"

"Double glazing," I said.

"You what?" said the bloke. "Having a laugh, aren't you?" He nodded at something behind me. I turned to see a van, on the side of it, in big writing: MACREADY JOINERY. And underneath, his phone number.

MacReady slammed the door shut. I stood on his step for a little while longer, shaking. Bastard's a joiner and some canvasser thought he could bump his lead volume with a quick blag.

I wiped the rain from my face and headed back to the car. On the way I stopped at MacReady's van. A large smiley face stared back at me.

This didn't happen to me. I didn't get the blag leads. I didn't get
only
the blag leads, anyway. I was the guy who brought in a couple of decent commissions a week, and then maybe a couple more after that. I was a good, solid salesman, I made volume. The blags were for Eric. They were for Beale. They were for the men caught in the slow swirl of failure that would ultimately drag them down the drain, the men who'd grown blind to their own failure and who didn't know that it had already ended for them.

I wasn't them. I wasn't Beale. And no amount of shitty leads would put me in his position.

I slammed a fist into the smiley face. Then another. I heard myself screaming as I did it again. The sound was tremendous. I backed up, my ears ringing and the pain just starting to pulse in my scuffed knuckles.

"Fuck d'you think you're doing?"

MacReady, still in his skivvies, except now he'd thrown a coat over his shoulders and some slippers on his feet. I could smell something hot and vaguely sweaty following him from the open doorway.

"What does it look like?"

"What's your name?"

"Why?"

"I'm fuckin' reporting you, that's why. Criminal damage."

"I didn't touch your van." I sniffed and tossed my sample case into the back seat of my car.

"You did. I saw you."

I smiled at him and shrugged. "I don't know what you think you saw, but I didn't lay a finger on your van."

He squared his shoulders. Pointed. "You put a big fuckin' dent in it."

I shook my head. "That was you. I didn't do anything. You're obviously deluded."

"You're going to pay for that."

"I'm paying for nothing."

He blocked my way to the driver's side. We stood there for a little while, getting wet. He jammed a big, square finger into the middle of my chest. "You're paying for the fuckin' damage, son. And I'll have your fuckin' name an' all, because I'm going to report you."