Eoin Miller 02 - Old Gold (9 page)

“I don’t think so, but he could have had one I never met.”

“Do you know if he was on Facebook? Did he have a blog? Anywhere that he shared his feelings online could tell us more about where he might be.”

“I don’t think he had anything like that,” said Mrs. Perry. “But then I don’t know much about what kids do on the Internet.”

I made a note to search for Chris online later.

Now I needed to hear from Michael Perry.

“You’re high up in the force, and you’re headed into politics,” I said. “Anybody in particular who might want to cause embarrassment or hurt you?”

“I don’t know.”

Mark that avenue up as a big fat
maybe
. I needed to look into his career, see what was hiding in his closet.

“That should do for tonight,” I said. “I’ve got enough to get started. Is it all right if I call round to your house in the next couple of days to get those phone numbers?”

They both nodded.

I asked if they had a photo I could use, and Stephanie gave me one that she had brought along. Chris was a good-looking kid, the best bits of his parents combined into a fair-haired teenager. As I looked at the photograph, Michael counted out the money I had asked for; they had come
prepared. I wondered how much cash they had and wished that I’d asked for more.

I drove back to the city and let my mind turn back to my main problem.

Maybe I’d get lucky. Maybe I’d walk into my room and someone would hit me over the head, or point a gun at me at the very least, and announce that he had killed Mary and I was getting too close. I could be really lucky, and the person holding the gun would turn out to be our missing student.

Maybe, but I doubted it.

As I neared the outskirts of the city, the flashing lights of a police car loomed up in my rearview mirror and lingered. I tested my breath to make sure I wasn’t going to get collared on a drunk, and a quick glance at the dashboard confirmed I wasn’t speeding. I pulled over to the side of the road, and the car pulled up level with me. The uniform in the passenger seat rolled down his window, and I did the same.

“Mr. Miller?”

I nodded.

“You’re hard to find. DS Becker says to tell you to check your phone messages once in a while. And asks you to follow us.”

My own messenger service on wheels. Amazing.

The car pulled away, and I followed. The police led me to an isolated stretch of the canal, not far from the train station.

I parked and followed the uniforms. The blue lights were visible long before I reached the right spot, and they made my heart sink. I ducked under a police cordon, let through by a uniformed officer who recognized me, and looked for Becker.

“Thought you should see this,” he said, calling me over to where a group of officers were huddled round something.

I didn’t need to see much. I saw the poles and nets they’d used to fish a body out of the water. I saw a body bag.
Sticking out of it, darkened and heavy with water, was the sleeve of Bauser’s hoodie.

Becker turned me away from the scene and the ears of others. “He was one of yours, right?”

“What time did you find him?”

“About forty minutes ago.”

“How did he die?”

“Nothing official yet. But someone took a knife to him.”

“He was just a kid.”

“They all are.”

My second body this week.

He’d still be alive if I hadn’t gone looking for him.

How did it get to this?

I headed straight for Posada.

I put a drink to my lips.

Then it was a big black hole until waking up the next morning in the cold flat.

Next morning, as the sun made a halfhearted attempt at fighting with my curtains, I cooked what was left of the food in the fridge into a nice unhealthy breakfast.

I toyed with the idea of fetching the morning paper, but I didn’t want to read about Bauser.

I didn’t want to think about him, either.

The logic was too simple and painful. I suspected the Polish dealer of killing Mary. I’d asked Bauser to arrange a meeting, and Bauser was dead. My only solid lead died with him. I filed this away in the back of my head and tried to distract myself.

After breakfast I walked ten minutes into town, walking quickly because the cold air was biting, and headed to the police station. The reception desk was manned by the same PC as last time, and he seemed to brace himself as I walked through the door.

I gave him Becker’s name, and mine, and said I was expected. He never took his eyes off me as he rang through to check, and even after he’d been told to let me through he made a point of checking my ID. Normally, a visitor would have to sign in, be given a pass, and be accompanied at all times. I got the feeling that Becker had given instructions
not to make me sign the book, to keep my visit off the record, otherwise I’m sure the PC would have insisted on it.

Becker’s desk was in an office shared with four other CID. I knew it well. It had been my office for a short time, and it could get very busy and loud in there. Right now, though, he was alone at his desk, waiting for me.

“You spoke to Perry, then?” This was as close as he was going to get to a greeting.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got the official file lying around here, have you?”

Becker took his turn to smile.

“There is no official file, you know that.”

“Good, so we won’t be breaking any rules when you let me see the unofficial file, then.”

Becker put a folder on the desk between us and then asked if I wanted a drink, saying he’d make a fresh pot of coffee. He was lying, of course; he’d be making me a cup of instant. Becker made the worst instant coffee in the world. But I nodded anyway. I needed to wake up, get my thoughts moving in a good direction. The file was unmarked and didn’t contain any of the official forms you’d find in a police investigation. The notes too were written informally; none of the second guessing or neutral statements you’d find in a court-ready document. I read through them while he was away. There were interview transcripts, photographs, and details of the student’s lecturers and friends at university. I jotted down names as I read.

Becker handed me a cup of coffee and I pulled a face at the first sip.

“So what do you think of it all?”

I shrugged. “The coffee? It’s terrible.”

He seemed annoyed, which I enjoyed.

“The kid,” he said. “So you’ve spoken to the missing kid’s parents? What about his friends?”

“Parents, yes. I don’t know what to think yet, but there’s just something about them—I can’t put my finger on it.”

Becker smiled. “You’re into this now. I know that look in your eyes.”

He fingered his pack of cigarettes idly, not even noticing he was doing it. The station had been made into a no-smoking zone when the laws changed, with a designated smokers’ area out by the car park. People of all ranks huddled together. Smoking is a great leveler.

“I’m being lied to.” He tapped the folder. “Someone in there was lying. I just don’t know who it was or why. But it’s there. Find out who and why, and you’ll find the kid.”

“But you can’t spare the time.”

“Exactly. Like I said in the café, I’ve got the acting DCI breathing down my neck to get the real cases cleared, and she doesn’t know about this.”

The previous DCI had retired recently and unexpectedly for health reasons. One of the most respected detective inspectors was filling in until the role was filled. The acting DCI was a woman, and that had ruffled a lot of feathers in the building.

“How’s your case going with the pensioner?”

“She’s still touch and go,” Becker said. “The doctors don’t know how she’s going to respond yet.”

“But you know who did it?”

“This guy—and I’m telling you I know he did it—he’s got no more than three brain cells, he somehow managed to do it without leaving physical evidence. You tell me how it works? Kids with masks and gloves lifted a few TVs and toasters during the riots, and we were kicking their doors in three days later. One dumb fuck beats an old lady with his bare hands and I can’t touch him. I mean, he’s a moron, it has to be an accident, but he left no trace.”

“Make this case and your career should get a bump up,” I said. Becker had always been better at the ladder-climbing game than me. “What’s happening with Bauser’s case?”

His body faded a little in defeat.

“Nothing. Not a thing. Looks like a mugging, and he’s known to have connections to drugs. Hell, look, he didn’t make the front page of the newspaper. The old lady is a better human interest story for the press than the murder of a criminal.”

“It could be gang related,” I said. “The Mann brothers might push back and that would mean more blood. You’re not investigating that?”

“Shite, mate. You think this is Birmingham? We’re not treating this as a gang killing. Unless you can tell me otherwise?”

Yes.

“No.”

“See? There’s nothing there. If there’s any payback from the brothers, then it will become a story. But when was the last time we had a gang war around here, huh? Our rates are good, and we’re not going to do anything to mess with that.”

There was no use arguing the point. After all, police who were willing to ignore the Mann brothers were good for my business.

I stood up.

“Cheers, Beck, and I do appreciate the work.”

I was turning to leave when he smiled, and it wasn’t a good smile.

“Wait, before you go. The acting DCI would like to see you.”

Oh shit.

That meant talking to my wife.

It said a lot about Laura’s skills that they’d given her a chance to fill in at DCI rather than transferring in cover from another office. She didn’t have enough pull to get the job full time, but it was a good chance for her.

My name surely hadn’t helped her find the way to the top. With my Romani background, I’d never been welcome in the force. Most in the ranks figured I only got in on positive discrimination, and they were probably right. Once I was in, I had to deal with racism and bigotry. More than once I opened my locker to find someone had taken a shit on my clothes or written messages on my paperwork. I’d like to say that behavior went away, but it never did. I simply learned to work with the good people and ignore the bad, which is how I met my wife.

As I sat down opposite her, I was reminded just how much better than me she had always looked. It’s never mattered how much work I put into dressing up and grooming, there’s always been something slightly scruffy about me, like the schoolboy who never looks comfortable in the uniform. Laura, on the other hand, always looked polished. Her hair was lighter than before, as if she was trying the slow crawl from brunette to blonde, and the few cute freckles on the bridge of her nose still called me out to play. First in uniform,
now in business clothes, she always looked right, confident and poised, born for shiny hair and ironed clothes.

It was a nice office. The view wasn’t much, but the office itself was well enough appointed. It had been repainted since I was last in there, with a new desk and Laura’s personal touches added. She had plenty of photographs behind her—receiving diplomas, smiling in uniform—and a clipping from a newspaper. She didn’t have any photographs of me anymore, which was both a relief and a pain.

“Eoin.” The smile seemed genuine enough. “It’s good to see you.”

“Hi, Laura. You’re looking good.”

“And you, you’ve put on a bit of weight. It suits you. I always said you needed a bit more. Have you been keeping your appointments with Dr. Guthrie?”

“No.”

“He wants to help, you know. That’s what he’s for. All you need to do is talk to him, talk about, well, you know.”

Then the awkward silence. It was uncomfortable but expected. We’d split up in part to avoid these moments. I wondered for a moment who would be the first to crack and start some inane small talk.

“Have you been to see the Wolves play recently?” Laura cracked first, wanting to end the silence. I counted it as a moral victory on my part.

1–0.

“No, not at all this season.”

“Oh. Bought any great albums you need to tell the world about?”

“No.”