No More Heroes (19 page)

“David was beaten, wasn’t he?”

Del pauses. “I’m not sure if I’m able to talk about that.”

“There’s no need to be coy, Del. It’s in all the papers.” There’s a rustling sound as the DJ picks up a newspaper. “Says here that David was found beaten in Rusholme.”

“If a white man is beaten up in Rusholme, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a racist attack.”

“But there have been incidents where students have faced discrimination and sometimes even
violence
in South Manchester, haven’t there?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, what Mr Briggs was saying was that he’s had students approach him. They’ve told him that they’ve felt under siege for quite a while. And perhaps we shouldn’t look at David Nunn’s attack as an isolated case …”

I reach for the radio, turn up the volume.

Jesus.

David this, David that. Didn’t realise it was David fucking Nunn they were talking about.

But it’s true.

I swing by the newsagents on Oldfield Road, pick up another bottle of water and the early edition. It’s only a small story, the bare facts, really. I dread to think how badly it’ll have snowballed by the evening papers.

David Nunn, second-year politics student, found beaten to shit in Rusholme last night. Assailants unknown at the present time, and from the tone of the story, I doubt they’ll be caught. An otherwise unmotivated attack, the police haven’t got the first fucking clue, as per usual. The ENS mouthpiece who’s been given far too many column inches agrees with me. Except he’s convinced that it’s a racist attack, that there were racial slurs shouted before the kicking took place.

Which means he knows more than the police, or he’s just leaning on hearsay to make a point.

“If it’s white on Asian, there’s an outcry. Culprits are found and tried. Cast the situation in photo negative, and those politically correct and castrated institutions turn their heads.”

Segue into how South Manchester isn’t safe for students anymore, the same shit the DJ was flinging. They can’t find affordable housing anywhere, a situation made worse by the recent allegations surrounding Donald Plummer.

They always shoehorn Plummer into the proceedings. Makes me think he’s actually got a point — maybe the press are persecuting him. At the very least, they seem to have found a bad guy who’s in no real position to fight back. I’d feel sorry for the bastard if what they were saying wasn’t true. To cap it all off, the Manchester University student representative have announced that they’re boycotting any letting agency handling a Donald Plummer property.

Flick back to the David Nunn story: the student’s in a coma, which kind of puts the kibosh on the ENS ever talking to him. Just like Del said.

Something there, though. A connection, definitely. I just don’t know how tenuous it is. And my brain tends to weave conspiracy at the drop of a fucking hat these days.

Swig from the water. Tap the newspaper as I think about it. I don’t like it that David Nunn was in Rusholme, unless he lives there. It bothers me, and I don’t know why.

I start the engine, chuck the water bottle onto the passenger seat, and set off for the University of Manchester.

When I get there, I pay through the nose to park and head for the union bar. Reckon, if I was a student, that’s where I’d be right now. A couple of years of exams, I could’ve come somewhere like this. Don’t know what I would’ve done outside of drinking, mind, but I’m sure some subject would’ve cropped up.

I get into the union bar, see students dotting the place, but none of them looks familiar. Ideally, I want to talk to one of David’s mates, reckon if I see anyone from the picket, that’ll be a good start. But this lot don’t look like they leave the house much. If they had, they wouldn’t be looking at me like I just crashed my spaceship outside.

Yeah, I don’t belong. That’s getting more and more obvious. Christ, whatever it is that’s playing on the union jukebox hammers that point home — an acoustic guitar and what sounds like a trapped cat on vocals.

Feeling about as comfortable as I would’ve felt at that Moss Side meeting. And knowing that even if I’d stayed on at school, all that, I wouldn’t have been one of this lot. Because even when I was a kid, I knew that being clever didn’t stop you from getting your arse kicked — in fact, in a lot of ways, it fucking caused it.

So they can give me the eyes over their lattés as much as they want. I don’t care.

I keep walking, head into a long corridor off the main bar, one wall glass, the other crammed with noticeboards.

Start checking the boards out one by one.

There’s one for a lesbian-gay society, another for the am-dram — auditions for
The
Gut Girls
by Sarah Daniels, along with character types. I’m guessing that there aren’t many actors in the university because most of the characters are female. Band societies, DJ societies, job vacancies for events and booze night coordinators.

And then the political boards. You name the party, they’re represented here, plus a few more that must’ve been made up after a night on the drink.

“Mr Innes, isn’t it?”

I turn at the voice, recognise the skinny girl from the letting agency. She’s watching me with wide brown eyes, head cocked to one side. If it wasn’t for all that shit in her face, she’d be pretty in a waif-like way. A messenger bag hung over one shoulder. It looks heavy. She’s holding a bright yellow piece of paper with the word MEETING on it, but that’s about all I can see.

“Yeah, you were at the picket, weren’t you?”

She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You a friend of David’s?” I say.

She looks uncomfortable at the mention of his name. “I’m his girlfriend.”

“Right. Shouldn’t you be at the hospital or something? I mean, no offence, but—”

“I’ve just come back.” She holds up the notice: MEETING CANCELLED. “Supposed to be a meeting tonight, but we can’t have it without David.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s in a coma, Mr Innes.”

“I read that.” I show her the newspaper. “But it says some bloke from the ENS talked to him. I just wanted to get my facts straight.”

“The ENS?” She frowns. “I don’t think so.”

“That’s what it says here.”

“You think he’s in any state to have visitors? If they’re not even letting
me
in …” She shakes her head, then holds out her hand for the newspaper. “Sorry, can I have a look at that?”

I hand her the paper. “Page two.”

She reads the story, a crinkle appearing between her eyebrows. When she’s finished, she folds the newspaper and hands it back to me. “You’re a private detective, right?”

“Investigator, yeah.”

She looks like she’s thinking hard. Then she tacks up the notice to the board, makes a move to leave. Stops.

Looks at me again, cocking her head. Almost squinting at me.

“You want to get a coffee?” she says.

I nod, and let her lead the way.

The girl’s name is Karyn. She was adamant about the “y”, dropped the cash to change it legally from Karen. Brought up in one of Chester’s leafier suburbs, a two-car family, mother a stay-at-home, father with his own consulting business that meant they didn’t have to worry about money. What he consulted, I didn’t ask. I wasn’t that interested. But Karyn likes to talk, mostly about her sister. Emma’s studying at Oxford and, by God, are the family proud of
her
. But Karyn, well, nothing she ever does feels good enough. Not that she cares what her parents think.

All this as Karyn sips a decaf soya-milk tall latte, picking at an apple-cinnamon muffin without any of it actually reaching her mouth. Baked goods as fretwork, building up to something she doesn’t want to discuss.

“You look like you want to be somewhere else,” she says, a small smile on her face.

“Now that you mention it, I thought you wanted to talk to me about something.”

“And your time’s money, is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“What is the going rate these days?”

“For what?”

Karyn stops picking at the muffin, the top of it lying in crumbs on the plate. “I don’t know how to go about this, Mr Innes. It’s not something I’ve had that much experience with …”

“You want me to find out what happened to David.”

She shakes her head and laughs. “Sounds daft now. Forget it.”

“Okay.”

“I know what it sounds like.”

“Sounds like you don’t believe what you read.”

“The paper?” Karyn stabs the newspaper with one finger. “No, I don’t believe
that
version of events. Bugs me that they can get away with making stuff up like that.”

“Well, he got beaten up. That’s true enough. And if he lives in Rusholme—”

“David didn’t —
doesn’t
— like Rusholme.” Karyn sighs, resumes picking at her muffin. “He lived there last year, but he told me there was no way he’d go back.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know him then. He doesn’t like to talk about his first year. Family problems, course problems, discipline problems.”

“He likes a drink.”

“There were a couple of nights in the cells, yeah,” she says. Smiling as if it’s a walk on the beach. The smile disappears when she sees the expression on my face. “But that’s pretty normal, Mr Innes. We all have it to a certain extent. No matter how much you might want to leave home, the reality of it is still difficult. And the sudden freedom, nobody telling you you can’t do things …”

“I can imagine. So David went to Rusholme last night and didn’t tell you about it?”

“No. I mean, yes, he didn’t tell me about it, but I’m not his guardian, am I?”

“You don’t live together?”

“No. We’ve only been seeing each other for a year.”

“Right, you didn’t know him before that.” I nod. “You told me that already, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” She looks at me. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

“Wrong how? Like do I think you should believe what the paper says? No. Not if you don’t want to.”

“You must be getting a lot of work from that newspaper story, right? Everyone wants their own PI?”

“I got some work, yeah.”

“A lot of work?”

“Why are we sitting here, Karyn?”

“I wanted to hire you.”

“Then you could’ve said that right at the start and saved yourself the trouble of flattering me. I’m too busy.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Another case entirely. Can’t really talk about it. Thought your boyfriend might be involved.”

“So it’s the ENS,” she says.

“Not necessarily.”

“Got some wanker from the English National Socialists saying he’s talked to David, so you jump to the conclusion that he’s connected.”

“It’s not such a fuckin’ leap, is it? After what you just told me about his temper—”

“What temper?”

“You said he’d had a couple of overnighters.”

“God, just
drunk
stuff.”

“No, it’s never just
drunk
stuff, Karyn. If you’re locked up, you’re a fighter.”

She leans forward. “Let’s get this straight, and you can write this down if you feel you have to take notes for your
other case
. The English National Socialists will latch on to anyone if it means votes.” The trace of irritation in her voice becomes something more militant. “David’s not a person to them, he’s a demographic. In fact, David’s been speaking
against
the ENS for a long time. If they knew anything about him, they’d know that. He’s been very clear that he’s in no way connected with that kind of political thinking. And he’s not the type to engage in …
random
violence.”

“Okay,” I say. “That’s all I needed to know.”

“But nobody’s going to hear that because of that stupid fucking story.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You know the Conservatives are telling people to vote Labour or Lib-Dem rather than BNP or the ENS? You ask me, that’s one of the few laudable things they’ve done in the last twenty years, asking people to vote for the opposition.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not really up-to-date. It doesn’t concern me.”

“It should. If you don’t vote, you’re leaving it up to the gullible to make your decision for you.”

“Very socialist, Karyn.”

She shrugs. “I don’t care what it sounds like. A majority of any general public will do exactly as it’s told. And I’m telling you, David would have
nothing
to do with Jeffrey Briggs. It’d be like Guevara hooking up with Hitler. But I’m worried that people might see it like that, think the ENS is a party to be trusted, you know what I mean?”

“You think David Nunn has that much sway over people?” I say, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice and failing.

“Why not? He’s the one who organised the city-wide picket of the letting agencies. And he did it without the student rep’s permission, because getting them to do anything like that takes forever. And the reason he managed to do that is because David
does
things. He’s a natural leader.”

“I’m sure he’s very charismatic.”

“But it’s not as if David’s in any position to tell anyone what really happened, is it? And in the meantime, those fuckers are going to use him as some sort of
mascot
.”

I finish my coffee. “Blame a politician for bending the fuckin’ truth. What a novel idea.”

“But you can prove them wrong. Discredit them, make it public.”

“I’m not about to get caught up in any fuckin’ agenda here, Karyn.”

“You want to be a hero, be heroic,” she says, her voice raised. Trying to get attention from other people, trying to tarnish the image she thinks I care about. “I mean, if you’re working on something to do with the ENS, it shouldn’t be too much extra work. Might even help you.”

“You talked to David’s mates about why he was in Rusholme?”

Karyn smiles, as if I’ve just accepted the job. “I haven’t had a chance. As you can imagine, it’s all been so hectic. You could talk to Ben. He might be able to help. Whatever he won’t tell me, he’d certainly tell you. He’s like David in that respect.”

“I met him, didn’t I?”