Still Midnight (23 page)

The excellent suspension echoed the fall of the old man’s body. Eddy looked around for support, smiling, lips parted. Pat and Malki were from a wild, sprawling family, mostly ineffectually worried mothers and bad apples, a model of complex social problems, but it took a special kind of man not to empathize with a punch in the balls. They wouldn’t meet his eye. Malki even tutted at the car.

Angry at having measured his violence wrong, yet again, Eddy picked up the feet in dirty slippers and dropped them into the boot, swinging the old man onto his side, and slammed it shut as if hoping to trap some small something between the metal lips.

Malki looked for Pat to say something. “In the car, son,” said Pat and Malki got in, shutting the door carefully behind him.

Eddy looked angrily at the back of Malki’s head. “Your Malki’s a twat.” Pat glared at him. “OK, I know he’s your cousin, but he fucking
is
a twat.”

Pat’s eyes were open wide in warning. The pillowcase could hear them. The wind hissed through the grass as Eddy looked away and blushed. He couldn’t seem to stop fucking up. Pat turned away and walked around to the passenger door. The pillowcase knew two names now; Eddy had said them out loud and told him that two of them were cousins and so now Eddy couldn’t let him walk, he’d have to kill him and leave Aleesha fatherless, rudderless, looking for love in all the wrong places. Pat could be one of those places.

As he opened the passenger door and slipped inside the car his chest was warm, full of thoughts of sunny places and hair on pillows.

TWENTY-ONE

Morrow and Bannerman were parked on Alison Street, looking across the road to two big shop windows.

The restaurant didn’t have a name painted above the door, it wasn’t listed in the phone book, but everyone knew it as Kasha’s. It didn’t even look like a restaurant; it looked more like a community center because of the modest furnishings and utilitarian decor. The seats were molded gray plastic, the tables had wood-effect tops with steel legs. Even the wallpaper was slightly gray; a dado rail hinted at a different pattern but mirrored the dull colors in the rest of the room. The food service area was a four-foot sandwich bar, a fridge full of cans of mango juice, bottles of water, and glass jars of mango lassi.

Morrow knew that later in the evening it would be full of men eating, sipping coffees, and drinking fresh lassi out of long glasses, but it was Ramadan and the men were sitting around empty tables, keeping each other company but not eating.

One table was conspicuously eating, though. The four men were sitting away from the window near the dimly lit back of the shop, their table shamelessly strewn with plates of food. A fifth man stood in the doorway, dressed like the others. He stood with his hands crossed over his groin, watching the street. He wasn’t the biggest of the men but Morrow knew him from his reputation. King Bo was a nasty, cold boy. He could break bones to order: one finger, two legs, even a thumb, which is a hard bone to break, did it without a flicker and he was fast too. But King Bo was a sideshow, a soldier. The men at the table were the main event.

There were four of them, all big, all dressed in T-shirts and tracksuits, all frowning as they worked their way through their food. The Shields bosses, and at their center was Ibby Ibrahim.

“Only be a minute,” said Morrow and got out. He let her go alone without a fight in the end. Ibby was a good contact, the sort of contact to boast about to other officers, a name to drop, and he was letting her have it for the good of the case. It was big of him and Morrow found that, reluctantly, despite herself, she was starting to hate him a fraction less.

She shut the car door and stepped across the empty street, looking King Bo in the face as she approached. He reared his head back. His hair was cut short and gelled into a fin, the quiff tip matching his pointy chin. Afflicted with a slight squint he gave her his best mean look. She looked down to pull out her warrant card as she approached, and when she looked back she found him grinning.

“Nah,” drawled King Bo, “that’s not a pass in here, lady.”

She stopped four feet from him, her heels hanging off the edge of the pavement, and looked around. Ibby could see her standing in the street but she didn’t look at him. He might tell her to fuck off. She hadn’t seen him for twenty years, he might not even remember her.

She could just turn and leave, let the past be the past. Her Bob lead was already panning out and she was making herself vulnerable coming here. She was making herself traceable back to her maiden name, from there back to her family, and she’d worked so hard to shed it all. But King Bo leaned backwards into the shop, listened to something, and then bent towards her. “OK, aye, you’re in.” He stepped back in the dark, flicked his hand to send her to the table of men, avoided her eye as if they were letting her in against his advice.

Morrow was the only woman in the place and her top was low enough cut to show half an inch of cleavage. She walked in feeling like a stripper entering a monastery.

“Go.” King Bo pointed her towards Ibby.

She walked over but stopped a few feet short of the table and looked at him. “Hello.”

Ibby looked up at her. He was a big man, brooding, wide shoulders, big fists. His nose had been broken many times, the bridge of it ruined. He was dressed in a tracksuit as if it were pajamas, no attempt to make an impression or sway an audience. Everyone he met already knew about him. Ibby looked at her cheap work suit, looked at her face. “Heard about you,” he said, chewing a mouthful of dark green sag aloo. Morrow could almost feel the mustard seeds popping on her tongue.

“How’re you, Ibby?”

“No bad.” Ibby tore off a handful of virgin white flatbread from a plate in the middle of the table and used it to pinch a lump of spinach and put it in his mouth. “How’s Dimples?”

She shrugged, aware of Bannerman watching outside, hoping she looked professional through the window.

Ibby glanced at her cleavage and pointed, drawing the attention of the other men to it. “Evening all,” he said. The boys sitting next to him laughed, not really understanding, she felt, but toadying to their boss nonetheless.

When the sycophantic laughter died down she spoke again. “Your nose…”

“I was in a accident,” he said too loud, too flat.

“Some accident.”

He chewed the mouthful, smiling to himself, and Morrow found herself smiling too. It was nice to see him again. It was nice that he wasn’t dead. Nice that neither of them was mad or in prison or jagging up.

Ibby grinned back, mustard seeds littering his teeth. “Fuck, man, ye went polis?”

She shrugged. “Couldn’t handle the accident rate on the other side,” she said and looked out at Bannerman in the car. He wasn’t looking at her; he seemed to be wiping the dust from the dashboard with a tissue.

Ibby picked up a paper napkin and rubbed his meaty fingers with it, ripping it into bits. He sat back and tipped his head at her. “Go on, then. Say whatever.”

“OK, em, you’ve heard about the hostage taking last night?”

He nodded at his food.

“They were looking for Omar Anwar. For Bob.”

His face was blank, neither listening nor contradicting.

“
Bob
. You called him that.”

“I never called him Bob.”

“I don’t mean you personally, Ibby, I mean
yous
.”

He felt for something in his teeth with his tongue, couldn’t get it and picked at it with his pinkie fingernail. “Hmm.”

“Bob?”

“Hmm.” He agreed. “Some people call him Bob.”

“Only some people?”

Ibby looked up at her. “No,” he said carefully.

She understood. “OK. Anything you want to share about the events of last night?”

“Tell ye what, yous must be stuck to come here.”

“We could go to the community leaders but they’ll just give us a load of, you know.”

“
Community
leaders? We’re community leaders.” The men around him nodded smugly. “Oh,
legitimate
community leaders, ye mean? Like MPs or councillors or whatever?” The men were smiling, less at what he was saying than at the tone of his voice. Ibby was enjoying himself. She wondered if he knew he was surrounded by arseholes. “Well,
we’re
a community,
we’re
leaders, this table.” He pressed his finger down hard on the flatbread. “This
table’s
a community.”

He was talking shit so she took her chance and interrupted him. “Yeah, so anyway, you know anything about last night, then, or what?”

“Nothing,” he said flatly and meant it.

He looked to see if she doubted him. It was the angle as much as anything, him looking up at her. His face had broadened, darkened, but the eyes were the same. Deep brown, hooded. She couldn’t see Ibby now. Instead she saw the child who sat next to her in first year of secondary school, the wee boy who scratched himself a lot, was small for his age. She was inexplicably fond of Ibby at the time, felt protective when he was asked anything by unthinking teachers, because he knew nothing. He was only in her school briefly. They sent him away after he nearly killed another boy.

The child was in their year and had a thing about Ibby’s sister. He probably fancied the girl, Morrow thought in hindsight, but he’d got to that stage a month or so before everyone else, so that his chasing her seemed bizarre. Ibby thought it was a threat. Morrow could still see Ibby’s fingers threaded through the boy’s hair. His deep brown eyes were wet as he ground the boy’s broken nose into the asphalt playground floor.

She understood him perfectly back then, the disproportionate wild quality of his violence. Social work got involved, she’d heard, and Ibby was taken away and never came back. They were all afraid of the social work, those children, the ones who stood, hands hanging by their sides, and calmly watched Ibby do that, the ones whose parents didn’t come up to the school after and demand answers. They kept their heads down because to get noticed was to disappear. When the teachers came to drag Ibby off, Alex was who he reached for. She managed to wriggle her way through the teachers’ legs and touch his hand for a moment. Fingertips reaching for each other through a scuffle of legs. His knuckles were skinned raw.

Morrow said, “Aamir Anwar’s a nice man, isn’t he?”

Ibby conceded that Aamir was OK with a dip of his head and a glance at the tabletop.

“No rumors you want to share?”

“White guys, Glasgow accents. Nothing to do with us.”

“You’ve got contacts.”

“So have you.” He smiled at his dinner as a plan formed in his mind. “What station you working out of, then?”

The Young Shields were just head cases. They still had gang fights in the streets. It was all about territory still, they’d never gone professional or moneymaking. He might imply that he’d like a corrupt police officer on his payroll but Morrow was pretty sure Ibby didn’t have a payroll.

“Here and there,” she said. “Move about.”

He smirked. “Might come and visit you at your work one day.” He wasn’t really talking to her, just showing off to his pals.

“Yeah,” she said. “Do that.”

“Tell Dimples hello from me.”

Morrow stopped. She hadn’t noticed the first time he mentioned Danny because she’d been distracted by Bannerman outside but Ibby had name-dropped Dimples twice now and each time he did the fat boy next to him pushed his chin out, proud. A protective familial reflex made her notice, wonder if they’d battered Danny or bettered him somehow. Instinct made her square up to the henchman, but she forced her eyes to the floor. She was being sucked back in, she should leave.

“Take care, Ibby,” she said. “Try not to have any more accidents.”

She turned to the door when Ibby spoke again, under his breath, “Hey, anyway, your da… sorry he’s no well. In the infirmary…?”

Morrow read his face. The old man was such a has-been no one would have bothered to pass on the information. Danny must have told him. “Aye,” she said gently. “Fuck him, anyway.” She walked away.

King Bo stepped aside when she came to the door, lifting his arm away from her, as if being in the police was something you could catch from social contact.

“Bye-bye,” she said pleasantly, and the big gangster sneered to show how hard he was.

She crossed the street back to the car. As she opened the door she looked through the window of Kasha’s again. King Bo had a mean face on, arms crossed, looking down the road for invading hordes. Inside Ibby was stuffing bread into his face. She could see under the table that his belly was heavy. He was getting fat. They were all heading for old. She climbed into the car and Bannerman started the engine.

“Well, it wasn’t the Shields,” she said.

“We knew that.”

“No. We suspected that. Now we know it definitely wasn’t them.”

“You believe the word of a crim?”

“I believe Ibby Ibrahim,” she said as Bannerman pulled out into the road. “He’s too proud to lie.”

He smirked. “If he’s too proud to lie we should get him in for questioning. Clear up half the batterings that went down on the South Side last year.”

“Well, he’s honest off the record. On the record he might just be willing to lower himself.”

They drove down Alison Street. Alex watching out of the window, glancing up every crumbling close but not seeing, wondering about Danny and Ibby. Thinking about family prompted her to ask: “How’s your mum?”

“Bad.”

She left it hanging for a moment. “Sorry.”

“No, she’s on the mend, she’ll be fine really. She’s going to be fine. She’s on oxygen and massive doses of antibiotics but she’s sitting up and everything.”

“Eating?”

“Eating a bit, yeah.”

“So you don’t need compassionate leave?”

“No.”

Morrow slapped her leg. “Damn!”

Bannerman grinned at the joke. “You
are
as much of a bitch as they say you are.”

It stung a bit but she hid her hurt and took it in good part. “Well, you know what they say, it’s iceberg bitchiness with me: only ten percent visible.”