Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (15 page)

‘You
should o’ seen the number o’ white suits going in and out the place,’ Ken says
excitedly, ‘Loads o’ them there was, but then there were three bodies I
suppose, right enough.

‘Three
private ambulances parked at the back of the house, I knew that because the
polis blocked the road off for the morning. Didn’t know till I tried to drive
down it though, had to reverse back up the way and scuffed the wheel trim in
the process. I ripped one young cop a new arsehole for not warning drivers
properly. Later in the day they put a road block sign out to stop other drivers
doing the same.’

There
is no officer stationed on the doorstep anymore, though the crime scene tape is
still in place, zigg-zagged across the front door, frayed edges blowing in the
breeze. The house looks the same as it always did, slightly shabbier than its
neighbours, for all the men that entered there none stayed long enough to turn
over the front garden or revarnish the windows. The house is separated from the
main road by a narrow pavement; several bouquets of garage bought flowers have
been placed against the doorstep. As far as outpouring of emotions go it wasn’t
a lot considering three women were slain that night, but I feel happier knowing
that people cared enough to do this small thing.

I
look at Ken, ‘If I give ye the money….?’ Ken raises his hand in a gesture to
quieten me, ‘Course I will, son.’ He says softly.

The
back of the house is visible from the gate once more, which is also zigg-zagged
in crime scene tape. ‘There were cops on their hands and knees in the yard,’
Ken pipes up, pointing to the small garden not even big enough to swing a cat.
I’d helped lay paving stones the year they’d moved in so the twins didn’t have
to worry about keeping the grass tidy.

‘Finger-tip
search do they no’ call it?’ Ken continues, ‘they went along the back wall too,
probably did the bins as well I imagine.’

‘That
will o’ made someone’s day, then,’ I laugh.

‘How?’

‘Can
ye imagine the bucket load o’ johnnies there’ll have been in there?’

‘Right
enough,’ Ken laughs, ‘Someone’ll have had to do it though.’

I
picture MacIntyre wading his way through someone else’s spunk but I know that
wouldn’t happen, he’s a long serving cop, jobs like that get passed to the new
ones, those who don’t know the system well enough to dodge the shitty jobs,
either that or they’ve put someone’s nose out of joint.

I
don’t know what I was expecting but there’s nothing to see that gives me any
comfort.

‘There’s
no one there.’ I say simply. Ken turns to me and smiles sympathetically and I
wonder if he thinks I’m referring to my friends.

Now
the investigation is underway and all the CSI work is done does that mean
they’ve now gathered all the evidence MacIntyre planted to frame me? A few
fingerprints transferred here and there and wham bam you’re in the can. I
shudder to think that it’s so easy to set someone up.

Ken
has stopped the Skoda just by the back gate but keeps the engine running just
in case.

‘We
should go now, Davy,’ he says, frowning, and I realise it’s not just me that’s
at risk staying here.

‘Right
enough.’ I say as he pulls out onto the main road.

Brad
has gone into Leith ahead of us. He’s on the dole but does occasional debt
collection work for Mickey Plastic; Brad’s bulk is intimidating even when
you’re not on the wrong side of him. He had a couple of calls to make at the
flats behind the Kirkgate Centre so I’ve arranged to meet him outside The Foot
o’ the Walk, a landmark pub now owned by a restaurant chain trying to upgrade
its punters by claiming to be family friendly. They’ve missed the point though.
Alcohol has been at the centre of most families round here for years. That and
other substances. I stay in Ken’s cab while I wait for Brad, from here we will
go to Daz’s place together. As it approaches midday Ken leaves us so that he
can collect Candy’s boss from the factory – and pass on the mobile phone I’d
got for her.

The
tenement has a buzzer entry system. I guess the broken buzzer will be Daz’s and
press it. The speaker crackles and a gormless voice answers: ‘Yeah?’

Brad
leans into the intercom: ‘Daz, man, let us in.’

‘Hissit?’

‘It’s
Bradley man, C’mon. Don’t be a dick.’

The
entry system buzzes suspiciously. As we reach Daz’s landing one of the doors
opens slowly. Daz stands in the doorway dressed in a grubby t-shirt and
tracksuit bottoms. His jaw hangs open in a junkie smile, rotten teeth jut out
of his gums like neglected tombstones. I want to smash him in the face but I
know I need to keep him on-side.

He
doesn’t see me at first, his gaze, now settled on Brad, seems content to stay
there.

‘Shall
we go inside?’ Brad prompts, like a courteous estate agent.

A
toddler sits in the middle of the floor, bare legs splayed out showing a dirty
nappy that hasn’t been changed all day by the colour of it. The child makes no
eye contact with either Daz or the woman slumped on the settee behind him,
instead clings onto a bottle lined with scum and mouldy milk.

The
woman opens her eyes as we enter her living room. ‘Arright,’ she says, as
though she’s met us before and we’re welcome in her home. She sits up
straighter, adjusting a greying bra strap. Daz rummages around the inside the
pocket of his tracksuit bottoms and pulls out a small pack of tobacco, a thin
roll of papers and a box of matches. A pile of discarded Scotrail tickets have
been torn in half and rolled up to make roaches; a bag of skunk sits in the
centre of a coffee table beside an overflowing ashtray. ‘Fancy a smoke?’ Daz
asks us, rolling a joint, and I have to clench and unclench my fists.

Brad
speaks for both of us. ‘Nah, yer awreet man, we’re sweet.’

I
crouch down until I’m in the toddler’s eyeline; wiggling my fingers in the
boy’s direction. The toddler stares hard at my hand, begins to shuffle his
bottom my way, leaving a trail of sodden nappy filling in his wake. His mother
smiles vacantly as she shares Daz’s joint, both parents unfamiliar with the
concept of keeping an eye out for their child. Three strides and I’m in the
kitchen, scanning manky worktops for a changing bag or mat. Nothing. In the
small rectangular bathroom I find a waste paper basket containing several
discarded pill packets and a tampon. I finally locate a clean nappy in the
wardrobe in the bedroom, it’s the last one and there appears to be no other
packs. I clean the baby up as best as I can, returning him to the invisible
spot by his parents’ feet. Brad catches my eye as I bring the baby back; I nod
to him to start the ball rolling.

He
settles himself on the arm of the settee. I stay on my feet.

‘Daz,
man, what is it wi’ you an’ that five-o?’

Daz
doesn’t answer; instead he lolls back on the settee, a stupid grin on his face.
‘Daz,’ Brad repeats, firmer, louder. Daz moves his head in Brad’s direction as
though he’s heard a noise and is trying to locate it.

‘You
gotta keep the questions simple,’ I say to Brad, ‘questions he can only say yes
or no to.’

Brad
nods and leans a little closer to Daz. ‘Daz, ye scrawny wee fuck, do ye know a
cop called MacIntyre?’

‘Aye.’

‘Are
ye MacIntyre’s grass?’ Brad’s eyes are like slits but it’s his smile that is
menacing. Daz finally locates where the voice is coming from and stares at
Brad’s mouth as he works out what he’s saying.

‘No!’

‘Does
MacIntyre give ye money for information?’

Daz,
still lip reading, gives a nod. ‘Aye.’

‘And
does that information sometimes get people arrested?’

A
nod.

‘Then
you’re a fuckin’ grass, ye wee prick.’

Daz,
starting to realise he’s in trouble, tries to back pedal: ‘Brad man, I never
telt him anything about ye.’

‘What
aboot him?’ Brad points at me, keeping his arm extended so that Daz can follow
the line of trajectory to my face. Daz grins at me sloppily. ‘Arright, man.’

‘Do
ye know his name, Daz?’ Brad prompts.

A
pause as though this is a trick question. ‘Naw.’

‘His
name is Davy.’ Brad informs him slowly, ‘But I think you already knew that.’

‘Nah,
man.’

The
woman jumps to her feet as though she’s remembered an urgent appointment.

‘We
need tae go, Daz.’ She tells him, folding her arms across herself as though
suddenly cold. Her face is flushed as she picks up the baby and dumps it in a
buggy, not one word spoken to it during the process of fastening him in.

Daz
slides to his feet, stupefied by the spliff but not so far gone he’ll miss his
Methadone.

‘Daz,
man, ye canny go yet,’ Brad reminds him, ‘I’m talkin’ tae ye.’

‘Need
to go now.’ Julie raises her voice to make her point.

‘Go
later, man.’ Brad’s voice is low, making his.

‘Canny
go later,’ Daz says hazily, ‘Julie’s tagged.’ He points to the band around
Julie’s ankle that makes sure she sticks to the curfew she’s been given.

‘Ye
better talk real fast then, Pal.’ Brad says chirpily and I swear his chirpy
voice makes my colon twitch.

Daz
looks from Brad to Julie, as though waiting to be told what to do next. Julie
tutts, grabbing Daz’s spliff and sucking on it to calm her nerves. The baby
slumps in his buggy, too lethargic to protest at being fenced in without the
benefit of being taken outside.

‘I
saw ye, Daz.’ I say quietly.

Daz
turns his head in my direction, tilting his head like a child looking at
something it can’t quite figure out.

‘Under
the Dean Bridge, in the toilets.’

I
sneak a look at Julie, who is oblivious to our conversation now her lungs are
full of dope.

‘Brad,
why don’t ye help Julie carry the pram downstairs?’ I suggest.

‘Ye
sure?’ He asks, eyeing me warily.

‘Aye.’
I smile to let him know everything’s sweet.

Brad
lifts the buggy and the baby under one arm, with the other he links Julie like
they’re old pals.

‘Fuckin’
hurry up, Daz.’ Julie snipes, but her heart isn’t in it. The baby chunners as
he is lifted down the stairs, excited at the prospect of a trip to the
pharmacy.

I
turn my attention to Daz.

‘Ye
gave that cop a blow job.’ I say quietly.

Daz
says nothing, just stares at my mouth as though he’s trying to keep up.

‘Daz,’
I say, louder this time, ‘Can ye hear me?’

A
nod.

‘Why
did ye give the cop a blow job?’

‘He
forced me.’ He says quietly, then, as though he’s just worked it out: ‘Is that
what ye want too?’

‘No,
Daz.’ I hay hurriedly, ‘I just want to know what he’s got over ye.’

Daz
shrugs, but on him it looks wrong, his shoulders and arms respond at different
levels of slowness. ‘I tell him stuff for money. Ye know, who’s been twockin’,
who’s fencing’ gear, he gives me a bit o’ cash now and then.’

‘So
why was he raging when you met him in the toilets the other day.’

Daz
looks blank, then nods once he’s caught up with my question.

‘Because
I owed him money. The garage I work for gives him cash to keep his nose out. Only
they give it to me to pass on to him. Not obvious like. The boss puts two
hundred quid in the petty cash every month, every month I take it out and give
it the cop. Only Julie found it in my pocket and thought it was mine. Went
mental till I said she could buy something nice with it.’

I
laugh, ‘I walked round the flat when I was looking for a nappy for the bairn.
There’s nothing nice here, Daz, what the fuck did ye get with it?’

He
grins then, like we’re playing some silly little guessing game so I hit him.

‘You
got off your faces on his ‘n hers smack, didn’t ye?’

Daz
doesn’t respond so I hit him again.

‘He
said he’d treat it as a sub as long as I gave him information about you, only I
didn’t have any!’ Daz yelps, raising his hands in slow motion.

‘Until
the day after the murders when ye hear I’ve gone missing!’ I yell, ‘Ye must

have
thought all your Christmases had come at once when Malkie rang telling ye he
was selling some gear for me.’

‘Aah,
right. Malkie.’

‘Yeah,
Malkie! He calls you up to let you know he’s got some gear only the best bit is
he’s got it off me.’

‘He
said ye were coming back later for the money!’

‘So
ye score some smack off him, then ring MacIntyre to tell him where to find me,
are ye for real?’

‘I
didn’t know he was going to kill anyone! I swear on ma bairn’s life!’

‘The
bairn ye canny look after properly!’ I shout.

It’s
only when Brad grips my shoulders and wrenches me away from Daz that I realise
I’m beating the shit out of him.

Ken’s
waiting outside in his cab. If he saw Daz stumble out of the tenement behind us
wiping blood from his mouth he doesn’t let on. Daz hurries to catch up with
Julie, slipping a scrawny arm around her waist. A happy wee family on a trip
out for their meds.

‘Leave
it.’ Brad warns me, as though he thinks I’ll run after Daz to finish what I’d
started upstairs. He’s wrong. I beat up a junkie; I’m wondering how much lower
I can get.

‘C’mon,’
Brad says. He places his hand on my arm, easing up the pressure a notch, ‘Ye
got what ye wanted from him.’

Ken
catches my eye as I climb into the cab. He nods, smiling:

‘Mission
accomplished!’ He says brightly and that’s just about the best news I’ve heard
in a long time. ‘What’s that then?’ Brads asks, looking from Ken to me, but I’m
having none of it. ‘Nothing.’ I say quickly, unwilling to jinx the moment.

‘How
did ye get on boys?’ Ken asks, as he pulls out into the traffic.

Brad’s
sitting in the front passenger seat so I lean forward between his and the
driver’s seat to run through what we’ve established so far: ‘Mo’s willing to
make a statement confirming he saw MacIntyre getting into a car just up the
road from Jude’s place not long after she and the twins were murdered. He
already told this to the polis when they turned up the next day to interview
him but they didn’t take down anything he said.’