Beast of Burden (12 page)

Innes tried to keep his face straight, but I could see something fizz.

“He did top himself, didn't he?” I said. “You wouldn't have had anything to do with it?”

“No.”

“That's a shame,” I said, blowing more smoke at him. “So what were you doing in that block of flats, then?”

Blindsided the bastard; he never expected that.

“Following up,” he said.

“On what?”

“A lead.”

“What fuckin' lead?”

He looked back at the flats, and I watched that half-smile tug at his cheek. “You wouldn't … be interested.”

“Try us.”

He turned back to me. “It's a case. I'm working on.”

“A case? You still up to your neck in that, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Who for?”

He paused, looked like he was thinking about it. Then he said, “Morris Tiernan.”

My turn to pause. I wanted to tell him he was full of shite, but there was a look in his eyes that meant he wasn't. Still, I had to ask. “Serious?”

He nodded. I looked over at the flats. After everything I heard about Innes, the last person I expected he'd take a job off was Morris Tiernan. If this was back in the day, then fine, okay, I could expect it — this twat wasn't too picky about working the dodgy jobs back then. But since he got out? No. It was what made him resistant to being a proper grass. If he wasn't up to anything untoward, I couldn't threaten him with prison, could I?

“What you doing for him?”

Again, he said, “Confidential.”

“C'mon, son, you know there's nowt confidential with me. I out-rank you. I mean, you want us to haul you up the nick, I can do that. But you're going to have to let us know if you're on any meds, just in case we accidentally forget to let you have them when you're supposed to.”

“You don't have to … do that.”

“No, I don't, you're right. But I can.”

He cleared his throat again, second time since he saw me, there must've been something wrong with his lungs. I could see him running his options, maybe even rehearsing a couple of lies in his head, just to see how they sounded. Normally I would've cut those thoughts right off, nip it in the bud, save us all some time, but I knew Innes wasn't daft. He already knew I was a one-man lie detector, so it wasn't worth him working his bastard ticket.

“Mo,” he said.

“What about him?”

“He's missing. I'm working on … finding him.”

“Right.”

He jerked a thumb at the flats. “This here is … his
last
known.”

“You find him?”

He didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then he nodded. “I think so.”

“Where?”

“In there.”

“So that's you finished, then, isn't it? Job's a fuckin' good 'un.”

“Yup.” The smile returned. “Course, he's dead.”

I looked at him. The smile almost gone to a grin, like he was having fun with us. And for no good reason other than that, I was ready to belt fuck out of him. But I kept it down, dropped my ciggie onto the ground, and said, nice and low, “He's dead.”

“Up there, yeah.” Innes rubbed his cheek. “You should …
investigate
. Make your career.”

“What you being a smartarse for?”

“I'm not.”

“Sound like a cheeky cunt.”

“Telling you … the truth.
Detective
.”

Acting the twat, alright, and why? What, because he was working for Tiernan he thought he could get away with it? I smiled, he half-smiled back, and I turned away from him for a second. Took a deep breath in through my nose, held it, then turned back and smacked Innes in the face. Snapped the cunt's neck round and bust his mouth at the same time. He let out this grunt, bounced off the side of his car. Planted his stick on the ground so he wouldn't fall.

I thought about kicking it away, but I didn't fancy helping him back up. And my conscience would make us do that.

He half-stood there, leaning against the stick, rubbing his face. Looking at the ground like,
what the fuck was that for?

I got in close again, smelled blood on him. “You're a cheeky cunt, Innes.” Slapped him soft to get his attention, made him look us in the eyes. Rammed a finger against the side of his head. “You should know better an' all. You can fuckin' limp all you want, but you don't get a mong pass out of me, son. You act the smartarse, you'll get slapped like one.”

He nodded, kept dabbing at his lip with the sleeve of his jacket.

I shoved him against his car. “Now fuck off out of it.”

He watched us.

“I mean it, fuck off. Out of my fuckin' sight.”

Innes pulled open his car door, then suddenly let go of it like it was hot. I wondered why, then realised he probably reckoned I was going to kick it again. Meant he was back scared of us again.

I stopped halfway to the Granada, turned back to him. “One more thing.”

He was already in his car, looking at us through the windscreen.

“I hear you been spreading shite about us again, I'll ram that walking stick up your arse, alright?”

He looked confused.

“I'm watching you,” I said.

Innes nodded, started the engine. I didn't get into the Granada until I was sure he was gone. Then I looked up at the block of flats. Place looked like it stank from foundation to roof. Nah, there was no way I was going in there, not even on the slim chance that Innes was telling us the truth. He was just fucking us about. So I got into my car, turned the key.

I had cans at home, but they didn't seem too appetising. Took too long to get pissed on them, anyway. So I decided I'd go round the Bell on Hope Street. That place was always having lock-ins. Maybe I'd have a word with the landlord, scare up one of them big bottles of Grouse. This job had to have some perks.

Either way, I needed some booze in my system. I blamed Innes. That bastard had a way of killing a buzz.

INNES

Five minutes by my watch, and then Donkey's Granada pulls out from the car park in front of Sutpen Court. The car kangaroo-jumps once as he accidentally stalls it, then heads out towards the main road. I wind down the driver's window, lean out to see the brake lights kick in as Donkey approaches a junction.

Then he's gone.

My face hurts. Honestly didn't expect Donkey to punch me like that. I'd get a slap, maybe. A stern word, certainly. I was angling for both, but the jab in the mouth was still a surprise. But then it was my own fucking fault, should've seen from the moment Donkey made his presence known that he was pissed up and spoiling for a fight.

He was following me, though. Must've been. And I didn't see him until he wanted me to. Which makes my gut twitch and the rest of me paranoid.

Of course, that's what he wanted me to think. First I saw of him, I thought that was it, the game was up. But then as soon as he let that punch fly, I realised he didn't know a thing. He was just pissed off that I'd been out of his orbit for so long.

So I should be relaxed about the situation, but I'm still coming down, mopping the last of the blood from my split lip and watching a dead road.

It was a stupid move to tell him what I was doing there. Even dafter to tell him that I'd found Mo dead. But the thing is about Donkey, he's never believed I was much of a PI, so it stands to reason that he doesn't think I'm clever enough to find a body without the police finding it first. I can understand that. But then Donkey wouldn't have found Mo's body with a fucking map, X marking the spot, not without having it verified first by his network of grasses.

And that's the point. Donkey's always puffing himself up about how he can sniff out a liar, and the truth is he's just playing the odds. If most of the people you come into contact with lie to you, then you're not going to believe the truth if you hear it right off the bat. Besides, there's no way Donkey'd climb six flights on a tip from me. But if I'd lied about it, that'd be me in a cell right now. And once that bastard gets you in custody, that's you charged with whatever he can get, no matter how ridiculous. Longer he keeps you in there, the more likely it is he'll find out what you're really feeling guilty about. It's an old tactic.

I pull out my mobile, look at the display, then stare into the middle distance.

Donkey can place me at the scene. And he'll remember what I told him, especially when it proves to be true. When he gets an official whiff of a corpse, he's going to come at me like a fucking bull.

I could walk away right now. It's what I should do.

But I can't. Because if I do, I don't want to think about what'll happen.

I put my mobile back in my jacket pocket. I can't do it on my mobile anyway. They'll keep a log of the numbers, and I wouldn't put it past Donkey to do some extra-curricular investigation as soon as he's convinced that I'm involved.

Start the engine, put the car into gear and pull out. Thinking it through at the same time. Weighing up my options.

He knows I got the last known address from someone. So if he finds out about Mo, chances are he'll come round to twist a name out of me, along with any other information he thinks is necessary. Then it's a question of whether I give him Baz or Rossie. Donkey's always carried a half-on for making me his grass. Might be time to give the bastard what he wants.

But first things first.

I pass a phone box. Carry on up the road and turn off at the first corner, kill the engine. Sit for a moment, psyching myself up, then get out of the car. I look around the street — dead this time of night. Not a light in any of the windows. No witnesses, though there's always a chance that someone around will find me suspicious. After all, you use a phone box these days, you're probably up to something. Otherwise you'd use your mobile.

And if you don't have a mobile?

Well then, there's
definitely
something the matter with you.

I stop in the middle of the street, light a cigarette. Like everything else, I'm not supposed to be smoking, and like everything else I'm not supposed to be doing, I couldn't give a fuck. What doesn't kill me makes me stronger.

Yeah, says the bloke with the fucking walking stick.

I stroll to the phone box as nonchalantly as I can, get the cold night air in my gills. Then I finish off the rest of the cigarette, flick it out into the middle of the street, and pull open the door to the booth.

Stand in the dark, practising what I have to say. Repeat it in my head, then whispering it to myself. Over and over, until it's less a collection of words than it is a string of connected sounds, like a song with nonsense lyrics. Someone in prison once told me that the secret to forging a signature was to turn it upside down and draw it. Once the words have no meaning, they're easier to deal with. It's same principle I use when I have to say a glut of words in one go.

I pick up the receiver, call the emergency services.

I need to report a dead body. I need to report a dead body. I need to report a dead body.

When the bored operator asks me who I need, I take a short breath and say, “Police.”

I need to report a dead body. I need to report a dead body. I need to report a dead body.

When the police operator answers, I get to say it: “I need to report a dead body.”

This operator also has a bored tone to her voice, like I should've dialled the number they save for bin fires and noisy neighbours. “What's the address?”

I haven't practised this. A punch of panic in the chest, and I can't breathe. Stupid, should've sounded this out to myself. I fumble the address out of my pocket, can't see it properly in the gloom.

“Hello?”

My mouth is open, but sound refuses to come out. And I've got to say something soon, or else I'm sure they'll trace the call. And I'm nowhere near Sutpen Court now.

“Miles. Platting,” I say.

“Right,” she says.

“Sut …
pen
.”

The word comes out like a wet sheet. I put the receiver down, breathe out. That wasn't good. Should've practised more. The idea was when I called in the corpse, I would pass for a normal human being, that I wouldn't sound like such a fucking spastic.

That I wouldn't sound like
me
.

I shake my head, fight the rising urge to kick the phone off the wall with my good foot. Then I lean the door open, dig the address into my pocket and grab my cigarettes at the same time. I light one as I pick up the pace back to my Micra. Keeping an eye on the street as I limp along. I don't think anyone saw me, but the way tonight's been going, I wouldn't be surprised.

You can't afford to slip, Callum
.

I know I can't.

Not now
.

I know.

Too important to fuck up, mate
.

I
know
.

Can't leave anything to chance, not anymore. Did that once, and look where it got me. So I need to plan, I need to wake up, and I need to be clever about this whole thing, otherwise it's going to gut me. And if that doesn't happen, if the truth comes out, even some
version
of it, I'm sure Tiernan will have some special punishment he reserves for people like me.

I get back to the car, shove myself in behind the wheel. Lay my stick down on the passenger seat and look at it for a long time. Trying to think of all the things I may have fucked up because I was recognisable on the phone. Trying to work it all out when it feels as if my brain's already shut up shop for the night.

It's okay. It'll all be fine. Stick with the plan, and there's nothing I can't sort out along the way. I just need to be more careful in future. Not rely so much on all those handy little things I used to be able to do.

I twist the key in the ignition. The engine shakes into life.

Yeah, it'll all be fine.

That's why I can't see myself getting out of this alive.

My mum, for all her pinched Catholicism, wanted Declan buried. No son of hers, no matter what had happened to him (or, more importantly, what he'd done to himself), was going to be kept from a proper service.

So Kenny lied to the priest, told him it was an accidental overdose instead of a suicide. The priest played up to it, but he wasn't bothered how Declan had died. After all, you couldn't be a Leith priest for as long as he had without burying a few suicides, and he knew the grey areas better than anyone — there were council-owned needle bins on the gates to the graveyard. Like everyone else, as long as he got paid, he was fine.