Beast of Burden (33 page)

Kennedy didn't say anything. Standing there watching us with a thin smile on his lips. But his eyes didn't seem amused. His eyes told us he wanted to punt us into the middle of next week.

“You've known for a while, I'm not like you people. This is just another example. I go out there — I went out there — and I fuckin' investigated this the best I could, and what did I come up with? A solid suspect who just confessed to me with witnesses. And you've been at this just as long, with the kind of resources you have, what've you got?”

I opened my arms.

“You got me. Standing here in front of an empty club.”

“And a suspect who looks like he's been worked over to within an inch of his life.”

“I didn't do that.”

“Wouldn't be the first time you did do it.”

“Ask the constable.”

“I will. Once we have you in custody.” He nodded at PC John, who came towards us with the cuffs.

“Uh-huh, now here's a thing, Constable. You think you're putting them cuffs on us, you can also think about me knocking your fuckin' teeth out.”

“Come on, Donkey, how's that the sensible option, assaulting a police officer?”

“You don't arrest
me
.” I moved out of the way of PC John, dropped my ciggie, and pointed at him. “Hang on to yourself there, mate. What's the fuckin' charge?”

“Obstruction of justice do you?” said Kennedy.

“No. It's a bullshit charge.”

“Assault on Innes?”

“Can't prove that.”

“Or how's about,” said Kennedy, “we just pop down the nick and work through your story, see if we can't find something to pin on you. That's the way you work, isn't it?”

“Fuck yourself.”

“You sober, Iain? I'm guessing you might've had a couple pints, maybe a short or two, a touch of the Dutch courage. So I'm thinking—

“You're thinking drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace, you can fuck right off.”

PC John came at us then. I thought about smacking him in the face, but once I'd let the idea roll around my head for a few seconds, I realised I couldn't do it. Couldn't give Kennedy the satisfaction of bringing us in on something proper. Because this entire thing was fucking bullshit, and it was all more evidence for Kennedy being bent as a nine-bob note. Because the only person that could've plausibly worked over Innes was Morris Tiernan, and this fucker wanted to make sure I wasn't going to blab about it.

Well, I'd make sure to convince him of that.

Then I'd have his fucking job.

So I held out my hands, let the constable cuff us. He was a good lad; he didn't do it too tight or anything. Then he steered us towards the back of Kennedy's Rover.

“You understand my position, Iain,” said Kennedy. “If I let you roam free on this, you'll fuck it all up. Because that's what you are — a fuck-up. It's in your nature. You never succeeded in a single thing your entire life. Only way you managed to hold on to your job was because of your grasses. Imagine that, eh? Only reason you had a job was because of shit like Paddy Reece. Next time you see him, you should probably thank him.”

“Rather hang with shit like Reece than the turd you work for,” I said.

Kennedy opened the back door to his car, the constable putting a hand on the back of my head. Guided us into the back of the car and was about to shut the door on us when Kennedy held him back, told him to get settled in the driver's seat. Then he leaned in to the back of the car.

This was it. This was him telling us that he was going to kill us, something to drop him in it, admit he was working for Tiernan. Christ, I wished I had a tape recorded on us to capture it, ready for when I put my appeal in, assuming I managed to get that far.

I would. I knew I would. I was strong. Not like Innes.

“Callum Innes didn't kill Mo Tiernan,” said Kennedy.

“That right?”

“Yeah. You know who did?”

“Who?”

Kennedy smiled. “Mo Tiernan.”

“Fuck off.” I couldn't help myself laughing. “You're out of your fuckin' mind.”

“Oh, we know Innes beat the
corpse
up, but he didn't
kill
him.”

I sniffed, cleared my throat, but I was still smiling as Kennedy put his hand on the roof of the car, leaned further.

“You see, if you'd been doing your job like us
wankers
, Iain, you'd have been allowed on the actual crime scene. And if you'd been allowed on the crime scene you would've seen the blood and everything, right enough, but you
also
would've seen the empty wraps lying around the place, and the pin cushion your boy Mo made out of his arm.”

“Mo wasn't a smackhead,” I said. “He dealt uppers. Didn't bother with smack.”

“Official cause of death was overdose.”

I shook my head. “He didn't do it.”

“Just started. Must've had a reason. Maybe he was in pain, wanted to end it.”

I stared at him, my mouth open. “Mo fuckin' Tiernan?”

“People change.”

Kennedy slammed the door shut. I watched him go round the car, get into the passenger side. He grabbed his seatbelt, nodded at PC John to start the engine.

I stared out the window for a long time as we drove back to the nick.

It was all bullshit, what Kennedy said. As much as it started to make sense in the back of my mind, I refused to believe it. Innes confessed to Mo Tiernan's murder, loud and clear. Let Kennedy explain that. A fucking confession, right from the horse's mouth. Then I realised that Kennedy didn't need to explain nowt. He'd already made his arrest, and he had Adams and PC John as back-up. Whatever Innes said, it was long forgotten.

But I knew better.

Innes killed Mo Tiernan.

Kennedy was bent as fuck.

And people didn't fucking change.

INNES

There's a copper in the back of the ambulance. He's watching Paulo and trying to ignore me.

I'm used to that.

Paulo's on my right side. I think he's holding my hand.

Poof.

Tiernan needed a name. He has one now.

“Callum.”

Paulo will be okay. That's all that matters.

“Callum.”

I move my head slightly. Look at him.

I hear him say, “Thanks.”

His lips don't move.

So maybe he doesn't say that after all.

DONKIN

The sun was out for the funeral. Even God was chuffed that this one wasn't trampling over His nice green earth anymore.

Still, I never expected him to die. Didn't think the blokes that beat the shit out of him did, either. He was dumped outside the poof's gym for a reason. A warning not to mess. Whether it had anything to do with Mo Tiernan, I didn't know for sure. Probably. Wasn't going to bother my arse to find out, though.

Not now they'd fucking canned us.

It was Kennedy, of course. Couldn't handle being told off, couldn't handle that I knew more about what happened than him, and that Innes wanted to confess to me and only me. The fucking disciplinary about Paddy Reece was nothing more than a formality with Kennedy's oar in there.

Fuck it, they'd wanted us out for ages. Brass just saw their chance and took it.

No job meant no Annie. It'd be official soon enough.

There weren't many people turned up for the funeral. The poof, obviously. The big lad, Frank Collier. A young lad I heard the poof call Liam, and a couple of other lads from the gym who looked like they'd been dragged there. I didn't spot any family. To be honest, I didn't know if Innes had any apart from his brother.

Nobody cried.

From the turnout, it would've been weird if they did.

I hung back at the edges, in the shade. Meant I didn't get too warm. Dressed in my one good suit, and I didn't want to get too sweaty else I'd have to dry clean the fucker. When they finished putting Innes in the ground, I rolled a cigarette and started walking.

Didn't get far before I heard the poof's voice.

“You couldn't stay away, could you?”

I turned, pulled the cigarette out of my mouth, blowing smoke at the same time. Didn't know what to say to him. Didn't want to say anything.

But he was standing there, waiting for an answer.

“I'm sorry for your loss?” I said.

“You still on the force?” said the poof.

“No.”

“Kicked you out?”

“That's right.”

“So I won't be seeing you round the club anymore.”

“Yeah.” I spat tobacco onto the ground, immediately wished I hadn't from the look I got. “I didn't mean—”

The poof moved his shoulders like he was ready to take a swing at us. And he could've done, no worries. Not like I was going to arrest him. He could've had a free shot, and with the lads coming up from the grave now, they could've watched his back when I hit back.

But he never took the chance. Something stopped him, made him settle back. Still that sour look on his face, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. The lads passed by. Frank Collier didn't even glance at us, looked like a kid in a huff.

“You got a hole in your sleeve,” said the poof.

Then he walked off before I got a chance to reply. Good job, too. Because I was all set to tell him I wasn't sorry for his loss, I was sorry for
my
fucking loss. Wasn't like I wanted Innes dead; I just wanted the cunt behind bars where he belonged.

Just because he was dead, didn't make him a fucking angel.

But that's what you got for being polite. I watched him get into a taxi outside the cemetery, watched it pull away.

Then I went down to the grave. Took it slow because it was a hill and the shoes I was wearing didn't have grips anymore. The grave side was empty. The priest had done a runner back to the church. Something about that service was awkward for the bloke, like he wasn't sure if he was burying a poof or not.

I looked at the dirt, then I checked my sleeve.

Right enough, there was a massive hole in the elbow.

I wondered how long it had been there. How many times I'd worn my one good suit not knowing it was ruined.

Felt like a right cunt. I'd gone to job interviews like this.

Then I realised why the poof hadn't clocked us. He'd taken one look at that hole, didn't think I was worth the hassle. Like whatever had happened since that night made us a fucking derelict, one step from a ranting drunk on a street corner, like I'd lost my fucking mind or something, couldn't be trusted to take care of myself.

I blew smoke, realised my eyes hurt. Wasn't long after that, my throat started to hurt too.

I was still worth the hassle. Fuck him.

I smoked the rest of my roll-up, swallowed the pain at the back of my throat. I wiped the water from my eyes, then ditched the butt into the dirt. It sat there smoking by itself for a while, and I sniffed. I watched it till the smoke faded away, until I managed to get myself sorted.

Somewhere I heard a bird that sounded like it was laughing.

I looked at the dirt.

“Fuck you an' all.”

Beast of Burden
is the final novel in the Cal Innes Quartet, the other three titles being
Saturday's Child, Sucker Punch
and
No More Heroes.
If you're looking for more Cal Innes, there's also
Dirty Work: The Collected Short Stories
.

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