SIXTEEN
The afternoon turns to early evening, rain to drizzle. I’ve been sitting in this car for two hours now with nothing to show for it apart from an empty pack of Embassy and a throaty cough.
Nothing stirring. I’ve toyed with the idea of calling Brenda Lang, find out what the score is, but decided against it. I don’t want to get any deeper. Right now, I’m innocent of everything.
If I start digging around, phoning her back, it won’t look good if this ever gets to court. No contact means no evidence. I’ve got to watch my arse when Donkey’s involved.
I get out of the car, stretch my legs. There’s no use waiting for a lead to drop into my lap. Something’s got to be done. I start walking towards the tattoo parlour, an idea growing in my head. If I can’t talk to the dealers and that barman’s nowhere to be seen, there’s always another option.
The bell rings as I push open the door. As I expected, the bionic girl is still behind the counter. And she’s still reading that same magazine. When she looks up, her eyes are bright blue.
Her nails are the same shade. She must change colours daily.
‘How you doing?’ I say.
‘Straight up the stairs, second door on your right,’ she says.
Then goes back to her magazine.
‘Nah, I’m not here to punt.’
‘You want a tattoo?’
‘Not today, no. I wanted a quick word with you, if that’s alright.’
‘What about?’ She looks suspicious.
‘You know what goes on up there. You know the staff. You know a guy called Rob Stokes?’
‘What’s he look like?’
‘I don’t know.’
She raises her eyebrows, then scans an article on body piercing. A photo of a guy with a face like a human gimp mask catches my eye. ‘Then I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
‘You never heard the name Rob Stokes.’
‘Nah.’
‘You hear anything about a guy doing a runner with casino money?’
‘You think I listen to what that lot say? They’re a bunch of arseholes.’
‘Couldn’t agree more. So you never heard the name, and you don’t know anything about it.’ It was worth a try.
‘Am I under arrest now?’ she says.
‘I’m not the plod, love.’
‘Then I really shouldn’t be speaking to you, should I?’
‘Yeah, you and everyone else,’ I say.
‘What do you do, then?’
‘I’m a private investigator.’
She starts laughing. Too long, too hard. But I’m used to it.
‘A PI? Jesus, I thought they was just in the pictures. Fuckin’ hell. Where’s your hat?’
“I left it in the car.’
‘And you’re tracking down this Rob fella.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re doing a shit job of it.’
‘I know. And thanks for your time.’ I turn to leave. Then: ‘D’you know Kev?’
‘The barman?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah, I know him. Proper sleazy bastard, that one. Keeps trying to get me to go out with him.’
‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Place called The Basement. It’s a proper dive.’
‘That’s his local, is it?’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘They try to get him to go somewhere else, he shits it. The place is his home away from home. He told us once that he missed a night and they called his flat looking for him. Like that’s something to boast about.’
I smile at her. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Brianna,’ she says. ‘Why?’
‘Brianna, you’re a fuckin’ doll.’
‘And you’re not my type.’
The Basement is a student bar, and it’s as rough as the name suggests. I get past the bouncer, a skinny lad with a nice line in gold teeth, and have to duck my head as I head down the stone steps to the bar. This place looks more like a cave than a basement, all chipped walls and dim light. In one corner, a small stage with a tinsel backdrop. On it is a guy who looks about eighty. He’s singing ‘Golden Brown’ as if it was an old fashioned love song. Beside him, a karaoke machine blinks like it’s on its last legs.
He gives me a nod as I head to the bar. I nod back, order a Coke. The place isn’t busy and I could have a long wait on Kev, if he shows up at all. Get my change and a filthy look from a blonde dreadlocked barman, take my drink to a table and sit down. It’s nicely shadowed here. I should be able to keep an eye on the door and not be seen.
The old guy finishes off his song with a flourish, then picks up a tumbler of whisky. He toasts us all, though most of us aren’t even looking at him. Then he downs the treble. From the karaoke machine, I can hear the opening bars to ‘Peaches’.
The guy’s a Stranglers fan, obviously. These days, somebody’s got to be.
I smoke a cigarette. Kev might not turn up. That’s a possibility.
Check my mobile again. Another message from Brenda Lang. I let it play and then save it.
Laters.
I sit there most of the night, sipping Coke and smoking.
Students come and go. One of them, a ruddy-faced Royal wearing a rugby shirt, starts taking the piss out of the singer. I feel like smacking his head in. Yeah, the old guy’s a drunk, but at least he’s not obnoxious.
The crooner launches into ‘Nice ‘n’ Sleazy’. The rest of the Royal’s group sing along but fuck up the words. I get out of my seat and order a treble as a sign of solidarity. At the bar, I catch the old guy’s eye and toast him. He toasts back, beaming from ear to ear. About time someone appreciated him.
The treble turns into another, this time with a pint. A few rounds later, and I’m starting to feel tired. My bones ache.
But I keep drinking. It’s something to do.
At two, the place starts to get busy. A group of guys wearing dicky bows make their presence known. I shake myself awake, try to focus on the bar. I should’ve stuck to the Coke.
Curse myself for being such a fucking drunk.
I get to my feet as I see Kev at the bar. Look around for the bouncer. Nowhere in sight. I didn’t expect Kev to come here with a minder, but I couldn’t be sure.
I shake the deadness out of my legs and walk over to the bar, sidle up next to him. Kev doesn’t notice me until I order a pint of Stella. Then I turn towards him, punch him playfully in the arm. ‘You never called me.’
His face goes white.
‘I’m beginning to think you don’t like me much, Kev. It’s almost as if you’re trying to avoid me.’
He makes a move to go. I pay for my pint with one hand and grab his arm with the other. ‘Where you going, mate? Me and you, we’re having a chat.’
‘Fuck off,’ he says.
‘Hey, c’mon, that’s no way to behave. I’ll tell you something because under that hard exterior I think you’re a decent human being. I’m not fucking about here, okay? I know you know something.’
