keys in the palm of my hand, stare at my car. The metal part of the key is cold against my skin.
‘We’re all really sorry,’ says the receptionist. She’s been saying that on and off for the past ten minutes. I’m getting a little sick of being apologised to.
‘Not a problem,’ I say.
My warhorse Micra. The windscreen’s still in one piece, as are the wing mirrors. The bodywork is fine apart from that prang.
But someone’s taken a spray to the paintwork and a blade to the front two tyres. Across the side of the car in stark red letters it reads: ‘RIP’.
“I think it might be a tag,’ says the receptionist. ‘Some of the kids round here have them.’
“I think it’s Rest In Peace, but thanks anyway.’
“I didn’t want to say that,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘Easy for you to say. It’s not your car.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Yeah, I know.’ I crouch down by the side of the car. The front two tyres, they’re shredded. Someone took their time over this.
“I mean, we have CCTV,’ she says. ‘We’ll be forwarding the tapes to the police.’
‘Don’t bother,’ I say. ‘It’s not worth it. Only a couple of tyres.’
Put the rubber together, you’d have a Westwood dress.
Carved up.
“I hope this won’t reflect badly on us.’
‘It doesn’t reflect badly on you, love. It reflects badly on this shithole area.’
Back in reception, I leaf through the Yellow Pages, find a garage in Benton and give them a ring. It’ll cost me, they say.
If I want them today, that is. And am I sure I want them to pick the car up from the middle of town? That’ll cost too. I mean, they really want to be sure. The mechanic’s voice has a twist of amusement about it, like he can’t believe the kind of fish he’s got on the line.
I’m sure. But there’s one thing: I want a lift to Benton.
‘Oh aye, that’s not a problem, mate.’
‘It better not be, the amount you’ll skin me out of.’
Just because the Micra’s out of action, doesn’t make me a cripple. I still have work to do, still have questions that need to be answered. And I don’t have much time.
Somehow that pissed-off dealer found out where I was staying, found out which car was mine and decided to take a knife to the – wheels. If he’d left well enough alone, I wouldn’t have been that arsed to wrap this up.
But you mess with a man’s motor, you get his attention.
From what I’ve seen of Newcastle, it’s populated with the same kind of narrow-minded scallies we have in Manchester. But at least when it rains back home, it really rains.
I turn to the receptionist. ‘I’ll be checking out today.’
She nods to herself. It’s like she snapped out of sympathy, become this sterile jobsworth. I don’t care, though. If they know where I’m staying, then it’s just a matter of time before they get in my room, if they haven’t already. And I don’t want to be at the mercy of anyone.
It was the wind, Cal. Don’t think so much.
I open my wallet, take out Donna’s number, think about a pint. It’s still too early, and I’ve got too much to do. Christ, I wish I’d met her somewhere else down the line. Somewhere I wasn’t acting like a complete prat, playing detective. I crumple up her number, stick it in my back pocket and make a mental note not to take it out the next time I wash these jeans.
In my room, I pack the holdall and make sure I’ve got everything I came in with. Back out on reception the braided blonde hands me the bill and I pay it, no questions asked.
Then I’m out on the street, waiting on the tow truck. I light up and think I couldn’t be fucking this up more.
I’m not a private investigator. That’s a fact. I’m a guy who tells people he’s a PI, and that’s as far as it goes. The job’s not something I ever really wanted to do, but I admit that urban white-knight shit appealed after a while. I started off running errands for Paulo. Not much, really. If a kid didn’t turn up to the club, he’d send me out after him, bring him back in.
Sometimes they’d kick up a fuss, but most of the time they didn’t reckon on Paulo sending someone after them. Those kids, they were used to pansy social workers, men and women getting paid too little to care too much. As long as they weren’t robbing cars or shoplifting, the social couldn’t care less. And why should they? Those poor bastards had enough on their books. What the kids didn’t realise, though, was that the club was a labour of love for Paulo. He lost one kid, he lost a bit of himself.
And the job progressed from there. I got good at tracking down ex-offenders, maybe because I was one. This guy, Don Plummer, he was a local landlord. Had some houses in Hulme and Moss Side, a couple more in Longsight. And sometimes, he had problem tenants. I did him a legit favour every now and then by handing over eviction notices. Paulo didn’t mind. It was legal, and it kept me working.
These things snowball. Next thing I know, I’m calling myself a PI and getting all kinds of shit for it. Donkey on my back for one.
I look up the street, see my lift coming over the hill. I nod to the driver as the truck pulls into the carpark. A skinny guy with a belly that looks like he’s smuggling a bowling ball under his shirt gets out and looks at my car with practised disgust.
‘Now that’s a shame,’ he says. ‘That’s a real shame.’
‘Yeah, it’s all I can do to keep the tears in,’ I say.
He looks at me. When he realises I’m not serious, he sets about hooking the Micra to the truck. I get in and it’s a short drive to Benton. Once we’re at the garage, the skinny guy joins his colleagues and they take turns in surveying the damage. A chorus of tuts and sighs, the usual mechanic beatbox karaoke.
‘I know it’s bad,’ I say. ‘But you’ve got a day to replace the tyres. How’s about that?’
‘What about the paintwork?’ says the skinny guy.
‘I couldn’t give a fuck. You just sort me out with some tyres.’ I give him my mobile number and tell him to give me a call when the car’s ready to go.
‘We got other jobs on, mate. We can’t just drop everything.’
‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ I say as I walk out the door.
I light another Embassy as I head down the main road, away from the Metro station. Once I’ve got the cigarette on the go, I fish around for my mobile and call Donkey. Best to get this out of the way. It’s the last thing I want to do, but I might as well do something for Paulo.
‘Detective Sergeant Ian Donkin,’ he says. His phone voice is official. For a moment I think I’m talking to a real copper instead of a fuck-up with a badge.
‘It’s Cal Innes,’ I say.
‘Innes, where the fuck are you, son?’
‘You know where I am, Detective.’
‘Nah, I mean it. Where the fuck are you? You any idea what kind of trouble you’re in?’
‘I thought you were keeping an eye on me.’
‘Don’t play funny buggers, Innes. I find you, you’re in custody. And your poof mate won’t be able to suck your way out of it, either.’
Poof mate. I’m sure Paulo’d get a kick out of that. And he’d aim it for Donkey’s teeth, most likely. ‘What’s the deal with the tail, Donkey?’
‘What tail?’
‘The lad in the black leather jacket. The lad that smelled like the inside of a black maria.’
‘Where are you?’
‘You listening to me?’
‘Where are you? I’ll get someone to come and pick you up.’
‘Jesus, Donkey, you know where I am.’
‘If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.’
