terms.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning leave that to me… Be ready to go when I say.’
A grin spread over Mac’s face: he scented blood. ‘Should we get tooled up?’
I thought it might not be a bad idea, but an image flashed of Arnie with that coffin full of shooters in Terminator 3, said, ‘I’m not planning to knock the fuckers off here. I’m only trying to get Fitz to open his eyes. The filth are looking the other way. Fitz the Crime’s got it into his head that he’s going to nab the Undertaker and get himself some new stripes. There’s more going on here… much more.’
‘Like what?’ said Hod.
‘I don’t know, I just can’t get a handle on it yet. Davie Prentice is sweating now because he knows we’re close to the truth and the Czechs are maybe sweating too if they topped Andy… I just need to draw them out into the open and hope that it comes good. If we get them rattled any more then something might fall out.’
Mac was in favour of more direct action. ‘Why don’t we just burst this Radek? All these hard nuts are pretty tinpot once you get the pliers on their pods.’
‘And what if he holds out, or we go too far? He might just be the only one who knows who did off Michael. Trust me on this, Mac, I have to find my brother’s killer, not just any killer. And when I do, there’ll be plenty of opportunity to bust heads.’
Hod slapped the table. ‘Count me in.’
I looked at Mac, said, ‘Well?’
He nodded. ‘Aye, fucking right I’m in.’
Chapter 24
I told Mac and Hod to keep their mobiles on and be ready to nash when I called. I didn’t know when the opportunity I needed would present itself, but if it didn’t, I’d have to make it happen. And soon.
As I crossed the road I caught sight of a newsagent’s bill. It screamed at me: CITY BUSINESSMAN MURDERED.
Rasher had got his headline.
I went into the shop and picked up the Hootsman, read the byline first — old habits die hard. It was one of the new batch of college interns, I didn’t know her. I thanked Christ I was no longer a hack: her intro read like shit. A worn cliched comma-splice. If I was still holding down a desk, I’d be chucking up in one of its drawers about now.
The paper had obviously very little to go on. They’d run a few inches on the murder in the Meadows earlier but now the police had released Michael’s name and the fact that he was a prominent local businessman. The wannabe reporter speculated wildly about the investigation, great swathes of editorialising that made me wince. But the thrust of the tale was factual. Fitz had given them a bland statement that read: ‘Police are following a definite line of inquiry.’
Thought: Boilerplate. Is there a file they cut and paste this pish from?
No one had bought the mugging-gone-wrong cover story; it had backfired on the force for sure. Fitz knew by now he was going to be taking pelters from the Hootsman if he didn’t have a suspect soon, someone in custody, charges laid.
I read on, shaking my head, said, ‘Fucking hell.’
The bloke on the counter looked up, went, ‘You buying that? If you’re no’ then the library’s down the road.’
I folded it up, whacked it down, said, ‘How much is it?’
‘Seventy-five pence.’
I frowned: the cover price went up as the standard of reporting nosedived. Another casualty of our tragic times.
I handed over a quid, got my change thrown at me with a sarcastic ‘Have a nice day.’
The mid-Atlantic drawl was beginning to get on my tits, big time. Someone was going to get slapped in the puss giving me those imported tropes. I turned quickly, headed for the door.
‘Wait a minute,’ the shopkeeper said. I looked around — the place was empty. He called me back.
I turned, said, ‘What you want?’
He bent under the counter and took out a shoebox, removed the lid. ‘Want to buy some cheap razors?’ He held up a pack, obviously knock-off, Gillette Mach 3.
‘How much?’
‘Fiver for ten.’
These things went for three times that. I took a box, passed over the cash, said, ‘Where’d you get them?’
He touched the side of his nose. ‘Ask no questions.’
It seemed policy.
As I got my razors in a brown paper bag, the shopkeeper said, ‘Hang about.’ He dipped under the counter again, produced another shoebox. Inside sat pairs of ladies’ stockings. ‘Want some tights?’
I looked at him. ‘You wha’?’
‘Nylons…’
I shook my head. ‘Has the Luftwaffe been back?’
He looked scoobied. ‘Eh?’
I said, ‘Have we reversed all the way to 1944?’
He put the lid on the box, curled his mouth at me.
I left the shop with my newspaper tucked under my arm and my razors shoved to the bottom of my pocket.
Outside a glimmer of sunshine winked through the clouds. It threw me. I felt more comfortable with the grey skies and the freezing-cold winds battering. The hint of warmth made me anxious, as though there was a trick being played. The snow on the roofs had started to melt and every so often it came crashing in great lumps to the street. Drainpipes overflowed and flooded the pavements. I knew if the temperature dropped again it would bring a freeze, folk saying, It’s like an ice rink out there.
As I crossed the road to the car, a maroon bus sprayed black slush at me. It splashed on my coat and trousers. I shot a finger at the driver but he missed it, or pretended to. The wetness was seeping through to my legs already.
At the car I expected Usual to be jumping up and down, barking at me. But he was nowhere to be seen. I thought he must be sleeping so I crept up to try and surprise him. He never stirred. As I looked in the window I couldn’t see him at all. My heart rate ramped up, thought: Christ, he’s been taken.
I looked in the back and saw no sign of him, then I went to the driver’s window — it was smeared with blood all along the edge where I had left it open an inch. The blood had dripped down in thick streaks and dried on the glass. I couldn’t get my head around what might have happened. Fuck, where was he? I suddenly caught sight of Usual’s back legs sticking out from under the front passenger seat. He lay flat on his belly, a position I’d never seen him in before.
I rooted in my pocket for the keys, my hands trembling as I sprung the lock, opened up.
‘Usual… Usual… come here, boy.’
He didn’t move.
I wondered if he’d been wounded.
‘Fucking hell, have you been hurt, boy?’
I crouched down, tried to pull him out from under the seat as gently as possible. My mind raced with all kinds of thoughts.
Had he been knifed?
Had he been shot?
Holy shit, someone had got to him.
