Now I knew why the big bouncer at the Lousy Hand seemed so familiar. It wasn’t because he was a regular in the Mexican restaurant downstairs from the office.
I’d once seen that photograph that Cherie kept in her bedroom. She’d shown me it when she’d asked me to hunt her husband down. He’d been in uniform, the maroon beret of the Paras cocked jauntily on his head. He’d been nearly ten years younger too. But that scar clinched it. The man who was fingering cars for Terry Fitz was none other than Crazy Eddy Roberts. At the very least, it was a strange coincidence.
It takes more than bereavement to divert small boys from arcade games. By the time they’d fought in the streets, driven several grand prix, played a round or two of golf and done enough terminating to get us jobs with Rentokil, the effects of the afternoon’s trauma had receded noticeably. When we all piled back into my car, the haunted look had left their eyes. I didn’t doubt that it was only a temporary respite, but even that was enough to ease my guilt at having taken advantage.
I dropped them off, promising that we’d keep in touch, then I drove Davy back to Alexis’s. Of course, he was fired with curiosity as to why they’d moved back to their house and why he was staying with them there instead of with me in Coverley Close. Luckily, he was tired enough to be fobbed off with the excuse that Alexis and Chris needed to be at home now they were back at work because all their clothes and stuff were there. Alexis greeted him like a long-lost friend and hustled him off to the spare room, where she’d moved the video and the portable TV from their bedroom. I made the coffee while she made sure he was sufficiently engrossed in
‘You all right, girl?’ Alexis asked when she returned. ‘You look about as lively as a slug in a salt cellar.’
‘Gee thanks. Remind me to call you next time my self-confidence creeps above the parapet. I’m just tired, that’s all. I’ve not had a decent night’s kip since last Wednesday.’
‘Why don’t you crash out here now? You can have the sofa bed in the study.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got to go and sit outside a house in the dark.’
‘Hey, the sofa bed’s not that bad,’ Alexis protested, joking. ‘I’ve slept there myself.’
‘Sorry to hear that, Alexis,’ I said, pretending deep concern. ‘I hadn’t realized your relationship was in such a bad way.’
‘Hey, carry on getting it that wrong and you could get a job on the
‘Tut-tut’ I scolded. ‘And you the one that’s always telling me how unfairly you journos are maligned for your inaccuracies. Anyway, enough of this gay repartee. I’ve got work to do, and you’ve got a child to mind. I’ll call you later.’ I headed for the door. ‘And Alexis? I know you probably think I’m over-reacting, but don’t open the door to anyone unless you know them.’ I was through the door before she could argue.
I got in the car, revved up noisily, and drove round the corner. I gave it a couple of minutes, then turned back on to Alexis’s street, stopping as soon as I had a clear view of the path leading to the house. I picked up my mobile and dialled a familiar number. It rang out, then I heard, ‘Hello?’
‘Dennis? It’s Kate. Are you busy tonight?’
‘I don’t have to be,’ he said, his voice too crackly for me to hear whether he sounded pissed off or not.
‘I need a major favour.’
‘No problem. Whereabout?’
I gave him brief directions and settled back to wait. OK, so I was being paranoid. But like they say, that doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. There was no way I was leaving this street until I was sure that Davy, not to mention Alexis and Chris, had someone to watch over them. And there was no minder I’d trust more than Dennis. He had an added advantage. Years of earning his living as a burglar had developed in him an astonishing ability to stay awake and alert long after the rest of us are crashed out snoring with our heads on the steering wheel. If he was sitting outside the house in his car, I’d feel a lot less worried about the possibility of Jammy James wanting to use me or Davy as a lever against Richard. Not that I believed for one minute that the demolition of my front door was a message from James. I just thought it was better to be safe than sorry. Or something.
While I was waiting, I wondered how Richard was coping. I felt bad about missing the evening’s visit, but I figured he could live without seeing me for a day. Whereas, if I didn’t do all I could to finger the people who were responsible for the holes in my door, he might have to get used to the idea of not seeing me again. Ever. It wasn’t a comforting thought.
The house on the corner of Oliver Tambo Close wasn’t the ideal place for a stake-out. The chip van’s presence meant a constant flow of people up and down the street, as well as the gang of local yobs who hung round the van every evening just for the hell of it. Add to that the general miasma of poverty and seediness up this end of the estate, and I knew without pausing to think that the Peugeot would stick out like a sore thumb as soon as that evening’s rock audience from the Apollo had gone home. I swung round by the office lock-up and helped myself to the Little Rascal van we’ve adapted for surveillance work.
I stopped behind the chip van, bought fish, chips and cholesterol and ostentatiously drove the Little Rascal back round the corner on to the street running at right angles to Oliver Tambo Close. From the tinted rear windows of the van, I had a perfect view of the house, front door and all. I pulled down one of the padded jump seats and opened my fragrant parcel. I felt like I’d done nothing but eat all day, yet as soon as I smelled the fish and chips, I was ravenous. I sometimes think we’re imprinted with that particular aroma while we’re still in the womb.
While I tucked in, I checked out the house. I’d once been inside one of the other houses on the estate demanding action against the toerag who’d been anti-social enough to smash my car window and walk off with my radio cassette. Sparky, who runs the car crime round here, wasn’t too pleased about a bit of private enterprise on his patch, especially from someone who was too stupid to work out which cars belonged to locals and which were fair game. Incidentally, he’s not called Sparky because he’s bright; it’s because he uses a spark plug whirling on the end of a piece of string to shatter car windows. Anyway, I thought it was fair to assume this house would have the same layout as Sparky’s. It looked the same from the outside, and Manchester City Council’s Housing Department has never been renowned for its imagination.
The door would open into a narrow hall, the kitchen off to the right and the living-room to the left. Behind the kitchen was the staircase, a storage cupboard underneath. I’d gone upstairs to use the bathroom and noted two other doors, presumably leading to bedrooms. That checked out with what I could see of the house on the corner. My job wasn’t made any easier by the vandals who had busted the streetlamp in front of it. I could see heavy curtains were drawn at every window, even the kitchen. That was unusual in itself. If you’ve
I could see a crack of light from a couple of the windows, but apart from that there was no sign of life until nearly half past ten. The front door opened a couple of feet and spilled a long tongue of pale light on to the path. At first, there was no one to be seen in the doorway, then, sudden as sprites in an arcade game, two kids barrelled down the hall and out on to the path. They were both boys, both good-looking in the way that most lads have grown out of by adolescence. Unfortunately for the teenage girls. I’d have put them around nine or ten, but I’m not the best judge of children’s ages. One had dark curls, the other had mousey brown hair cut in one of those trendy styles, all straight lines and heavy fringes that remind me of BBC TV versions of Dickens.
The two boys seemed in boisterous, cheerful moods, pushing each other, staggering about, giggling and generally horsing around. They stopped on the corner and pulled chocolate bars out of the pockets of their jeans. They stood there for a few minutes, munching chocolate, then they ran off down the street towards the blocks of flats where Cherie Roberts had tried to bring her kids up as straight as she knew how. A slow anger had started to burn inside me when those kids appeared on the path, all alone at a time of night that’s a long way from safe in this part of town. Apart from anything else, it’s an area that’s always full of strangers in the evening, since the city’s major rock venue is just round the corner. If a child was lifted from these streets, the police would have more strange cars to check out than if they clocked every motor that cruises the red-light zone.
I bit down on my anger and carried on watching. About twenty minutes later, the door opened again, more widely this time, and a young man appeared. He couldn’t have been more than five-six, slim build, blond, late twenties, cheekbones like chapel hat pegs. He had his jacket collar turned up and sleeves rolled up. Clearly no one had told him
