accent, female: ‘I think it’s yerself that’s forgotten somethin’, don’t ye?’
Oh God … I swallowed. Wrapped my hands tighter around the steering wheel. Mrs Kerrigan. Sod. Why did I answer the bloody phone? Always check the display before picking up.
‘Baby, let’s not fight tonight,
let’s do it, do it, do it right …’
I cleared my throat. ‘I was … going to call you.’
‘Aye, I’ll bet ye were. Yez are late. Mr Inglis is very disappointed.’
‘Let’s do it right, tonight!’ Instrumental break.
‘I need a little time to—’
‘Do ye not think five years is enough? ’Cos I’m startin’ to think ye’re takin’ the piss here. I’m wantin’ three thousand bills by Tuesday lunch, OK? Or I’ll have yer feckin’ hole in flitters.’
Three grand by tomorrow lunchtime? Where was I supposed to get three grand by tomorrow lunchtime? It wasn’t possible. They were going to break my legs …
‘No problem. Three thousand. Tomorrow.’
‘That’d be bleedin’ deadly, ta.’ And she hung up.
I folded forwards, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. The plastic surface was rough, as if someone had been chewing at it.
Should just keep on going. Drive right through Dundee and sod off down south. Birmingham maybe, or Newcastle: stay with Brett and his boyfriend. After all, what were brothers for? As long as they didn’t make me help plan the wedding. Which they would. Bloody seating arrangements, floral centrepieces, and vol-au-vents …
Bugger that.
‘Let’s do it right, baby,
let’s do it tonight!’ Big finish.
A horn blared out somewhere behind me. I looked up and saw the gap in front of the Renault’s bonnet, goosed the accelerator and coasted in behind the Audi again.
‘You’re listening to Tay FM, and that was Mr Bones, with “Tonight Baby”. We’ve got the Great Overgate Giveaway coming up, but first Nicole Gifford wants to wish her fiancé Dave good luck in his new job. Here’s Celine Dion singing “Just Walk Away” …’
Or better yet: run like buggery. I switched off the radio.
Three grand by tomorrow. Never mind the other sixteen …
There was always extortion: go back to Oldcastle and lean on a few people. Pay Willie McNaughton a visit – see if he was still flogging GHB to school kids. That should be worth at least a couple of hundred. Karen Turner had that brothel on Shepard Lane. And Fat Jimmy Campbell was probably still growing weed in his loft … Throw in another dozen ‘house calls’ and I could pull in a grand and a half, maybe two tops.
Over a thousand pounds short, and nothing left to sell.
Maybe Mrs Kerrigan would go easy on me and they’d only break one of my legs. And next week the compound interest would set in, along with the compound fractures.
The car park was nearly empty, just a handful of silver rep-mobiles and hire cars clustered around the hotel entrance. I pulled into a space, killed the engine, then sat there, staring off into the middle distance as the rain drummed on the car roof.
Maybe Newcastle wasn’t such a bad idea after—
Clunk, clunk, clunk.
I turned in my seat. A chubby face was peering in through the passenger window: narrow mouth, stubble-covered jowls, bald head dripping and shiny, dark bags under the eyes, blueish grey skin. Big round shoulders hunched up around his ears. The accent was pure Liverpool: ‘You coming in, or wha?’
I closed my eyes, counted to five, then climbed out into the rain.
Those teeny little lips turned down at the edges. ‘Jesus, look at the state of you. Be frightenin’ old ladies, face like that.’ He had a brown paper bag clutched in one hand, the Burger King logo smeared with something red.
‘Thought the Met would’ve beaten the Scouse out of you by now.’
‘You kidding? Like a stick of Blackpool rock me: cut us in half and it’s “Sabir loves Merseyside” all the way down.’ He pointed a chunky finger at my face. ‘What’s the other bloke look like?’
‘Almost as ugly as you.’
A smile. ‘Well your mam never complains when I’m givin’ her one.’
‘To be fair, she’s got a lot less fussy since she died.’ I locked the car, rain pattering on the shoulders of my leather jacket. ‘The McMillans here?’
‘Nah: home. We’re keepin’ our end low key, didn’t think they’d want a Crown Office task force camped out on their doorstep, like.’ Sabir turned and lumbered towards the hotel entrance, wide hips rolling from side to side, feet out at ten-to-two, like a duck. ‘The father’s just about holdin’ it together, but the mother’s in pieces. How ’bout your lot?’
I followed him through the automatic doors into a bland lobby. The receptionist was slumped over her phone, doodling on a day planner. ‘I know … Yeah … Well, it’s only ’cos she’s jealous …’
Sabir led the way to the lifts and mashed the button with his thumb. ‘We’re on the fifth floor. Great view: Tesco car park on one side, dual carriageway on the other. Like Venice in spring, that.’ The numbers counted their way down from nine. ‘So: you here on a social, or you after a favour?’
I handed him a photograph. The doors slid open, but Sabir didn’t move. He stared at the picture, mouth hanging open.
A snort from the reception desk. ‘No … I swear I never … No … Told you: she’s jealous.’
The doors slid shut again.
Sabir breathed out. ‘Holy crap …’
The bitter smell of percolating coffee filled the fifth-floor conference room. One wall was solid glass – patio doors at the far end opening out onto a balcony – the others festooned with scribble-covered flip charts and whiteboards.
Sabir unfurled the top of his Burger King bag and pulled out a handful of fries as he lumbered across the beige carpet. I followed him.
Two men and two women were clustered at the far end of the room, perching on the edge of tables, gathered around a stocky man with salt-and-ginger hair and a face gouged deep with creases and wrinkles. Detective Chief Superintendent Dickie. He hooked a thumb at the nearest whiteboard. ‘Aye, and make sure you pull all the CCTV footage they’ve got, this time, Maggie. Don’t let the buggers fob you off; should all still be on file.’
One
