I unfolded the note and read it out loud.
‘“Soz, guys. Leeds does my head in. When they come looking for me, give them this and tell them I’ll sort the rest when I can. Sorry bout …”’ There was a word crossed out and I couldn’t make out what it said. Instead he’d continued, ‘“everything, but the less you know the better. Keep the faith. J.”’
‘Did you know he was into smack?’ asked Jo.
Pants looked uncomfortable. ‘Dunno. I don’t want to know.’
‘Who’s “they”?’ I asked, as I read the note again.
‘Funny.’ He glared at me. ‘Just take it and don’t come back.’
‘What?’
‘I’m serious.’
‘No,’ I said, as the realization of what he was thinking crept over me.
‘This isn’t how it was supposed to be,’ he said. ‘Not when we set it up. I don’t want to get involved.’
‘No,’ I said again. I’ve been accused of a few things in my time, but heroin dealer was a new low. ‘We’re private investigators, working for his family.’
‘Yeah, right.’ From his tone it was clear he didn’t believe me. ‘His family.’
‘Did you call the police?’ Jo asked as she replaced the lid on the tin.
‘What, to come to our squat to talk about the heroin one of our housemates just sent us?’ Pants stood with his arms folded across his chest. ‘Take it and go.’
‘Can we take his stuff too?’ asked Jo. She stuffed the tin into her jacket pocket. I frowned at her. She took a slurp of tea as she got to her feet.
‘I guess. We’re not planning a car boot.’
My cheeks felt warm. I hate misunderstandings. But in my experience, these things are hard to unravel. The more you pull, the more you tangle. Still, I gave it a limp shot.
‘We’re not drug dealers, you know.’
He didn’t show any sign that he’d heard me. Instead he continued to speak to Jo. ‘I just want it out of here. We’re on dodgy enough ground as it is.’
Jo had already stubbed out her cigarette, readying herself for the task of moving the bin liners. I folded the note, picked up the envelope and shoved both in my pocket. Pants helped us lift the bags out to the pavement in silence.
There were seven bin liners in all, added to the Old Holborn tin full of smack, and we had quite a haul. We crammed the sacks into the back of the van.
‘If anything happens, will you let us know?’ I handed him a business card.
He frowned, like he’d seen everything now. Smack dealers with business cards. I couldn’t think what to say. The more I protested the lamer it sounded. I stuffed the last bin liner into the van, and when I turned round Pants was already back in the house. The front door banged closed.
‘Don’t think he likes us,’ I said to Jo. She was crouched in the road by the driver’s door.
‘Whatevs,’ she said.
‘He thinks we’re dealers.’
‘Who cares what he thinks? He’s a bloke.’
Jo’s never been what you’d call a man’s woman and you can’t really blame her. When she was twelve, her dad ran off with her Girl Guide leader. He’s just had twins with his latest girlfriend, Stacey, who’s only three years older than Jo. Jo says he’s trying to be the Paul Weller of gastroenterology.
But lately she’s got worse. Five months ago, she caught her last boyfriend – Andy, the copper – in bed with the station typist, and since then she’s declared herself a political lesbian. Whether a political lesbian is the same as an actual lesbian, I’ve yet to discover, but Jo ranks men only a point or two higher than amoeba on the evolutionary scale.
I watched her trying to prise open the plastic cover on the inside of the driver’s door with a screwdriver. ‘What you doing?’
‘Trying to find somewhere to stash this. Case we get pulled.’
My discomfort grew. I wasn’t in a hurry to have anyone else suspect us of drug dealing, and particularly not the police. We drove back to the office in silence, the sky turning a dusky pink.
The offices felt safe, familiar. As soon as we’d carried all the bags inside, I locked the door and flicked the lights on. I made us a cup of tea while Jo quickly devised an inventory form on our second-hand PC. We sat in the front office, and Jo printed off a copy as I opened the first bin liner. Pants, or someone from the squat, had tied big knots in the top of each one, and it took me a few moments to prise it undone, the black plastic straining against my stubby fingernails.
‘Right, one thing at a time,’ said Jo. ‘Remember, this could be evidence.’
I paused. ‘Should we wear gloves?’
‘Shit, yes,’ said Jo, and I could tell she was pissed off she hadn’t thought of it. ‘I’ll run to Bobats.’
Bobats is the local hardware store. It’s open more or less twenty-four hours a day, and it sells everything from firelighters to lock cutters. I wasn’t sure it would sell gloves though; but sure enough less than five minutes later Jo was back with a box of disposable ones. We grinned at each other as we both pulled on a pair.
‘Remind you of anything?’
I shook thoughts of plastic speculums and wooden spatulas from my mind. ‘Probably should have thought before we handled a tin of heroin,’ I said.
Jo held the tip of her pen against the paper she’d attached to a plastic clipboard. ‘OK, what’ve we got?’
‘First up. A black jumper. Men’s.’ I looked at the label. ‘Marks & Spencer. Anarchy in the UK.’ I grinned. Jo didn’t respond. ‘Size: Large.’
Jo scribbled down the information.
‘Yeuch.’ I pulled out a pair of blue-grey underpants, glad of my latex. ‘Undies.’
That was all the first bag contained – clothes, and not all of them washed. The second one was a bit more interesting – a handful of textbooks, a biography of Bowie. A couple of ring-binder files with notes and hand-outs from the university sports psychology department and what looked like an advert dated May 2013 cut from the pages of the Manchester Evening News. ‘“Three Unforgettable Years. You will always be in my heart. Ciao. Roberto Mancini.”’ I turned it over. It had traces of Blu-Tack in the four corners. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Philistine,’ said Jo. ‘Manager at Man City, till he got sacked. Used to play for Italy.’
I put the advert to one side and carried on searching. At the bottom of the second bag I found a wallet containing an array of plastic cards – one for the National Union of Students complete
