Dead Money (21 page)

"Sorry, what? Found who?"

"Les," he said, as if it were obvious. "And they asked me all these questions about him. Like did he have any money problems that I knew of, did he have any enemies, stuff like that."

"They?"

"The police." He frowned. "You haven't been listening—"

"No, I was listening, Eric. They found Les, is what you said, but I don't get it. What do you mean they found him?"

"In a car park, across from some casino in Salford on Friday night."

"Which one?"

"I don't know. All I know is someone went to town on him."

"Went to town ...?" I couldn't focus. "They beat him up?"

"And then his ticker gave out."

I blinked at Eric. "Is he dead?"

"No, just a heart attack."

Just
a heart attack. Because only in this situation would a heart attack be a good thing. I felt something like relief, but I didn't know why. Must've been my conscience. "Is he talking?"

"He's in the hospital. I asked about whether he could have visitors, so we could bring him something, y'know? But he's still under observation, and I think he's still in a bad way. That's why they're interviewing everyone else in the meantime."

"Right. Yeah, that makes sense." I looked at my coffee. I didn't want it anymore. I put it on the windowsill. "So what did you tell them?"

"The truth. I said he wasn't bringing in the sales as much as he used to and as for enemies ... y'know, not that
I
know of, but I didn't really know him that well, did I?" He rubbed his face and breathed out. "They really got to me, Alan."

"What d'you mean, they got to you?"

"Well, I talked to them and I know I hadn't done anything wrong, but then if I hadn't done anything wrong, then why did I feel so bloody guilty? I mean, the whole time I was talking to them, I was taking stock of what they might have on me."

"Don't worry about it, Eric. Only person who doesn't do that is a criminal."

"You think?"

"Yeah, absolutely. They're just rattling your cage a bit, that's all."

"You don't think I had anything to do with it, do you?"

"I'm sure it's just routine."

"I don't know, Alan." Eric shook his head and leaned against a large, broken security door. "I know I don't look like the type to beat a man into a coronary, but the way they were talking – especially that big policeman, he was a mean one – was that they were looking for someone in particular, you know? Someone with a specific grudge?"

"Do you have one?"

"What?"

"A specific grudge. Against Les."

He looked shocked at the thought. "No, of course not. How can you—"

"Well then, you're alright, aren't you?"

The shocked expression melted into something happier. "Yeah, I suppose you're right."

I, on the other hand, was the opposite of alright. And I had to stay out of the way long enough to figure out what I was going to do.

"I just know you two are friends and everything. I didn't want you to think that I had anything to do with it."

"I don't. They say which hospital he was at?"

"No. I didn't think to ask. Sorry."

"It's okay." They wouldn't have told him. Because this wasn't as simple as Beale getting his arse handed to him, was it? Because this wasn't routine. They were poking around because they knew Beale was in the shit somewhere, and they were just sniffing around to see if anyone else had the same stink on them. And Muggins here reeked like a dead man. Just the thought of it made my gut twitch painfully. I tried not to show it.

"Listen, thanks for the heads-up." I clapped Eric on the shoulder. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

I left the meeting room at speed, headed for the toilets. Somewhere off to my right I heard Jimmy Henderson call my name, but I'd already banged my way through the door and lunged for the first sink that I saw. I managed to paw the cold tap before I threw up. Felt like I was trying to regurgitate a fist, my whole body bucking with the effort. My gut burned, there was a metal taste in my mouth and water in my eyes. The blood in the sink was blurry. I breathed out, caught a whiff of my own vomit breath and my knees buckled. I hit the floor, my hands still tight on the basin. Breathing heavily and staring at the floor. I felt like I was about to puke again, and I tried to get to my feet, but my shoes skidded out from under me and I fell back into a heap. The only thing that moved after that was the cold sweat that had formed at my hairline.

I breathed out and cocked my head at the same time so I didn't have to smell it.

Someone had gotten to Beale. Didn't take a genius to work out who – it was the same bloke who called the Riverside his office. But if they were questioning everyone then they were at least giving the impression of a general enquiry, which made me think they didn't have anything concrete as yet. They wouldn't go overboard investigating a GBH if they had a solid idea who did it.

I lowered my head and looked at the floor again. My legs started to get pins and needles, so I tried to move a little. Found I could, so I moved a little more. Then I slowly climbed the basin until I was looking down at the former contents of my stomach. I washed the puke away and drank from the tap. The water sat like a cold stone in my belly. I took a couple of Rennies to ease the acid and leaned against the sink.

It was okay. I was with Cath on Friday night. There was my alibi. I was fine. And Eric was right, even though I hadn't done anything wrong, I was manning the barricades.

Hadn't done anything wrong? What about delivering Beale to a kicking?

I ran the water again to drown out my thoughts.

But then ...

But
then
... Eric was right, wasn't he? Didn't matter who you were, you got nervous around the police. People blurted out all sorts of shit when they were confronted with a badge. It was just the way people were. And Beale had more than fear to get him jabbering; he had motive. I'd delivered him to Ahmad – hadn't meant it, but I'd done it – and if he put two and two together, then there was no telling what he'd say. The only thing that had been keeping him quiet thus far was him thinking I was his mate. Now I'd messed that up, there was nothing stopping him from spilling the lot.

I looked in the mirror. My corpse looked back. Neither of us knew what to do.

I ran the water, splashed some on my face and pulled some paper towels. We had to sort out Beale, see what the situation was, and that meant finding out which hospital he was in. That wasn't going to be too difficult – if they'd picked him up outside the Riverside, then he was probably at the Salford Royal. Given the news I'd just had, the first logical thing an innocent man would do was go over and see him. I was a concerned friend, after all, and I needed to show that to everyone involved, not least Beale himself. If he was awake, he could tell me what had happened before the police got to him. If he wasn't, I could wait until he was.

I rubbed the last of the water from my face and dumped the paper towels, then pushed out into reception again. Laura was back behind the desk, and Henderson stood by, attempting to look as if he'd just popped by for a chat when I knew for a fact he'd been waiting for me outside the toilets.

"Sorry, Jimmy, I can't stop. I'm already late for a sit."

"Actually, Alan, it's rather urgent."

I turned to face him, kept walking to the door. "It's about Les, yes? The visit you lot had this morning?"

It was, I could tell by his face. "I need to talk to you—"

"That's okay, maybe some other time. Kind of busy right now."

He started to say something else, but I let the door closing behind me snap it off mid-sentence. I heard him raise his voice, harden his tone. I made a point of striding out of ear shot. I didn't want to hear what he had to say. I didn't want the temptation to go back and belt the bastard in the face. The mood I was in, that was a distinct possibility.

Instead, I walked. I breathed the fresh trading estate air and felt the sun on my face. It was clean and warm, and I tried to savour it because if Beale had talked, then both would be in short supply soon enough.

23

Beale was at the Royal, so I'd been right about that, but they wouldn't let me see him. Apparently a bloke who'd just been kicked to a pulp and then suffered a massive coronary wasn't quite ready to see anyone who wasn't family or the police. I supposed that was fair enough, and with a little charm and perseverance I managed to find out that he was still in critical condition, and probably wouldn't be talking to anyone any time soon.

I was okay for the time being.

I bought a coffee from the vending machine in the reception to replace the one I'd left back at work. My stomach felt better now. The Rennies must've kicked in. I watched the television suspended in the waiting room for a few minutes while I waited for my coffee to become drinkable instead of on the warm side of hellfire.

It was going to be fine. Everything was going to work out. I just had to keep an eye on Beale, maybe get a message to him so that when he woke up he kept his mouth shut for both our sakes. There was a chance he wouldn't say anything anyway, but I reckoned his instinct for self-preservation had taken a few knocks along with his head.

The news came on. Local, the usual bollocks. I sipped my coffee and looked around. There wasn't any sign of the police. That was good, meant it might have been routine after all if they didn't feel the need to post a copper on the door. Then again, I might have picked that up from too many cable films. Maybe the police didn't actually do that. And to be fair, Beale wasn't exactly a key witness in a mob trial or anything like that. He was just another battered victim in a world of them. Nobody thought there was anything special about Beale except me.

I turned on the mobile, saw a missed call. Message left, it was Henderson, his voice strained: "Alan, looks like I missed you again. Listen, d'you think you could make some time to pop into the office for a chat? Aware that you're busy, but if you could give me a ring back on my mobile whenever you get this, that would be brilliant. Sooner rather than later, eh? Bye."

I smiled. Listened to it again to savour the obvious panic in his voice. Then I deleted it.

Soon as I did, my phone rang. I looked at it dumbly for a moment. I didn't recognise the number on the display. Which meant it wasn't Henderson, so I was probably safe.

"Mr Slater."

I wanted a cigarette. "What do you want?"

"We need to talk, Mr Slater."

"No, we don't."

I turned away from the waiting room, tried to keep the panic out of my voice. Across from me, a nurse or medical secretary or whatever the hell she was looked at me as if I'd just tracked mud into her nice clean reception.

"We need to discuss the debt," said Ahmad.

"Seems to me you had your discussions last night."

"Mr Beale didn't show up."

"So you went looking for him down the Riverside, did you? Or did you get Rizwan to bring him over there?"

"No, he didn't show up at the allotted time. I waited until nine and then left. Did you call him again?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Conscience?"

"And why would I have that? I sell windows for a living. I want Beale to pay you off, don't I, so I don't keep getting phone calls like this. How'd you get my number, anyway? You take it off his phone?"