Dead Money (25 page)

Even back when I first fucked her in that car park, I knew I should've left well enough alone. Beale was right. There were things you did and things you didn't. I just didn't want to believe him, which was why I kept the two of them apart. Or tried to.

Something exploded at the back of my head and I took the steps in one stride, my ankle twisting as I landed at the bottom. I turned, one hand up to my head, vision blurred so I only saw the outline of Josh as he rushed me from the house. I heard Lucy screaming something, and then Josh hit me in the ear. I twisted out of his way, ended up doubled and caught between him and the car. He punched me again, hard in the neck, then backed up and kicked me in the gut.

I had one hand out to protect myself as I slid down the car door. He backed up further. Daz had one hand on Josh's arm now, guiding him back to the house. I watched the pair of them go. Big hero. Big strong Josh. See what happens. He knew it as well as I did. The way she treated me was the way he'd be treated when he'd served his purpose. See how fucking sensitive he was then.

"Josh!"

Daz tried to stop him, but Josh turned.

"Take a good look, mate. Take a good fucking look."

Yeah, he knew what I was talking about. I smiled wide and spat blood, then I hauled myself up the side of the car and slumped behind the wheel. I took a long swig of whisky and held the bottle up in a toast to Josh, who was still stood in the doorway.

I started the engine. My phone rang. For a second, I thought it was Lucy calling to shout at me. The display showed an unrecognised number, which meant trouble. I was getting used to it. I took another swig and answered.

"Yes, Mr Ahmad, what can I do for you?"

"Mr Slater."

"What do you want?"

"My money."

"Go see Beale."

"We discussed this."

"Fuck yourself."

"That's not particularly constructive."

I said it again, then: "Fuck do you know about constructive? You trashed my flat."

"I did nothing of the sort."

"The blokes you paid off."

"Who won't like it when I pass that message on. You need to think about your situation, Mr Slater. You need to understand that it isn't just you who stands to be hurt by your intransigence."

I kept quiet. Threatening my wife now, was it? I let it ride, couldn't work up the indignation. I took to the bottle and upended it. Balls to him. He wasn't having me that easy. Pretended to be all fucking suave and what was he really? Just another dirty Paki in a suit. They were all the same, used thugs to keep their hands clean, but the intention was there. The cunning, too.

"Mr Slater."

"You're never going to get that money. Not a single penny. You come near me, I'll take your balls, you understand me?"

"It won't be me."

"Oh yeah, I know that. You'll send some scally round to do your dirty work, and I'm supposed to be scared by bailiffs? Fuck off. Fucking amateur hour. You want to do something to me, you do it. You won't get me, prick. You won't get nowt."

"I'll get—"

"You'll get
fucked
."

I buzzed the window and slung my mobile out onto the street. I revved the engine and blared the horn. I saw Lucy come to the front window.

"And you can get fucked an' all."

And I was out of there, drinking all the way.

28

When I was young, I thought I'd never make it to thirty. I was that rock and roll. And I tried my best not to make it to thirty-eight that night.

But I didn't quite manage it.

I woke up bloody and screaming. When I tried to sit up, I slipped off something hard and hit something harder. Wherever I was, it smelled of piss and last night's whisky. I thought I was going to puke until my gut gurgled. I swallowed painfully and realised I already had at some point. My stomach bubbled with acid. I slumped back against a fitted bench with a blue mattress on it, and blinked through my fingers at institutional green walls.

I stared at the paint through my fingers. I remembered a scuffle. I remembered someone shouting that they had to grab my legs. I remembered thinking I was going to die. I remembered screaming. The backs of my legs hurt. I rolled up one trouser leg and saw yellow stripped bruises across the calves.

Police. The duty sergeant. Fat and ginger. Coffee breath. He talked and I didn't listen until he asked me if understood the charges. That was when I vomited.

I looked down at my shoes. Puke on them. No shoelaces.

A clatter of metal. At the door, the hatch was down and a puffy face looked at me.

I looked back at it.

"You alright?"

I shook my head.

"What's the matter with you?"

I blew air. "Sick."

The hatch clattered closed. I heard footsteps walking away.

They picked me up. They'd been looking for me and they found me. I wondered if I was in for a standard drunk or something worse. I rubbed my mouth with the back of my hand and it came away sticky with dehydrated spit. I prayed it was a drunk. It needed to be a drunk. I got up off the floor slowly and stood as still as I could until my head stopped spinning. I put a hand against the wall. My watch showed seven in the morning.

I remembered Piccadilly station. I remembered a pay phone and I remembered pressing my head against the plastic because it was cold and I was burning up.

I remembered talking to Cath. Crying. Apologising. But I didn't remember what I'd said to her.

And then nothing but pain and darkness and now here.

There was movement outside the cell. I backed up, watched the door. The hatch slid open, that same puffy face regarding me with contempt. Then it was slapped shut and the door opened to reveal a short, portly guy wearing designer glasses and an Alfred E. Neuman T-shirt.

What, me worry?

I stared at him. The copper made to shut the door behind him, but he held up a hand. "You feel up to a little fresh air, Mr Slater?"

I nodded. He led the way. As I passed the uniform, he stepped back as if he was about to sucker punch me, so I recoiled. He laughed. I didn't.

The short guy seemed to know his way around the station. And the uniforms appeared to leave him alone. "You a lawyer?"

He glanced back at me. "I'm Mike Hopley, Mr Slater. I'm the duty solicitor. The custody sergeant called me when you sobered up. He's a good one." He opened a fire door with one hand and extracted a pack of Marlboro Lights from his back pocket with the other. "Some of the guys in here would have me talk to you when you're arseholed."

We stepped out into an enclosed car park. It was cold. I dug around in my pockets for the antacids. Couldn't find them. The solicitor gave me a cigarette and lit it for me. "You haven't got any Rennies, have you?"

"You have health problems?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

He lit a cigarette for himself. "Okay, I'll have a word with the sergeant, see if we can dig some up for you."

"I'd be surprised." I blew smoke. "Don't think I'm too popular in here. I think I resisted arrest."

"Yeah, you did." He was smiling. "Resisted quite a bit, as it happens. And they'll ask you about that. What about the money?"

"What money?"

"The eleven grand."

"I closed my bank account."

"Why?"

My mouth moved, but nothing came out. I looked at the ground.

"What's the story, Alan?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Listen, I'm not daft. I've been doing this long enough to get most of what I need to know from first impressions. And what I see here is a man pulled in on a drunk with eleven grand in his wallet. This man also happens to be of great interest to CID. So I'll ask you again, what's the story? Because from where I'm standing, eleven grand and a kick-off at Piccadilly, plus CID attention, means you were doing a runner."

My mind shut down. I couldn't see. "I don't know what you mean."

"You tell me or you tell the police. You tell me, I'll be able to advise you. You tell them, you're on your own."

"I haven't done anything wrong. I got drunk."

"How about you forget the drunk and disorderly and start thinking about the assault on Leslie Beale?"

I looked at him. The cigarette was beginning to burn my fingers. I dropped the filter. "That's why CID want to talk to me? They think I did Beale?"

"Did you?"

"Why would I do that? Beale's a mate."

"Then who would?"

My guts rumbled, lurched and spiked. I closed my eyes for a second.

"You okay?"

I waved my hand at him, nodded. "I just need an antacid." I tapped my stomach. "I have gut problems."

"You want a doctor to look you over? I mean, I can get the interview postponed—"

"Postponed?"

"They're waiting for you now."

I breathed out through my mouth. Hopley recoiled slightly. My breath must've been rank. I had a chance to explain myself. Trouble was, I didn't think Hopley was a hundred percent on the level. He had the look of an ambulance chaser about him. Like any duty brief, he was about as loyal as a stray cat.

He ditched his cigarette. "Anything you want to tell me before we go in?"

I shook my head. I didn't need this guy. I was better off on my own.

"Fair enough."

Our footsteps echoed as we headed for the interview room. A neat little man in a well-cut suit stood outside. He introduced himself as DC Hart. "If you'd like to go on inside, Detective Sergeant Donkin is waiting for you. I'll just go and fetch some coffee."

Hopley pushed the door to reveal a bare room apart from one table, four chairs, a panic strip that ran around the room and fluorescent lighting that gave you a headache if you didn't blink every couple of seconds. In one of those chairs was a bloke who could've been Beale's big brother. He was sprawled behind the table, gut hanging over his belt, a roadmap of burst blood vessels lacing his nose and cheeks. He nodded at Hopley, then looked at me. "You're Slater, are you?"

"Yes."

He stood and extended one large, scuffed hand. His handshake made me want to puke, his palm more callus than skin. He looked into my eyes, like he could see right through me. A cheap trick, but it was a cheap trick that made my stomach ache. I let go first and took a seat.

Hart came back in with the coffee in a cardboard tray. He put it down in the middle of the table, took a fistful of milk and sugar out of his pocket and dumped it next to the cups. "Help yourself."

Donkin did. Hopley didn't. I stayed where I was.

Hopley glanced at his watch. "Shall we crack on, gentlemen?"

"Absolutely." Hart reached over and pressed record, then stated the time and date for the benefit of the tape. Donkin stared at me.