No More Heroes (11 page)

Plus, for a guy who I thought was going to be tight-lipped, he seems pretty eager to talk.

“Mr Innes, I’ll tell you, I’m getting tired of all the shite I have to put up with. I’m not an idiot or nowt, alright? I didn’t go into the job with blinkers on, but the whole bloody enterprise wears you down after a while.”

“How long’s it been now?”

“Five year.” Collins dunks his biscuit twice. “I shouldn’t judge, y’know. I mean, it’s really not my place, and if you want to get right down to it, I reckon it’s a different generational pull, isn’t it? But it’s got nowt to do with the area. Honest. You look up Castlefield, or the city centre, all them new posh flats, you get them young professional types, they got
exactly
the same ideas.” He bites down on the Rich Tea and shrugs. As he chews he says, “Course, when it comes down to it, they don’t voice their opinions as loud.”

“So you didn’t call Mr Plummer? That’s what you’re telling me?”

Collins looks at me, about to bite into the biscuit again. “No, I did that.”

“You threatened him.”

Genuinely upset as he chews quickly and swallows. “Christ, no. I just called the man, explained my situation. What, he said I
threatened
him?”

“Somebody did.”

“Not me. Here, look, I’ve got to pass on what my community tell me to pass on. So I did. And I talked to him like a businessman, just like the way I’m talking to you now. I’m not one to go chucking threats about, am I? I mean, it’s not the way we do things, I’d be out of a job if I did that. And I’m not about to lean on a bloke with stuff I don’t believe myself.”

“But if you believed it, you’d lean.”

He points at me, a half-smile and a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t put words in my mouth, son. It’s not nice.”

“I know. But I’d appreciate a point in the right direction here. Maybe to someone who’s a little more … militant than you.”

He nods. “I know what you’re after. People say stuff all the time.” The chair squeaks as he brings his mug to his lips. “But that’s not against the law, the last time I checked.”

“Incitement to racial hatred?”

“An opinion isn’t incitement. Unless you agree with it. And there’s no one inciting nowt round here, believe me.”

“Okay,” I say, “but the bottom line is that someone didn’t just threaten, they burned a house down. Way I see it, they’ve got something against the tenant or they’ve got something against the landlord. Either way, you telling Mr Plummer that you’re not happy about asylum seekers moving into your manor—”

“Not my opinion, Mr Innes.” Collins has one hand up. “And Moss Side’s a distance from Longsight.”

“Not that far. And it doesn’t matter that it’s not your opinion. Someone believes it.”

“Most of the people round here are just like me. Middle of the road, don’t want any trouble. So I resent that accusation.”

“I’m not accusing anyone. I’m not saying anyone round here started the fire. All I’m saying is that someone’s been mouthing off, and I have to follow up any lead that comes my way. And I’d like to get this sorted before the situation gets out of hand.”

“Who says this is going to get out of hand?” Collins leans in. “For all we know, it could be one fire. Whoever it was, that tenant, he might’ve pissed one of his own off.”

“I don’t think it’s going to stop at one fire, Mr Collins.”

The smile fades. “So, you’ve got proof.”

“I’ve got enough.”

“You’re just pissing around with these questions, then.”

“No. I don’t want to take any chances.”

Collins sips his tea, watches me over the lip of the mug. He replaces his brew, breathes out. “I appreciate you coming to see me. And I appreciate your situation — you got a job to do, got some attention ’cause of what you did, you don’t want to cock it all up. But I’m not going to stir the shit on your behalf, Mr Innes. You know what it’s like round here, you read the papers. That poor lad, got himself stabbed over his bloody phone, you got the papers saying it’s racial now …” He shakes his head. “This whole thing’s too raw for me to start naming names and getting people into trouble when the only problem they have is a big mouth.”

“Right,” I say. “You’re not a grass. I get it.”

“It’s not about
grassing
.” Collins leans forward so fast, I flinch. “It’s about being a trusted member of the community. I get most of my work from the people round here. You want me to start painting ’em like a bunch of bloody bigots, it’s not going to happen.”

“That’s not what I’m after.” Keep my voice low, keep him calm by example. Make sure he stays in that seat, and those hands stay away from me. Because for someone so passive and friendly a minute ago, I’ve touched some nerve in him. And this guy obviously had some danger about him back in the day.

“Then what are you after?”

“I just want to see for myself.”

Collins flares his nostrils once, then goes for his tea again. He seems to control himself, easing down as he takes a sip. He reaches for his biscuit. “You want to come to the next meeting, you can. It’s a free country.”

“These people you don’t want to name, are they going to be there?”

“Some of them, maybe. They won’t talk to you, mind. I hope you know that.”

“I’m just curious. Where and when?”

“St Dominic’s. It’s a church hall. Tonight. Seven sharp.”

I push out of my chair. “Thanks for your time, Mr Collins.”

“You coming?”

“We’ll see.” I smile at him. “I don’t have a car, do I?”

On the way out, I catch Eddie hanging around with the other mechanics. When he sees me, he breaks away from the group, dumping his cigarette as he trudges across to my car.

“Couple of days, right?” I say. “And you’ll give me a call as soon as it’s done?”

He nods. “Yeah. Soon as.”

I walk away, pull out my mobile, and call a cab. Reckon if I manage to get to this meeting tonight, there’ll be nothing to see, drive on. As soon as they clock me arriving at the hall, they’ll be on their best behaviour.

So I can’t go. But I know a man who’ll blend in no bother.

“No,” says Frank. “No way.”

“C’mon, man, I bought you a fuckin’ ice cream. The least you can do is consider it.”

Frank blinks, stares at his ice cream, then at me. “I didn’t know this was a bribe.”

“Just a sweetener.”

We’re in Piccadilly Gardens, watching the people go by. The big wheel’s out for the summer and so’s the resident Bible-basher. God’s Lonely Man has his mike and portable amp with him today, telling people if they just trust in Jesus, if they let go of temptation, of sin, of hatred and of prejudice, they’ll be saved, they’ll be taken into the arms of the Saviour, and there will be peace on earth.

It’s a nice thought, but not one that appeals to the people walking around right now. Lobster Mancs stroll past, all stripped to the waist and burned above the belt. Give it one week of sustained hot weather and all the flabby bastards turn into hardcore sun-worshippers. Bunch of scallies down by the Gardens have two shopping bags full of cheap lager and they’re going to chug the lot before the nine-to-fivers hit the streets.

When I turn back to Frank, he’s still looking at his cone like it bit him.

“It’s not a bribe, Frank. Eat your ice cream.” I rub my nose. You would’ve thought he’d be up for any paying work. Especially anything that gets him away from Plummer. From what he’s told me, it sounds like this burn’s put Plummer onto his downward spiral. “Look, I’m in a tight spot here, Frank. I can’t go myself.”

“I know that. But it sounds dangerous.”

“It’s a piece of piss, I’m telling you.” I pull out a wee Dictaphone, the same as Andy Beeston’s. Cost me a wedge at Dixons, and the sales guy was an annoying bastard — he kept wittering on about the fucking MP3 version like it was the dog’s bollocks. But I reckon this little tape recorder’s going to be worth it. “This here’s all you need. Stick this in your jacket pocket, go to the meeting and stand there while they’re all going off it. You want to take mental notes for me too, that’s great, but it’s not essential.”

He doesn’t say anything. Looks at the tape recorder. It’s obvious he doesn’t trust the machine, doesn’t trust me either. But there’s something about the gadget that holds his attention.

“I’m not asking you to do anything I wouldn’t do myself.”

Frank looks up at me, licks some melted ice cream off his hand. “Then why aren’t you doing it?”

“I can’t go, I told you. There’s going to be this bloke there, Phil Collins—”

Frank snorts, half-smiles. “From
Buster
?”

“Bit like him — shaved head, kind of fat. But he knows me, and he won’t be natural if he sees I’m there. Believe me, Frank, he’s not a threat, but he’s a slippery bastard.”

“Just spy stuff.”

“That’s right. Surveillance.”

He nods once, emphatically.

“And while you’re there, see if you can spot this skinny fucker called Eddie.”

“Eddie?” That’s Frank making a mental note, already caught up in the prospect of a real job.

“You’ll know him when you see him. Got tattoos all over, especially his arms. Thinking it’s probably prison ink, but I didn’t get a decent look.”

“You think he did it?” Frank lowers his voice. “You think maybe he’s our man?”

“I don’t think anything at the moment. But I need to get that meeting on tape.” I hand Frank the tape recorder. “And if we get something juicy, something tying either one of those wankers to the Longsight burn, then we’re one step closer to getting Don out of the shit. And I know you actually care about that.”

“I do.” Frank takes another bite of his cone, presses buttons on the tape recorder.

“Here, don’t get it gunked up.”

Frank nods, wolfs the rest of his cone, then grabs onto the railing with his free hand. The other hand, tape recorder in his palm, goes up to his temple.

“Ah,” he says.

“What is it?”

“Headache.”

Brainfreeze. Frank’s drawing stares. I look at the pavement until it passes. When I look back at Frank, he’s nodding. He lowers his hand, looks at the tape recorder. Wipes his other hand on his trousers and continues pressing buttons.

“You okay?” I say.

“I’m alright. I just shouldn’t have eaten so quick.”

“You want me to call an ambulance, be on the safe side?”

He sniffs, concentrating on the tape recorder. “I’m fine.”

“So, are you going to do this for me, or what?”

He’s about to say yes, like he’s supposed to and like he
wants
to. But something stops him. Probably the idea that he’s doing me a favour. And every now and then, Daft Frank has these moments of clarity.

Like right now.

“I don’t know,” he says. “What’s the pay?”

I’m already there. “Two hundred notes.”

Frank grins, as if he’s caught me in a lie. “One night’s work, two hundred?”

“That’s right.”

“I thought you said this wasn’t dangerous.”

“It’s not. The price goes up because it’s short notice. And it’s precision work. I need someone I can trust, who can be calm under pressure. Yeah, it’s not dangerous, but chances are you’re going to hear a lot of opinions you don’t agree with and you’re going to have to keep quiet about it.”

Frank clicks a button on the tape recorder. Sounds like he’s already broken it. “I don’t get you.”

“This meeting is the ENS out in force, man. Going to be a lot of anger in that room. Lot of bullshit flying around, maybe even a couple of fuckin’
Sieg Heil
s, know what I mean? And that’s another reason I can’t do it. I get wound up when it comes to politics.”

He frowns. “You don’t have any politics.”

“And I get wound up by people who do,” I say. “Can’t maintain my cool exterior, can I?”

Frank thinks about it. Keeps on pressing the buttons on the tape recorder until I think I’ll have to take it back just to stop him fucking around with it. It’s not a toy, and it’s certainly not supposed to relieve stress, which is how Frank seems to be using it. Cost me enough, and he’s got the kind of hands that pet puppies to death.

But I try to let it go, breathe it out. Tell myself it’s just Frank getting used to the tool he’ll be using tonight.

“What’re you going to be doing when I’m up at this meeting?” he says.

“I’ve got other leads to chase up.”

“Them dangerous, are they?”

“Could be,” I say. “I don’t want to put you in that position.”

He chuckles to himself. “Yeah, ’cause that would cost you too much.”

“Something like that.”

“I knew it.” Frank pauses. “Listen, you’re working for yourself now, right?”

“Yeah.”

He thinks about it some more. As soon as he slides the tape recorder into his trouser pocket, I know I’ve got him.

“I’m just thinking, Cal. You know if this thing with Don doesn’t work out, I wondered—”

“If I get any work where I need a second gun, I’ll send it your way.”

He smiles. “Okay.”

“If you can pull this off.”

“You know St Dominic’s church in Moss Side?” I say.

He nods. “I drove past it a couple times.”

“Seven sharp. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.”

I’m about to turn and leave, when I remember one more thing. “Here, when you’re out of there, give me a ring, okay? At home or on the mobile, you’ve got both, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me know how it goes, Frank.”

“Yeah, yeah. Will do.”

I go back, punch him lightly on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Francis. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Back at the Lads’ Club, and I’m spreading the wealth. Stroll in there, cheque in hand. Hold it up when I see Paulo: “Surprise.”

Paulo looks at me weird, his head cocked to one side. “You had a haircut since this morning?”

“No.” I wave the cheque about. “Cheque’s for you.”

“I see it.” He twirls one finger. “Still something different about you.”

“Good or bad?”

“Good. You look almost healthy.”

“I’m fuckin’ happy.”

“That’ll be it.” Paulo takes the cheque off me, reads the amount, then holds it up to the light.

“It’s genuine,” I say.

He bites down on the paper as if it’s made of gold. Looks at it again, still frowning. He’s so fucking dramatic sometimes.