No More Heroes (14 page)

Course, it explains why Plummer hired blokes like me and Daft Frank. Reckoned we were ex-cons, so we must’ve been short on morality. A bloke doesn’t go to jail if he isn’t corrupted in some way, and if we’ve been corrupted once, stands to reason we’re open to it again, if the price is right. And the price is always right for someone who’s desperate for cash. There was us, thinking we were working legit, that here was an employer, yeah, he might’ve been a bit dodgy at times, but he believed in our rehabilitation. And if that reasoning stuttered, there was always the fact that he paid us more than Starbucks or McDonald’s, plus we didn’t have to wear a uniform. Those places, they’d depress anyone. Grown men like kids playing dress up, paper hats and gold stars on their pinnies.

All Plummer wanted was a cheap workforce. Stupid bastards who wouldn’t ask too many questions when things got hairy. Which they did. All the fucking time. And when we
did
start asking questions — like why the fuck were we getting
hurt
so much? — he got arsey, told us there were plenty of people willing to do the job we didn’t want to do.

I didn’t deserve that. And the more I think about the way he treated Daft Frank, the more I think the big guy deserved it even less than me.

He always takes things more personally than anyone else. He’s fucking sensitive.

And, now I remember, he’s late calling me.

I pull out my mobile, check for messages.

Nothing.

I call his mobile, it skips to voice mail.

Try his home number, it rings out.

Maybe he’s called the other number. As the bus rounds the end of the street, I dump my cigarette, get the correct change out. Looks like I’ll have to wait until I get home to see what the big man says.

What the big man says is sweet fuck all.

Nothing on the home answer machine, still nothing on my mobile voice mail, and the same deal as before when I try to call him. That doesn’t look good at all. Makes me think he’s fucked up and now he’s trying to avoid me. So I call Plummer at the office, see if he’s come in for work.

“Hang on a second, alright? This might be important … Hello?”

“Don?”

“Can’t talk right now, Callum. Busy.”

“Did Frank come—”

He hangs up on me. I stand there open-mouthed for a moment before I put the receiver back. He’s busy. Which means the only way I’m going to get to talk to him is in person. Sometimes you have to be standing right in front of the man to get his full attention. So I call a cab, head into the city centre.

The taxi drops me off on Princess Street. Office space is pricey round here, but I suppose Plummer thinks it’s worth it. The same reason he’s got a Merc — a show of success supposedly breeds it.

I buzz up and the door clicks open without the usual interrogation.

Plummer Properties is on the third floor, but I can already hear him shouting about something. Sound carries and echoes in the stairwells of these older buildings, but shouted speech booms into noise. It’s only when I hit the second-floor landing that I’m close enough to the source to make out what he’s saying.

“I don’t know what you expect from me. You want more money, is that it?”

I push on up the stairs. Plummer’s out on his landing, and it sounds like he’s talking to the guy who sent him that list. Except now he’s asking for money? In front of Plummer, his back to me, is a thin guy in a good suit.

“Ah, Christ, this is all I need,” says Plummer when he sees me. “Didn’t I tell you I was busy?”

The thin bloke turns. He’s clean-shaven, young. Has the oily skin of a former acne case, and the demeanour of one of those high-powered briefs. He gives me a cursory glance, obviously doesn’t reckon me a threat, then turns back to Plummer.

This guy isn’t the arsonist.

“We expect you to be reasonable, Mr Plummer,” he says.

“I am reasonable, pal,” says Plummer, pointing at the lawyer. “You ask anyone you want, they’ll tell you I’m reasonable. I’m a good businessman, and I don’t deserve to be treated like this.”

“I appreciate that—”

“You appreciate fuck all, Mr Faulkner.”

“There’s no need for language like that—”

“You have to get an
official notice
. You get one of those, we’ll have something to talk about.”

“That can be arranged.”

“I’m sure it can. Until then, I know my rights.”

Faulkner smiles at that. “Your rights—”

“You know what your problem is?” Plummer advances on the lawyer; Faulkner doesn’t move, doesn’t back down in the slightest. “You read too much into a local rag. There’s nothing on me. Nothing official, anyway. And nothing counts in our business unless it’s official. Look at the words they’re using, think about how they’re telling you the news. It’s all fucking hearsay dressed up as fact. I’m the victim of a smear campaign conducted to sell a few more papers.”

“There’s the University of Manchester student representative, Mr Plummer. They have some claims which—”

“I can’t be held responsible for a bunch of uppity fucking students,” says Plummer. “Give it a week, they’ll be boycotting Nestlé again. “Oh, I can’t eat a Kit-Kat, it’s made by the baby-killers …” Honest to God, they’re as bad as the rest of you. See one documentary about a supermarket accidentally dumping fertiliser into a river six thousand miles away and it’s fucking boycott time.”

I clear my throat. Both men look my way. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” says Plummer. “Mr Faulkner here was just leaving, weren’t you, Mr Faulkner?”

The lawyer looks across at me, seems to know who I am — there’s that wee spark of recognition — then he nods at Plummer. “We’ll be in touch, Mr Plummer.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you will.”

Faulkner moves past me. I give him a sarcastic smile that isn’t returned. Plummer doesn’t wait for me to approach. Instead, he turns back towards the office, shoves the door open so hard it slams off the inside wall.

“You having a nice morning, Don?”

“Fucking
leeches
.”

I stop in the doorway to the office. It looks like a hurricane has swept through Plummer Properties. Papers all over the place, chairs upturned, filing cabinet and desk drawers hanging out. Either someone’s done a number on the place, or Plummer’s had a fucking full-on hissy fit in here.

“What happened?”

Plummer twists in the middle of the office, glares at me. The colour’s still high at his collar. “The fuck do you care?”

“Alright, I can see you’re in a filthy mood. You’ve made your point.”

“You come round for any particular reason, Callum, or was it just to piss me off in the comfort of my own office?”

“Looks like that’s already happened,” I say. “And no, I came round to see if you’d heard from Frank—”

“Frank? Frank’s a useless piece of shit and I’ll be having words with him. Supposed to pick me up this morning, he’s nowhere to be found and I couldn’t get the lazy bastard on the phone. I had to get a taxi in to work, Cal. You have any idea how demeaning it is when you get recognised by a cab driver? These people don’t read, they don’t watch the news, they don’t even
think
, half of them. But they don’t need to, because I’m the most hated man in Manchester right now. I’m part of the local popular culture.”

“No, you’re not.”

“So you didn’t read it.”

Plummer marches through to his office. I follow him. He grabs a newspaper off his desk and hands it to me. He’s made front page this time. The pickets are city-wide.

“He gave me earache all the way to the office,” he says. “And then I come in to this bollocks, and you’re giving me gyp because you’re, what,
bored
?”

I fold the paper, drop it onto his desk. “Right, then. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Where d’you think you’re going?”

“You haven’t heard from Frank, I’m going to see him.”

“That’s why you came round?”

“What were you expecting?”

He leans against his desk, folds his arms. “A progress report.”

“Nothing much to say.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re fucking this up, aren’t you?”

“I have a couple of leads,” I say. “You didn’t tell me what happened to the office.”

“What do you think happened? Someone trashed the place.”

“When?”

“Last night.” Plummer gestures to the office behind me. “Broke in. Of course the building manager knows nothing about it. What am I saying, building manager? The man’s a fucking caretaker, bent as the next ex-squaddie. He probably let the little shit in for a couple of twenties.”

“Anything missing?”

“How am I supposed to know? I’ve got five years’ worth of tenants scattered all over the place. I don’t
think
anything’s missing — I mean, I’ve checked what’s left of petty cash — but I don’t have time to file, do I? And I don’t have the money to pay anyone else to do it. Whatever they took, they took. Good luck to them. I hope it’s what they wanted.”

I look behind me at the carnage. Doesn’t look like the work of one person. If it is, it must’ve taken them some time to wreck the place this much. “Any idea who might’ve done it?”

“Oh, what, you think I should let you investigate this too?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Because you’re doing such a bang-up job of earning your money so far, aren’t you?”

“I’m working on it, Don.”

“That’s great news. Well done.” He sighs, and the life seems to drain out of him as he exhales. “Doesn’t matter anyway, does it? I’m pretty much finished here. What with that little prick Beeston trying to make out I’m Satan, the student reps giving me grief every minute of the day and that bastard that just left, I’m done. The rest of you are rats leaving a sinking ship, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Who was that bloke?”

“Craig Faulkner,” he says. “Come here on behalf of the company that owns the building. He’s the weasel they get to do their dirty work.”

“How d’you mean?”

“They want me out, Callum. Said they don’t want to do business with someone like me.” He scratches his ear, eyes bugging with suppressed rage. “Doesn’t matter that I’ve paid my rent in advance, they still want me out. Tell you, they better do it properly. I’m not about to give them one fucking inch. They’ll have to take this through the courts. Get an official notice of eviction and I’ll think about it. Fight the bastards the rest of the time.”

Plummer breathes out. Then he looks up at me.

“Yeah, and don’t think the irony of the situation has escaped me,” he says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I’m still trying to help you, Don.”

“Of course you are. Help me like a hole in my fucking head.” He looks around. “Which is beginning to sound like a good idea.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“Daft?” He pulls out his wallet, flicks through it and extracts a photograph. He holds it up to me. Him, a middle-aged woman who looks like she barely remembers her best years, and a kid who’s maybe in his early teens. “That’s my family. My wife and son.”

“Okay,” I say. I didn’t know he was married. Always thought of him as a bachelor, definitely always thought of him as someone who lived alone. I didn’t honestly think anyone would be able to stand his company long enough to marry him.

“Fourteen years,” he says. “Wedding anniversary the night that fucking house burned down, did you know that?”

“No, you didn’t mention it.”

“No, I don’t think I would have.” He looks at the photo, then around at the office. “Spent the night here. Slept in my chair. It’s amazing where you can sleep if you’re tired enough. Makes me glad I spent all that money on it. At least it reclines.”

He looks at me now. A red rim around his eyes that I hope is fatigue and not some crying jag waiting to happen.

“Things have been … strained,” he says. “For a while. Really, since the press got their hooks into me. She — Cheryl, my wife — thinks that it’s best we separate for a while.”

I don’t say anything. Try to look sympathetic when I probably just look uncomfortable. Plummer places the photo back into his wallet and breathes out painfully.

“She says it’s for my son’s sake. He gets shit at school because of me. My boy’s not much of a fighter, I’m afraid.”

He doesn’t continue. He hasn’t burst into tears yet, but if I don’t say something to pull him out of this, I can see it coming. He tugs at his face, showing his bottom teeth. I doubt he knows he’s doing it.

“Well, I haven’t given up,” I say. “But I still need to get in touch with Frank.”

Plummer snaps his attention back to me, his mood switched from maudlin to indignant. “Poach my workforce, why don’t you?” He frowns. “No, it’s good you’ve got help. Let’s see, should take that lot another couple of days to send me totally broke, and then you and Frank will be able to stop those Nazis from burning down a house that I don’t own anymore.”

“You had any more notes?”

Plummer shakes his head.

“Then we’ve still got time, haven’t we?”

“Yeah, you do what you want, Callum. I doubt it’ll make a lick of difference, old son, but you carry on.” He moves from the desk, goes round the back and pulls out a bottle of Glenfiddich. “Me, I’m going to get off my face and snooze the rest of the day, but you call me if anything comes up.”

“I will.”

I leave the office, take the stairs as quick as I can, calling for a cab on the way down. Once the taxi’s on its way, I call Frank’s house again. The phone rings out.

Try his mobile. Voice mail.

“Fuckin’ pick up, you spaz.”

I kill the call.

When the cab arrives, I hop into the back, tell the driver to take me to Crumpsall and I’ll give him directions from there.

It’s a bit of a drive, and despite the fact that I’m used to dropping him off around here at night, I’m still not sure where exactly Frank lives. So when I finally see a recognisable block of flats at the end of the street, it’s a fucking relief. Not least to the driver, who looks like he’s about to knock me out if I take him up one more cul-de-sac.

When I see Plummer’s silver Merc in the car park, I nod to myself.

Frank’s in. He’s just not answering his phone. Which means that something went wrong and he’s bottled telling me about it. I had a feeling something like that would happen, but I didn’t want to say it out loud. I wanted to think I could trust the guy to stand in one place with a tape recorder running, but obviously that’s beyond him.