Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (16 page)

Ken
nods, ‘If they don’t take it down it never happened.’

‘Aye.’

Kens
face creases into a frown.

‘Something
wrong?’ I ask him. He looks in his rear view mirror then shrugs,
‘Nah…..probably imagining things but….’

‘What?’

A
shrug, ‘I thought I had an Audi on my tail on my way over to pick yous up then
it seemed to disappear, thought I saw it again just now.’ I can feel the blood
drain from my face, ‘Dinnae worry,’ he adds hastily, ‘I’ll just start taking the
long way round to places, jist to be sure.’

Ken
can see I’m not happy. ‘Good result today though, eh?’ he says kindly.

‘That
doesn’t prove your man killed them though.’ Brad offers.

‘Tell
me something I don’t know!’ I snap. He catches my eye and I smile

apologetically.
‘If we can convince Daz to come forward about passing on details of my
whereabouts to MacIntyre, about telling him I was crashing at Malkie’s place
just before he was murdered…..’

‘Doesn’t
prove anything.’ Brad says helpfully. ‘Doesn’t prove he killed them.’

‘
Fucksake
,
Brad.’

‘I’m
just saying.’

‘Listen!’
Ken pipes up.

‘Look
Ken,’ I butt in, ‘I know we don’t have much, but I’ve -’

‘Shut
it!’ he orders.

‘Wha?’

‘Shut
the fuck up and listen!’ Ken stabs at the radio with his index finger:

“…Davy
Johnson is believed to be a family friend of one of the working girls found
murdered after an anonymous call alerted police to a disturbance at the women’s
home in the early hours of Wednesday morning. The twenty three year old, who is
believed to have been staying at the house at the time of the murders, has been
missing since the bodies were found. Today’s discovery of the gun used to kill
Malcolm Clements and his key worker Paul Reeve - at what was originally thought
to be an unrelated incident - during a search of the home Johnson shares with
his mother, has shocked the local community. A knife found behind bins outside
the women’s property has been confirmed as the weapon used against two of the
victims and has been taken away for testing.

A
police spokesman confirms that both cases are now being investigated by a
dedicated murder investigation team who urge Johnson to come forward so he can
be eliminated from their enquiries. If members of the public see Johnson they
are not to approach him but to contact Crimestoppers immediately.”

Ken
switches the radio off at the start of the weather forecast and we sit in
silence while he manoeuvres the car through the traffic.

‘Fuck.’
I mutter over and over. ‘FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. That bastard’s been in ma house!’ The
thought of him talking down to Mum, badmouthing me before hiding the gun he’d
used on Malkie is almost too much to bear. ‘Why the hell would she let him in?’

‘Because
he’ll have turned up with a warrant,’ Ken reminds me reasonably, ‘with several
cronies in tow.’

‘Aye,’
Brad agrees, ‘While she’s talking to one of the others how’s she to know where
he’s got to?’

Brad
has a point. ‘He’ll have been able to lift loads of my prints from Jude’s
place, right enough,’ I concede, ‘given I stayed overnight and went in just
about every room in the house that night.’

‘D’ye
still want to go over to see Kirsty?’ Ken asks gently, approaching the
roundabout on Leith Street extra slow in case I change my mind. I catch his eye
in the rear view mirror and shake my head.

‘Better
go back,’ I say numbly, ‘Can’t risk being seen by any o’the punters now.’ I’d
intended to go to the VA to see if Kirsty suspected anything about MacIntyre
and his relationship with Daz, maybe even find out what some of the punters
have been saying but the cops will be watching my regular haunts now to see if
I make contact.

‘Shit,’
I say aloud, to no one in particular, ‘I manage to get a phone to Candy so I
can speak to her for the first time in days, just as I’m outed as Scotland’s
Most Wanted.’

Ken
throws his packet of fags to me; I take one and pass one to Brad.

‘At
least the day can’t get any worse.’ Ken says reasonably. I think of Jude’s
response to that and bite back a smile.

Just
then my phone vibrates with an incoming text. I look down at the screen.

It’s
from Marcus:

Get yi batty here
now, ur on
.

OK, so the day
just got worse. I’ve to collect a shipment of weapons then drive them across
the city without attracting the attention of police already on the lookout for
me in connection with five murders and the discovery of a gun in my home. I can
only pray they don’t stop me. I can hardly plead I’ve never owned a weapon with
a box full rattling around in the boot.

Marcus
and his minders are already waiting for me in the hideout when I return. They
are big men and they fill the room making the few items in it look ridiculous.
There’s nowhere for the three of them to sit so Marcus takes the sofa while
Barrington and Devlin stand behind him like runners up in a Mr Universe pageant.

‘Who
di fuck’s dis?’ Marcus glares at Brad who to be fair stands his ground beside
me, arms folded across his chest like he’s on the door of an upmarket bar on
George Street.

‘He’s
been keepin’ lookout for me.’ I tell him. ‘He’s cool, Marcus.’

‘You
sure ‘bout dat?’ Marcus barks, giving Brad an appraising look as though trying
to get his measure.

‘Sure.’
I say. Brad’s taking a risk going about with me; if the police find out he’s
been giving me a hand he could be sent back to Saughton, made to sit the
remainder of his sentence out in jail. It’s no small thing he’s doing for me.

I’ve
obviously not sold Brad well to Marcus. ‘Do one.’ He says sharply, his minders
bouncing on their toes at the prospect of getting physical with a brick
shithouse. Brad rolls his shoulders in a shrug, ‘Catch ya later,’ he growls
before heading out the way he came.

‘Surprised
ye still want me for this job…’ I mumble. The three men look at me like I’m
here for an audition and they’re waiting for me to start, which makes me nervous.

‘….what
with the cops releasing my name as a suspect, they’ll be looking out for me on
every street corner.’

‘No
matter.’ Marcus states.

Easy
for him to say.

Marcus’s
phone beeps and he pulls it out of his jacket pocket, reading the message
before turning his attention back to me. ‘OK.’ He begins, reading the
information from the screen.

‘Di
shipment come. Yi colleck it from Albert Dock Basin at half past four. One o’
di port officials is on Gus’s payroll and dey’ll make demself known to yi.
Dey’ll pass yi two containers. Yi need fi look like you’re checking dem over
before signing fi dem, put dem in di boot o’ yi car, den fuck off.’

‘Job
done.’ Barrington adds, stepping towards me with a piece of paper. It worries
me that he’s wearing gloves, but I push that worry to the back of my mind where
it has plenty of company at the moment. ‘That’s the address you’re to take it
to.’ He says, ‘Someone’ll meet you there.’

Marcus
stands, conversation over. Before leaving he turns to me: ‘When you’re done,
come fin’ me an’ I’ll give yi de information yi want.’

Finally
I’ll know who robbed Candy’s workplace. It means I can tell her the men who
scared the shit out of her won’t be scaring anyone else anytime soon.

Marcus
chose me for this job because I have a reputation for letting myself into most
cars. I say let myself in because I never took the cars I broke into away, in
fact once I’d disabled the locking system I was ready to move onto the next. It
was a party piece, that’s all, an attention seeking skill that earned me
respect when I was at school. Later, when I worked at the dodgy garage owned by
my mate’s dad stolen cars came in all the time – that was their main stock in
trade – but the vehicles were stolen by organised gangs, not kids like me,
desperate to impress their mates. It seems ironic that today will be the only
time I’ll have actually stolen something – not even two weeks after being
released from jail. So much for rehabilitation.

Time
is against me. I don’t have the luxury of doing a reccy, working out car
owners’ movements by staking out a street or cul-de-sac. This is going to have
to be a random opportunity, a lapse of care on the driver’s part when they run
into a newsagent’s leaving the engine running. Yeah, it still happens. A car
pulls up beside me at the kerb and the passenger window lowers. I’m guessing
it’s a tourist asking for directions, either way it’ll do. It’s a Volvo estate
no more than a couple of years old and I wonder if I’ve anything in my pocket I
can use to intimidate the owner into handing it over. I sigh; this is where
Brad would have come in really useful: he has the kind of face only a mother
with a drink inside her would love.

‘Get
the fuck in then.’ Brad hisses from the driver’s seat and I do a double-take
when I see him behind the wheel.

‘Wha-?’

‘Get
in.’ He repeats and as I realise what he’s done I don’t need telling a third
time.

Brad
smiles at me. A smug smile that says he knows he’s played a blinder. ‘Ye said
ye needed a car.’

‘How
the f-’

‘S’easy.’
He brags. ‘I phoned Ken, asked him if he’d driven anyone to the airport in the
last few days. “
Aye, this one couple
,” he tells me, “
off to Morrocco
for a fortnight
.” Then I asked him for their address. They stay in one of
the new townhouses built at the back of Haymarket Station. Middle aged couple I
reckon, going by the car. Impressed or what?’

I
nod eagerly, relieved that it’s one less thing I have to do. ‘How did ye get
the car keys though?’

Brad
laughs as though I’ve said something funny. ‘How de ye think?’

‘You
broke in to the house?’

‘Aye,
how else am I to get the keys?’ Brad replies matter of factly. ‘I was in and
out though, didn’t take anything else if that’s what ye wondering.’

I
smile sheepishly; I’m hardly in a position to criticize.

Brads
flicks on the car’s indicator and inches out into the traffic. ‘Hang on mate,’
I remind him, ‘You need to disappear. Let me do this on my own. Don’t get
caught up in this as well, for Christ’s sake.’

Brad
ignores me and pulls out in front of an Audi that’s letting us out so it can
move into our space. ‘I’m already caught up aren’t I? My prints are all over
this car now and people saw me going about the town with ye this morning, it’s
a bit late to start worrying about not getting involved.’

He’s
right, but still. ‘Fine.’ I sigh, giving in, ‘If ye want to tag along that’s
one thing, but I do this job. That’s the deal I’ve made with Marcus.’

‘Fair
enough.’ Brad manoeuvres the Volvo across a traffic diversion along York Place
and pulls into the entrance to the bus station so we can swap seats. As I open
the driver’s door a police car pulls out of the junction opposite and I
hesitate, just for a moment. The Volvo is blocking the entrance to the bus
terminal, just the type of thing to attract their attention if it’s a quiet day
and they’ve time to kill. The squad car drives on, oblivious, but there’ll be
other cop cars, other cops not quite so sloppy.

‘Aw,
bollocks, man.’ I mutter under my breath. ‘Let’s get it over with.’ And I slide
into the driver’s seat.

‘So,
where are we going?’

I
turn back onto York Place and put my foot down, turning the car in the opposite
direction, speeding over tram lines, turning a sharp left from the roundabout
and out onto Leith Street.

‘To
the docks.’

‘Ye’ll
no get many Romanians in the back there.’ Brad grins, inclining his head

towards
the Volvo’s large boot.

‘Nah,
mate…..’ I say cautiously, ‘guns.’

That
wipes the smile from his face. ‘Ye shittin’ me?’

‘Why
would I do that?’ I challenge, ‘Jeezo, after everythin’ else that’s gone on do
I really need to make stuff up?’

Brad
thinks for a minute. ‘Shit man, can I change my mind?’

I
look over at him while trying to miss suicidal pedestrians near the Foot o’ the
Walk.

‘I’m
jokin’!’ he says when he sees the look on my face. ‘If nothing else I can give
yer a hand if it starts to get nasty.’

I
keep my distance from the car ahead, not wanting to draw attention to myself by
braking quickly. The road is busy but that’s normal along this stretch, with
vehicles heading in the same direction as me – not to Leith Docks, but the
commercial part which houses a shopping mall and HMS Britannia. Unlike the
other vehicles, we’re heading towards the port, so I take the less used turn
off before Ocean Drive which brings us out beyond the casino, stopping at
Albert Dock Basin just as Marcus instructed.

There’s
a parking bay as we approach the dock but it seems sensible to park somewhere
our contact can see us. I opt for the yard beside a large brick and corrugated
iron warehouse and kill the engine. I glance at my watch: 4.20pm. ‘Ten
minutes.’ I mutter, ‘We’ve made good time.’

Several
vessels have docked including a couple of cargo ships, their containers already
unloaded. Two port officials walk along the dockside, checking a number on the
side of each container against a printout one of them is holding. Both men
appear stocky but they’re wearing heavy overcoats over their uniforms, they
have outdoor complexions: broken veins and ruddy cheeks, deep lines etch their
mouth and eyes. A lifetime being battered by the East Coast wind. Satisfied
with their inventory they head towards a single storey building with arched
windows overlooking the dock.

I
turn to Brad: ‘Mebbe they’re due a break and one of ‘em’ll come back out once
he’s shaken off his friend.’

‘Aye.’
Brad says encouragingly.

A
young woman steps out of the office and walks round to the back of the
building. She’s wearing smart black trousers and a fitted jacket which she
pulls tightly around her; even in the suit you can tell she has a great figure.
Once out of the wind she pulls a cigarette and lighter out of her trouser
pocket and lights up. She seems lost in thought as she takes her first drag,
her curly hair dancing around her face in the wind. Her skin is the colour of
highland toffee, with dark eyes and a cupid bow mouth. A guy in a boiler suit
shouts something over to her on his way into the warehouse, making her laugh.
‘In ye dreams, Lewis!’ she shouts back.

Brad
nudges me. ‘Canny blame him fe trying though, eh?’

‘Right
enough.’ I say. I look down at my watch, it’s approaching half past. I glance
back towards the office entrance but no one emerges.

‘Marcus
said half past.’ I say to Brad.

‘Is
ye watch fast?’ he asks.

‘Not
that I know of,’ I shrug, ‘what time is it on your phone?’ Brad pulls his smart
phone out of his pocket and looks at the screen. ‘Half past.’

‘Right,
then.’

The
woman finishes her cigarette and drops it onto the floor before stepping on it.
She catches us gawping and tilts her head the way attractive women do when they
want you to know you’re punching above your weight. Undeterred, Brad leans his
head out of the car window. ‘Arright, sweet cheeks,’ he drawls. I can feel my
face redden in embarrassment.

The
woman glares at him, striding towards the Volvo with a malicious look in her
eye.

‘Ye
canny park there!’ She shouts.

‘Fucksake,
Brad.’ I hiss, starting to panic. The success of this job relies upon the car
and driver being as inconspicuous as possible. Now, thanks to Motor Mouth, we
had one cute but mean looking official bearing down on us like a ton of bricks.

‘Hey,
you,’ she demands, looking at me, ‘Who said ye could park there?’

‘We’re
waiting fe someone.’ I say honestly.

Now
Brad’s staring daggers at me.

‘Fucksake
yersel,’ he mutters, shaking his head. Her waist is now at my eyeline and she
stoops to lean into my driver’s side window.

‘Ye
waitin’ fe me, shit fe brains.’ She hisses, ‘now go round the back of the
warehouse like a good wee boy, park beside the back door and I’ll meet ye
there.’ She casts a withering look in Brad’s direction. ‘And tell gob shite
here to keep his comments to himself.’

She
straightens up and walks back the way she came, lights another cigarette while
sheltering behind the office block.

‘Lezzer.’
Brad mutters, his face tripping him.

I
turn the key in the ignition but the car stalls, ‘Crissake, Davy.’ he snipes. I
sneak a peek over at Bossy Tits and she’s smirking. I make sure the Volvo
starts on the second attempt, moving it along the back of the warehouse until I
see the back door. It’s a single door with glass panels top and bottom covered
in a wire grille. The words NO PARKING are painted on the tarmac outside it. I
park right on top of them. The back door opens and the guy in the overalls we’d
seen earlier steps out, carrying a crate which he places on the tarmac beside
the car. I go to open the boot but the guy calls out from the doorway: ‘Canny
load it till she’s signed my docket, Pal. She needs tae check the goods before
they can be released.’

‘No
bother, Pal,’ I tell him, ‘I’ll wait.’ I ask Brad to throw me a cigarette and
my lighter and I’ve smoked half way down it when Bossy Tits herself walks
through the back door, followed by Overall Man carrying another crate. She’s
carrying a clip board, right enough, the sheets of paper attached to it
fluttering in the wind. Overall Man places the second crate on top of the
first, then steps back as though awaiting further instructions.

‘Open
it then!’ she snaps, and he slides the lid off. The top of the crate is full of
bubble wrap screwed into balls to wad around the contents and stop them
slipping around in the box. Bossy Tits pushes through several layers of wadding
with her hand and lifts out a box of hair straighteners. She opens the box,
pointing the straighteners at me as though defending herself.

‘Just
sign where indicated!’ she barks, ‘to say you’ve seen the contents and they are
correct.’

With
her other hand she thrusts the clip board in my direction and I snatch it from
her like a novice in a relay. The sheets of paper clipped to the board are
blank; however I play along and scribble a couple of wavy lines across the top
sheet for effect.