"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?"

  I moved away from the reception area towards the doors so I didn't have to look at the nurse. Outside, it had started pissing down with rain.

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr Slater."

  "Fuck off," I said. "You seriously expect me to believe that you didn't put him in the hospital—"

  "The hospital?"

  My heart kicked up a notch. My voice jumped in volume. "Yes, the fucking hospital. The Salford Royal. I'm here right now, you prick. You want him, you want paid, you come and get him. Finish the poor sod off, why don't you? But I'm not paying you penny number one, you Paki bastard, you hear me?"

  I didn't wait for an answer. I killed the call. I really needed a cigarette now. I turned back to the reception. An Asian family were sat on a bench right behind me. The father watched me, waiting for something. I didn't know what until I replayed the conversation with Ahmad in my head. I held up a hand and looked suitably contrite. Obviously a bit of Beale got in there, not that they'd understand it.

  The nurse appeared from behind the desk. "I think you better take it outside."

  "I'm finished." I held up the phone. "I'll put it on silent."

  Behind her, the television showed the canal. Crime scene tape.

  "Unless you're here to see someone—"

  "Shut up a minute." I pushed past her into the waiting room.

  Yeah, it was our canal. It was our crime scene.

  They'd found Stevie.

  I heard the nurse wittering on behind me, and remembered where I was. She sounded as if she was looking around for security, so I decided to make it easy for her. I didn't look back as I marched out into the piss-down rain and jogged back to the car, where I turned on the radio and looked for the local news.

  Confirmed by the police spokesman: "The body of a man has been recovered from the water. Inquiries are at an early stage, but if anyone has any information they think can assist, then please get in touch."

  Nice and formal, which meant they weren't as daft as I wanted them to be. I lit a cigarette and barely felt the smoke in my lungs. Now I came to think of it, it could have been any number of things that tipped them. Perhaps Phil or Dougie – maybe even The Waste – had noticed that Stevie hadn't shown up for work or home, and they'd reported him missing. Maybe it was the casino, but the more I thought about it, the more I doubted it. More likely it was the smell of a decomposing corpse left in a stinking canal for a week that had prompted a council call-out. I knew we should have wrapped him tighter.

  My mobile rang again. That same unknown number. I watched it ring until I couldn't stand it anymore. I connected and didn't say anything.

  There was a long silence. I could hear Ahmad breathing at the other end.

  Then he said, "I'm a patient man, Mr Slater. I like to think of myself that way, anyway. Then again, I liked to think you were different to your friend, especially given your taste in mistresses."

  "Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

  "Unfortunately, that is clearly not the case."

  I kept quiet. Too busy shaking. Too much invective. I felt my mouth tremble and hated myself for it.

  "So I think we need to discuss payment terms. Obviously today is an emotional one, so shall we say tomorrow afternoon?"

  I blinked. "Fuck off."

  "Tomorrow afternoon, it is, then. And I suggest you develop a more positive mental attitude before our meeting, Mr Slater. I wouldn't want to get third parties involved in what is an easy situation to rectify."

  And the click of a dead line.

  I lowered the phone, then slung it over the dashboard. Sat there for a while, listening to the local news turn into local radio and then the dirge of shit music.

  I had to hand it to Beale. Even when the bastard was unconscious, he managed to screw up my life.

  24

  I didn't mention it to Cath. Fact of the matter was if Ahmad wanted paid, he'd have to find me. And I wasn't going to make it easy for him. Not seeing Lucy was a good first step, and I'd already made a point of staying away from the clubs. Otherwise, I couldn't be too erratic. If the police were investigating Stevie's death, then any odd behaviour would be noticed and reported if they ever got round to seeing us. The innocent man went about his daily business without a care in the world. Then again, so did the man who didn't know he'd already been caught.

  I couldn't think like that, though. I had to keep my volume. The sits yesterday were based on leads from a new canvass team so they'd been first-day blags, and the Alan Slater that could've sold them anyway was dead the moment I heard about Beale. So I'd had a word with myself this morning, and told myself that I was selling these two for this afternoon no matter what. Because I wasn't Beale. I didn't let the outside world affect my volume. I was better than that.

  Figgis at two, MacReady at four. My sits for the afternoon. Clouds started to knit above me and when I got to the Figgis house, the first dots of rain appeared on the windscreen like an augur of the shitstorm to come.

  Figgis were Mr and Mrs Donald Figgis, one foot in the grave, the other arthritic. Didn't have a pot to piss in and even if they had, they wouldn't chuck it out of a UPVC window. I got the whole spiel about how they didn't trust banks, especially after what happened with Northern Rock and how wasn't that a shame that all those people lost their savings like that. And I nodded and listened, which got them onto the other evils of the modern world: television, mobile phones, the internet ...

  "No, love, we just like the wireless, don't we, Donald?" said Mrs Figgis.

  "That's right."

  "It's much more intelligent than the telly."

  Mr Figgis screwed up as much of the loose skin on his face as he could in a disgusted expression. "It's all flashing lights and strippers, the telly. It's sickening."

  "We can't be doing with that."

  For the Figgises, life was nothing more than a series of board games, weak tea and a frantic distrust of the outside world. With that distrust came the hoarding instinct, and the place reflected that. They probably had money, but it was hidden under one of the many piles of newspapers and old jigsaw puzzles, or else stuffed under the mattress. And given the underlying musty odour in the place, I wasn't about to go rifling through their bedclothes no matter what the price.

  Of course, like most of the bad leads, I'd recognised the name. Figgis wasn't that common a name, and there was something about the address that rang a bell, too. Halfway through the sit, I realised why they were familiar – I'd talked to these two before. It had been a long time ago, and they'd probably bored the shit out of many other salesmen since then, but this was definitely the same couple. They nodded, they smiled, even though the grins were as false as the teeth that made them. Fact was, they just liked talking to salesmen.

  So I did the booklets, I did the pitch, and both fell flat. The inside of my mouth became itchy and raw. "Thing is, if you're looking to save money on your utilities ..."

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16