They counted twenties and tens into piles.
‘There,’ Ferdie set the piles aside. ‘Two grand. And a bit left over for me pension.’
Dean heard Douggie and Gary leave. Knew it was Douggie by the whistling. Whistle like a bird, Douggie could. Do bird songs too and sound effects with his mouth; water pouring from a bottle, creaking doors and footsteps, MetroLink tram hooting. Brilliant. Hardly a career option though. Dean reckoned they must have used people like Douggie on the radio years back, when they still called it the wireless. Be all computers now. No need for a bloke in the corner knocking two coconut shells together or chugging like a steam train.
Douggie used to do his sounds when they were in Hegley together. Party trick. Douggie would play the fool, he got spared ‘cos he entertained people. Even the
British National Party nutters appreciated Douggie’s talents.
Some of the lads in there had scared the life out of Dean. Hard men. Wound up tight, always ready to snap. Getting or giving a kicking on a daily basis. Violence the only language they spoke. Second nature. First nature. Only nature. Others, equally scary, got off on it. Sick. Not talking kinky sex, weekend S &M, hit me harder, baby. No. Not that at all. Talking some guy screaming, blood all over his face, bubbling from his nose, broken bone making his elbow hang all wrong. Battery and rape. It happened. He knew all about it.
One time, Dean had only been in there three weeks, he’s in the bog and one of them comes in. McGowan they call him. Dean hears his voice. Then McGowan’s climbing up the next cubicle, leaning over, looking down on him. ‘Well, what have we got here then? Open the door. C’mon, open the fucking door.’
Dean, dread flooding his mouth, hand reaching for the door. Fumbling, pulling it open.
‘Boo!’
Jesus! One of McGowan’s stooges on sentry duty. Dean slams the door shut. Dean, flying on fear; everything sharp as razors, can hear a distant footfalclass="underline" the squeak of rubber soles on the hard vinyl floor. He knows that squeak.
‘Douggie,’ he screams.
Footsteps. Squeak, squeak, squeak. ‘Dean?’ Douggie shouting.
‘Douggie. Douggie.’ No missing the need for help.
Glass breaking and then mayhem as the bell starts ringing and the sprinklers come on. McGowan disappears.
Later, sitting quiet with Douggie, he’s amazed they haven’t disciplined Douggie for setting off the alarm, not that anyone saw him but that didn’t usually stop them. Douggie, sitting on the floor, his back to the bed. Dean lying curled on the mattress, arms wrapped round his belly, telling Douggie about what happened. What brought him to Hegley. Why he’d knifed the guy. Different from the statement he’d signed, the one they read out in court and different too from the story his victim had given. The first, last and the only time, that Dean ever told anyone the truth about it.
Dean finished and it’s quiet. Douggie turns round puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, face tight with emotion, holding on. ‘’S all right, mate,’ Douggie says, husky throat. ‘All right, Dean.’
He had the nous to go then, leave Dean on his own, door shut, so no one could see him weep.
Lesley heard someone at the door and then Emma’s voice. Emma was asking them in. He was here! Lesley stood, ready to bolt, to plead illness, anything.
‘Lesley, it’s a friend of yours? I don’t know if you feel up to it.’
Lesley froze then realised it wasn’t him – it was another man. From the car park. Saturday, the man who’d stopped his blue van.
‘Such an awful thing,’ he was saying. ‘I wanted to come and see how you were. If I’m not intruding.’
‘No,’ she said. All smiles. On the brink of tears. ‘This is my sister, Emma. This is… John.’ Very original. ‘I’m pretty wobbly,’ she said. ‘Come through.’
He sat down on the sofa, stretching his arms wide across the back. She closed the door. Stood with her back to it.
He was sizing the place up. ‘Very nice. Not the best area, though. Place like this in, Didsbury, you’d be looking at least 300K.’ He sat forward. ‘You were very good on the telly. Your appeal for information. I have some.’
She stared at him in confusion, then Emma interrupted them, ‘Inspector Mayne on the phone.’
John got up. ‘ I’ll be in touch.’ She watched him leave, her heart thudding in her chest.
There was knocking at Colin’s door.
‘And that’ll be our man.’ Ferdie said
Colin felt sick. He went and opened the door.
‘All right, mate,’ Douggie said and nodded a greeting.
‘Right.’ Colin swallowed. ‘Erm, come in… in here.’
‘All right, mate,’ Douggie greeted Ferdie. He sat down and slid the rucksack from his back, retrieved two bags of cocaine wrapped in cling-film. ‘Like a sample?’
Ferdie nodded.
‘Help yourself.’
Ferdie opened one of the parcels, licked his finger, dipped it into the powder and rubbed it onto his gums. Nodded. Repeated the process and smiled broadly. ‘Nice one.’ He slid the money over the table. ‘Two grand.’
‘You don’t mind if I-’ Douggie pointed at the notes.
‘No, best be sure,’ said Colin hastily. ‘Think it’s right.’
Douggie counted the bundles. ‘Cool. I’ll be on my way. You’ve got the number if you want to place any more orders.’
‘Yep,’ said Ferdie, grinning inanely now.
Colin followed the lad to the door. ‘See you, mate.’
‘See you.’
DC Chen, parked in an unmarked car, watching Ferdie and Colin, noted the arrival and departure of the young man in the Nissan Sunny. She ran the number plate for identification. It was registered to an Oldham address, to one Douglas Connor. After talking to Oldham she established that they had Douglas Connor, aka Douggie, in their sights. He was allegedly shifting substantial amounts of stuff. There was an operation on and they were expecting some action soon. Chen reckoned Ferdie Gibson and chum were buying. But how did someone living in a dump like that caravan get that sort of cash? Oldham promised to keep them informed as and when.
On the way back to the station, Janine rang and left Michael a message, wherever he was, so he would know what was going on with Tom. She met Sarah at the house to give her the keys and to reassure Eleanor.
When she walked into the murder room the team gathered round her. Word had travelled fast and they wanted to know how Tom was.
‘He should be fine,’ she told them. ‘But it’s a horrible thing.’ She could recall so clearly Tom’s first bad attack. The feeling of helplessness. Tom, his face red with effort, the fear in his eyes. Her terror because although it was down-played she knew children could die from this disease. Every year the numbers of sufferers rose yet no one agreed about the causes. ‘Terrible,’ she shook her head.
She raised her eyes, braving a smile and caught sight of The Lemon looking through the glass room divider.
‘Don’t look now,’ she told them, ‘but we are not alone. Okay, Butchers is already knocking doors,’ she nodded at Shap. ‘You’re back to Ferdie.’
She gathered up her things. The Lemon strolled into the room.
‘Janine.’
‘Sir?’
‘Problems with the family?’ She was suspicious, anyone else and she’d take the comment at face value, but she still didn’t trust him.
She misinterpreted him deliberately. ‘Skeletons in the wardrobe, sir. Tulley was married before and his dead parents are alive and well and living in Lymm.’
He didn’t like that, a little flare in his eyes. Knowing her game. ‘Your family,’ he said crisply.
‘Nothing I can’t handle, sir. But thanks for asking.’