Saturday's Child

pops a Polo to hide the smell of booze on his breath. He cracks the mint between his teeth, knowing it irritates the hell out of me.

The duty sergeant looks bored and tired at the same time. One of those guys who shave their head to make up for a receding hairline. There's a scar in the right crook of his widow's peak. I stare at it.

Donkey finds a vacant interview room, hauls me towards

it.

I'm innocent, but it's a small consolation. If I remember rightly, I was innocent the last time. Lot of fucking good it did me, too. Donkey's obviously done his homework, but maths was never his strong point. He's added two and two, come up with me. I have an alibi for last night, for what it's worth. I don't know if I want them to call the bar to check up on it, though. Assaulting a customer probably isn't the rosiest light that could shine on my situation.

So Dennis Lang's in critical condition. Brenda Lang thinks I did it. Why? Because we talked about it. And I said no, didn't I?

It wasn't the first time she'd talked to strangers. I got that vibe straight off the bat. She had that drunk storyteller thing going, probably spent most of her nights getting slurry and talking to anyone who'd listen. Mine can't be the first ear she's bent. So what happens? Her hubby gets done over, the police go to the wife, and who does she think of?

The person who told her no. The person who upset her.

Never talk to wannabe widows. That night is starting to have a rulebook of its own.

But Donkey doesn't have a leg to stand on. No evidence, no holding cell, at least not for long. When I finally get myself settled in an interview room that stinks of Mr Sheen and sweat, I try to relax. Donkey leans against the wall, his arse dangerously close to the panic strip. From his face, I can tell he loves every second of it. The first bona fide investigation he's had in a long time. The only reason he got this is because he knows me, reckons he's the best man for the job. The constable stands behind me, his back to the door. There in case I try to make a run for it. The tape turns.

Donkey clears his throat. It sounds thick. 'So,' he says. 'You were in The Denton Bonfire Night.’

‘That's right.'

'And you had some trouble in the toilets.'

'Correct.'

'What happened?'

'You know what happened, Detective Donkin.’

‘For the benefit of the tape, Mr Innes.’

‘Ah, well then. For the benefit of the tape, I was due to meet a client at The Denton.'

'A client?' There's a hint of sarcasm in Donkey's voice. 'That's right.'

'What kind of client would you meet in the gents?’

‘He wanted some privacy.'

'You renting your arse these days?' He looks over at the constable and winks.

'I run a private investigation business,' I say. It sounds so weak.

Donkey grins, then: 'You licensed?’

‘No.'

'Then you shouldn't be running any kind of business.’

‘I didn't start like that. People ask me to look into things for them.'

Donkey pulls a roll-up out of his tin, lights it. As the flame from his Zippo catches, his lips pucker. Smoke streams into the air.

I reach for my cigarettes. Donkey shakes his head. 'Non- smoking station, Mr Innes.' Oh, I get it.

'So you're a private detective,' he says. 'And you meet a client in the toilets.’

‘Yeah.'

'You don't have an office?'

'He didn't want to come to the office.'

'Why not?'

'Because he was a smackhead,' I say. 'And he wanted to score.'

'This a sideline of yours?'

I glare at him. 'You know it's not.'

'But you agreed to meet him anyway.'

'I thought he was a real client. He didn't tell me what he wanted over the phone. Junkies don't tend to be that fuckin' open about their hopes and dreams. And when I met him, and he said what he wanted, I told him I wasn't in that business. Which I'm not.'

'And then?'

'Then I showed him the door.'

'Huh.' Donkey flicks ash onto the floor and sniffs. 'See, that's not what I heard. What I heard was that you beat the shit out of him and dumped him in the street. Quite a tumble, by all accounts.'

'He pressing charges, is he?'

'Nope. Haven't found him.'

'Then why are we talking about this?' I say, but I know exactly why we're talking about it. Donkey's trying to make me look like a scally thug. Get it all down in Dolby Digital, then black-and-white: Callum Michael Innes is a piece of work with a sideline in drug-dealing. Oh, he says he's a private dick, but the truth is he's still Morris Tiernan's errand boy. Morris says jump, Cal asks how high.

I could calm down, stop playing the hard case, but I'm so riled, it's difficult.

I'm establishing a context,' says Donkey.

'You're wasting my time.'

'You talked to Brenda Lang that night,' he says.

'She talked to me. She was piss-drunk, came over and sat next to me, starting talking about me killing her husband for money. I told her I wasn't the bloke she was looking for.'

'You told her that.'

'After she'd finished talking. Took a while. You know how drunks like to talk, Detective.'

'And then what? You just got up and went?’

‘She told me to get out.'

'And you did what she said. This drunk woman intimidated you that much.'

'Her husband was a mean-looking guy. I didn't want him throwing me out. Besides, I'd had enough of that place.'

'Again, not what I heard.'

'Then tell you what, why don't you tell the fuckin' story? Obviously you know more about it than I do and I was there. Fill me in, Detective. What did I say?'

Donkey kicks the free chair. It scrapes against the floor. 'You want to sit down, Mr Innes?'

'For the benefit of the tape, I am sitting down. Jesus, Donkey, what next? You going to throw that chair across the room so it sounds like I put up a fight? Get to fuck.'

His eyes flare. Donkey leans across the table, glances at his watch, and says, 'Interview suspended at three-oh-six.' He shuts off the tape. Then: 'I told you to watch your fuckin' mouth, Innes.'

'Yeah, you told me. And I heard you the first time. Now how about you do me a favour and admit you've got nothing on me?'

'You got a mouth on you, lad.'

'And you've got brass balls to try and set me up for this.'

'I'm not setting you up for anything, Innes. You're fucked enough without my help.'

'Charge me or let me go.'

'We can hold you.'

'Charge me or let me go.'

He looks at the uniform. 'Broken record.'

'You know I don't have it in me,' I say.

I know plenty. I know your brother's a junkie grass, I know you're working for Tiernan right now, and I know you didn't get them bruises pillow-fighting. So stop the karaoke, son. Having a drink problem doesn't make you Mike fuckin' Hammer. And you might not have had it in you when you got sent away, my lad, but that's not to say you didn't learn a few tricks when you was inside, just like that phoney fuckin' Mane accent you picked up.'

Blood in my mouth. Feels like I've been punched. I fold my arms. 'Charge me. Or let me go.'

Donkey straightens up, crushes the rollie under his shoe. 'We're not going to charge you, son. Not yet. But if you think you're free as a bird, you got another thing coming. You're a scally, Innes. No brains. And you'll fuck up sooner or later, mark my words. When you do, I'll be there.'

'I'll look forward to that.'

'One word from me, and you'll be recalled,' he says. 'Christ, are you finished?’

‘For now, yeah. Think on.'

FIFTEEN

I tapped the Clipper on the table and stared out the window at Piccadilly Gardens. We was in this caff what did a good fry- up, but I weren't hungry. Had a bacon barm sitting in front of us, smelled so strong it made me want to throw. So I got out my seat, pushed past Baz and went to take a shite in the bogs. Hadn't had one in three days, all backed up. When I managed it, it were a knee-trembling buckshot blast and the smell told us me guts was rotten.