Steven Dunne - Deity

‘Tiny Tom.’ Phil nodded. ‘He left a while ago.’

‘When?’

Phil shrugged. ‘A week? Two?’

‘Left, how?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Think. I need to find out where he went from here.’

‘He left with Oz.’

‘Who’s Oz?’

‘Ozzy looks after us, brings us gear.’

‘He’s your benefactor?’ Phil nodded. ‘Is he Australian?’

‘No. English, I think.’

‘Describe him.’

‘I’ve only seen him clearly once and I was rammed.’

‘Try and remember, Phil.’

Phil took a deep breath. ‘He’s younger than us. Forty, forty-five maybe. Short hair, well built, that’s all I can remember. It’s always at night see, after we’ve had a few.’

‘How does he get here?’

‘He has transport. A big van, I think.’

‘A big van, are you sure?’

Phil fixed Brook with a glare. ‘Damen, I can’t be sure of anything. Maybe it was a car. All I think about is the. .’

‘. . next fix. I get it,’ said Brook, ‘but did the next fix arrive at the same time as Tommy left?’

Phil thought for a minute then slowly nodded. ‘You’re right. Ozzy gave us a few bottles of whisky then Tommy left with him. Bath and bed, Tommy said.’

‘And you don’t know where.’ Phil shook his head. ‘Okay. Phil, promise me if he comes again, you won’t go with him.’

‘What?’

‘Promise me, Phil.’

‘Why? What’s going on, Damen?’

‘Tommy’s dead. We found him in the river. We think another. . vagrant has died as well. That we know about. Does the name Barry Kirk ring a bell?’

‘Bazza? He was here. Is he dead too?’

Brook nodded in the dark. Phil’s expression didn’t waver. Instead he shrugged. ‘Lucky him, I say. That’s the life. We all know what’s coming. If it ain’t me, maybe I’ll read about it in the crapper,’ he sniggered.

‘Phil, things were done to Tommy. His organs were removed.’

‘Lot of use they’d be.’ Phil sniggered again.

‘Don’t you get it yet, Phil? You’re living in a body farm. Barry and Tommy were here, now they’re dead. I think this guy Ozzy takes them somewhere and when they’re dead he guts them like a fish.’

‘So what? He brings us drink, sometimes some rock. Tommy wasn’t my friend, Damen. We don’t have friends in the life. Just rivals for the last smoke, the last drop. We’re on borrowed time, man. Like I said. Lucky Tommy, lucky Bazza.’ He grinned with pleasure. ‘Now I’ve got a bottle of theirs with my name on it.’

Brook searched in his pockets and found a pencil. He wrote on the grubby wallpaper. ‘I’m your friend, Phil. I can help you.’

‘Is that right? Give me money then. I’ve got the rattles something rotten.’

Brook looked him in the eyes. ‘I can help you if you’ll let me. You’re sick.’

‘Don’t fucking patronise me,’ snarled Phil. ‘I’m not sick. This isn’t an illness. I’m weak, no moral fibre, no character. Geddit?’

‘Okay, calm down.’

‘I made my choices and I got it wrong. I fucked up so don’t tell me I’m sick unless you’re got a pill for failure.’

‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ Brook tore off the flap of wallpaper and scrunched it into Phil’s top pocket. ‘If this Ozzy comes back or if you want my help, money, a bed for the night, anything — that’s my mobile number. Call me.’

‘From a payphone? Just give me your mobile and I’ll ring your landline, it’ll be quicker.’ Phil’s face shone with sincerity.

‘I’m a copper, remember. We both know you’ll have sold the phone before I get to the end of the street. Just get to a payphone and use it.’

Phil grinned and Brook could see his rotting mouth. ‘Is there a retainer for this service?’ he asked sheepishly.

Brook fished around for the meagre change from his twenty pounds and poured it into Phil’s hand. A noise caught his attention. ‘Was that a car door?’ He flung the flimsy door open and hurtled down the stairs to the main room in time to hear a vehicle pulling away. ‘Out of the way,’ Brook shouted at the throng of men swarming around the window, picking full bottles out of a crate. ‘Move.’

By the time Brook had jostled his way past the sluggish scrum of men and vaulted out of the window, the lights had disappeared. He turned back to the silhouette of his fellow Oxbridge graduate, stooping to pluck his own precious bottle from the crate.

After a second, Phil came to the gaping window, spinning the top from his whisky and downing a huge swallow. Eventually he lowered the bottle and leaned on the sill. ‘Where’s Jock?’ he asked.

Brook finally scuffed his feet across the forecourt of St Mary’s Wharf station at a quarter to four in the morning having walked across the centre of town. He was annoyed that he’d surrendered all his change to Phil Ward, not that he could have enticed a taxi to pick him up at any time of day given the condition he was in. He’d tried phoning for a squad car but all units were tied up and even Noble had turned off his mobile.

He plodded wearily up the steps to the glass doors, dismayed to see Sergeant Hendrickson on duty at the front counter and wishing he hadn’t left his smartcard in his desk. As he approached the intercom, Brook saw the uniformed officer muttering something under his breath which even a novice lipreader like Brook took to be, ‘Look what the cat dragged in.’

Brook pressed the intercom, monitoring Hendrickson for further evidence of abuse. ‘It’s DI Brook. Let me in, Sergeant.’ Hendrickson unveiled his most obsequious smile and pressed his own button. ‘DI Brook isn’t on duty at this time, sir. Please call back later.’ He released the button and affected a return to pressing paperwork on his counter.

Brook’s lips tightened and he pressed again. He did have his warrant card for emergencies so he pulled it from his shoe and, after brushing the condensation from it, forced it against the glass. He pressed the intercom button again. ‘ I’m DI Brook. Open the door now.’

Hendrickson shielded his eyes from a non-existent glare and opened his mouth in fake recognition. He buzzed Brook into the station. ‘I didn’t recognise you in that get-up. Sir. Been to a fancy dress party, have we?’ A PC whose name escaped Brook stood behind Hendrickson, smiling gleefully at the poorly disguised insubordination.

Brook made for the lifts. Hendrickson had never said anything to him that on paper would have been deemed inappropriate and Brook knew that to complain about a fellow officer’s attitude would lead to further ridicule. However, on an impulse he stopped and turned to face him. ‘I’m undercover, Sergeant — something you might have come across if you’d made the grade at CID.’

As Brook marched away, the expression on Hendrickson’s face turned to hate. ‘You fucking Southern cunt,’ he spat when Brook was out of earshot. ‘They should have left you in that loony bin and thrown away the key.’

Brook walked through the quiet station gratified to encounter nobody else capable of commenting on his appearance. In his office he changed into an old sweater and jeans and dumped his damp and dirty clothes in a bin bag for disposal. He’d only ever worn them on those rare occasions when he was forced to do a little garden maintenance but, after three days living rough, and with some of the substances now adhering to the fabric, they were better thrown away. He wouldn’t be running short of scruffy clothes anytime soon.

Brook sat briefly at his desk and read various notes left for him by Jane Gadd about The Embalmer. The Millstone House enquiries had proved fruitless. Only three vagrants staying during Tommy McTiernan’s visit had given full names, and none of them had been traced. Gadd had tried to find out whether Barry Kirk had visited the hostel but if he had, he’d done so under a false name.