Val Mcdermid - Blue Genes

‘I’m a friend of Dennis O’Brien’s,’ I said. ‘He suggested I talk to you.’

He snorted. ‘Anybody could say that right now.’

‘You mean because he’s inside and it’s not easy to check me out? You’re right. So either I am a genuine friend of Dennis’s or else I’m a fake who knows enough to mention the right name. You choose.’

He looked at me uncertainly, slate-grey eyes narrowing as he weighed up the odds. If I was telling the truth and he booted me out, then when Dennis came out, Williams might be eating through a straw for a few weeks. Hedging his bets, he finally said, ‘So what is it you want? I may as well tell you now, if you’re fronting a band, you’re about ten years too old.’

I’d already had a very bad week. And if there’s one thing that really winds me up, it’s bad manners. I looked around the shabby room. The money he’d spent on that mandarin-collared linen suit would probably have bought the office furnishings three times over. The only thing that looked remotely valuable in any sense was the big tank of tropical fish facing Williams. I stood up and felt in my pocket for my Swiss Army knife. As I turned away from him and appeared to be making for the door, I flipped the big blade open, side-stepped and picked up the loose loop of flex that fed power to the tank. Without a heater and oxygenation, the fish wouldn’t last too long. Tipped on to the floor, they’d have an even shorter life span.

I turned and gave him my nastiest grin. ‘One wrong move and the fish get it,’ I snarled, loving every terrible B-movie moment of it. I saw his hand twitch towards the underside of his desk and grinned even wider. ‘Go on, punk,’ I said, all bonsai Clint Eastwood. ‘Hit the panic button. Make my day.’

I wouldn’t have hurt the fish. I knew that, but Denzel Williams didn’t. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he yelled, starting up from his seat.

‘Sit down and chill out,’ I growled. ‘I only wanted to ask you a couple of questions, but you had to get smart, didn’t you?’

He subsided into his chair and scowled at me. ‘Who the fuck are you? Who sent you here?’

‘Nobody sent me. Nobody ever sends me anywhere,’ I said. I was beginning to enjoy playing the bastard. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fun. No point in lying, though. He could find out who I was easily enough if he cared enough to make trouble later. ‘The name’s Brannigan. Kate Brannigan. I’m a private eye.’

He looked shaken but not stirred. ‘And what do you think you’re going to see here?’ he sneered.

I shook my head wonderingly. ‘I can’t believe Dennis said you were worth talking to. I’ve met coppers with better manners.’

The reminder of who had recommended Williams to me worked wonders. He swallowed his surliness and said, ‘OK, OK, ask your questions, but don’t piss about. I’ve got some people coming shortly, see?’

I saw only too well. Threatening the fish might hold Williams at bay, but it would cut no ice with his sidekicks. He’d also be very unhappy at anybody else witnessing his humiliation. Held to ransom by a midget with a Swiss Army knife. Regretfully I waved my posturing farewell and cut to the chase. ‘Flyposting,’ I said. ‘My client’s been having some problems. Obviously nobody likes admitting they’re being had over, but somebody is definitely taking liberties. All I’m trying to do is to check out whether this is a personal vendetta or if everybody in the business is feeling the same pain.’

‘Who’s your client, then?’

‘Dream on, Denzel. Just a simple yes or no. Has anybody been papering over your fly posters? Has anybody been fucking with your venues? Has anybody been screwing up gigs for your bands?’

‘What if they have?’ he demanded.

‘If they have, Denzel, you just got lucky, because you will reap the benefit of the work I’m doing without having to part with a single shilling. All I’m concerned about is finding out who is pouring sugar in the petrol tank of my client’s business, and getting them to stop. Now, level with me before I decide to have sushi for dinner. Have you been getting agg?’

‘There’s been one or two incidents,’ he grudgingly admitted.

‘Like?’

He shrugged. ‘Yeah, some of my posters have been papered over.’ He took a deep breath. He’d obviously decided that since he’d started talking, he might as well spill the lot. Funny how the ones that seem the hardest often turn out the gobbiest. ‘The fresh paperwork has always been promoting out-of-town bands, so I’m pretty sure it’s a stranger who doesn’t know the way things work here. We’ve had one or two problems with tickets too. Some of the agents that sell tickets for our gigs have had phone calls saying the gig’s a sellout, not to sell any more tickets. We’ve even had some scumbag pretending to be me ringing up and saying the gig was cancelled. It’s got to be somebody from out of town. Nobody else would dare to mess with me.’ His tone of voice left me in no doubt that when he got his hands on the new kid in town, the guy would be sorry he’d been born.

‘Where specifically?’

He rattled of a list of names and venues. I hoped I’d be able to remember them later, because I didn’t have a spare hand for note taking. ‘Any ideas who’s behind it?’ I asked.

He gave me the look I suspected he normally reserved for traffic wardens who thought that giving him a ticket would discourage him from parking on double yellow lines. ‘If I had any ideas, do you think he’d still be out there walking around?’

Ignoring the sarcasm, I persisted. ‘Anybody else been hit that you know of?’

‘Nobody’s boasting about it. But I know Sean Costigan’s taken worse shit than I have. The Crumpsall firm’s been hit, so has Parrot Finnegan. And Joey di Salvo.’

‘Collar di Salvo’s lad?’ I asked, surprised. I hadn’t known the family of the local godfather were involved in flyposting. Whoever was muscling in on the patch was treading on the kind of toes that hand out a proper kicking.

‘That’s right.’

‘That’s serious.’

‘We’re talking war,’ Williams said. He wasn’t exaggerating. People who deprive the di Salvos of what they regard as their legitimate sources of income have an unfortunate habit of winding up silenced with extreme prejudice.

‘So are you all supposed to take your bats and balls and go home? Does the new team expect everybody to back down so they can pick up the business?’

Williams shrugged. ‘Who knows? But some of the boys that put the nod-and-a-wink record-company business our way are starting to get a bit cheesed off, see? They pay us to do a job and they’re not too happy when their fancy posters get covered up the night after they’ve appeared. And one or two of the bigger managers are starting to mutter too. You’re not the only one wanting to put a stop to this.’

Before I could ask more, I heard the telltale sequence of sounds that revealed the outer door to the anteroom opening and closing. I dropped the electric cable and opened the office door. As I walked swiftly past a trio of sharp-suited youths who looked like flyweight boxers, I heard Williams shouting, ‘Fucking stop her.’

By the time they got their brains to connect with their legs, I was out the door and sprinting down the gallery, head down, tanking past the bodies leaning over the railings and surveying the dancers down below. I could feel the rhythmic thud of the pursuing feet cutting across the beat as I swung onto the stairs and hurtled down as fast as I could go.

I had the advantage. I was small enough to weave through the bodies on the stairs and landings. My pursuers had to shove curious people out of the way. By ground level, I was hidden from my followers by the turn of the stair. I slid into the press of bodies on the dance floor, pulling off my shades and my jacket. I squirmed through the dancers till I was at the heart of the movement, imitating their blank-eyed stares and twitching movements. I couldn’t even glimpse the three toughs who had come after me. That meant they probably couldn’t see me either. That was just the way I wanted to keep it.