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.

Summat up in me head. Should've been cool with it, like, this whole Innes thing. But the cunt were a thorn in me side. He buzzed about. Couldn't shake him no matter how hard I tried.

Just like when he were going up in court that time.

Dad told us to leave off that time an' all, but I weren't about to let that lie. I said to Dad, I said, 'Here, c'mon, that cunt gets a deal, he'll fuckin' grass.'

Dad said, 'Leave him.'

'He'll grass us up.'

'Maybe it's what you deserve, son. Leave him.'

Leave him. Always fuckin' leave him.

Never fuckin' look after your own, eh? Keep it in the family, and now Innes were part of the fuckin' family? More trusted than me, just 'cause he kept his mouth shut. And who were that down to, eh? Who made the cunt keep it zipped?

Me.

When we did that job, me and Rossie and Baz and Innes and his smackhead brother, that were me what saved the fuckin' day. Swear to fuckin' God, that security guard, that fat piece of shite, I never hit him hard. Tapped him. Supposed to be a judo-chop 'cept I used me torch. You know, like you seen in the pictures. One quick hi-ya- whap and the fucker were out cold. And he would've been, except he twatted his head off the floor. I couldn't have seen that one coming, could I?

Dad went off it. Called us all the cunts under the sun. Like it mattered to him. I were the one up for the fuckin' charge if Innes spilled it. He were the one what got caught. Him and his smackhead junkie fuckin' brother. And I sweated big time on that one. Got so's I had to track him down and have it out with him man to man. But then he got uppity and I reckoned, what the fuck. Let him rot.

I made my point, know what I mean?

I wiped and looked in the bowl. I'd pebble-dashed the cunt, so I flushed and left it. What didn't go could fuckin' stay. Let the Paki bog cleaner deal with it.

Washed me face and looked at meself in the cracked mirror. Yeah, Innes were a problem. He'd have to be dealt with, but I didn't know how to do it. It were like the fucker had the luck of the devil. And it were like Dad liked him more than he liked me.