I didn't say nowt. I stared at him. Fuck him. I wanted to deck the fucker. Cunt. Me eyes hurt. My throat hurt. Fuck him.

I wanted to get you involved, Mo. I really did. I thought if you could handle keeping your fuckin' nose out of this thing with Alison, you were mature enough to do some good work. But you couldn't even do that. So you're locked down, son. And if you get yourself in trouble with the law, I'll leave you to the spurs.'

'Dad — '

'You're lucky I don't call this whole thing off right now. But the deal stands because I'm a soft bastard. In the mean- time, you stay well away. You get me?'

I shook me head. There were no talking to the cunt.

'I ask you a question, you answer it,' he said.

'Aye, I get you,' I said.

'Good. Make sure it sinks in this time.'

And when Dad left, he took me bottle with him. I sat on the edge of the sofa and rubbed me cheek. Fuckin' bastard, talking to me like that.

Don't touch Innes, Mo. He's far too fuckin' important to piss about with. He's fuckin' golden balls, isn't he? Moral fuckin' fibre an' all that. And a brain in his head.

He weren't the only one with a brain.

Dad didn't say nowt about Rossie and Baz. I could stay locked down, but them lads were free as fuckin' birds.

Which meant that Innes were fucked big style.

NINETEEN

Stokes is with Morris' little girl. And Alison's in Newcastle.

It explains a lot. Why Morris was so keen to use me instead of one of his scallies. He wants to keep this hushed and he knows I can keep my mouth shut. Word gets out that Tiernan's got Lolita for a daughter, well, anything could happen. It's a weakness. And Morris has got any number of enemies who'd play on that something rotten. So he's nipping the bugger in the bud before it becomes public. Keep it close, which is why I have to phone Mo when I find them. It makes sense, but something about it makes me feel sick.

So I'm going to Newcastle. I don't know anything about the place, other than it's chock full of angry Geordies and bad football. Girls with scrunchies so tight in their hair, they look permanently surprised. The same as Manchester, only colder, more hostile and all delivered in an accent that makes Glaswegian sound like Received Pronounciation. Wish you were here.

Check my mobile. More from Brenda.

'Mr Innes, it's Brenda Lang. I can understand why you don't want to talk to me, but I need to talk to you. Please call me.'

'Please, Mr Innes. I'd like you to call me at this number.' More pleases. More Mister Innes. Then the messages become slurred.

'Call me, Callum. I need your help.'

'You promised you'd help me. You remember? You pro- mised.'

And then finally, the heavy, throaty voice of a depressed and angry drunk: 'Fuck you.'

She's a charmer. I can see how a guy would be smitten enough to marry her.

I grab a pile of clothes that smell cleanish, chuck an extra pair of pants into my holdall. Nan always said, you got to wear clean skids in case you're ever in an accident. What she didn't mention was that it didn't matter. At the moment of impact, you shit yourself thin. But Nan's advice is hard to shift, even if she was a bampot. Clear my bathroom out and dump the essentials into the bag. I pocket some Nurofen. I get the feeling I'll need them on a regular basis. Maybe I'll see if I can get something stronger up there. Until then, I know I'll be popping these fuckers like Smarties.

I check my nose, realise it's not healed yet, and replace the plaster. Check my throat and it looks worse than it feels. Give it a few more days and I shouldn't look like I've had a fight with a hoover.

Look at my watch. It's early yet. But what the hell, I call Brenda Lang. I promised myself I wouldn't, but this is the end of the line for her. Put a full stop on the end of that sentence.

'Mrs Lang, it's Callum Innes.'

'Innes?' She sounds groggy. I must have woken her up. Sounds like she has a thumping hangover. Good. 'I've been calling you.'

'I know you have, Mrs Lang. And it's got to stop.’

‘Wait, I wanted to apologise.'

'For what? Grassing me up for something I didn't do? Or leaving obscene messages on my mobile?’

‘My husband's in critical condition.’

‘So I hear. But if you think I'm going to head round to ICU and hold a pillow on his face, you've got another think coming.'

She launches into a coughing fit. It sounds painful. When she's finished, she says, 'I know you didn't do it, Mr Innes.'

'That makes two of us. How's about you tell the busies that so I don't have walk around with an extra shadow, eh?'

'I have told them. I'm sorry. I just got scared. Is there somewhere we can meet?'

You what? 'I'm leaving town today, Mrs Lang. And we've got nowt to talk about.'

I need to find out who did this,' she says, he voice rising into a whine.

'Then you need to trust the police.'

'If it's a question of money — '

'It's a question of being fucked over once already, Mrs Lang. Look, I'm sorry you don't have the perfect marriage, and I'm sorry that your husband got done over. But you've got to understand, you put me in a position where I can't play the PI for you. Get someone else.'

'You were the only person I talked to, you know.'

'I don't care. It was none of my business then, and it's certainly none of my business now.'

'I thought you were a professional,' she says.

'A professional what?'

And I hang up before she answers. I suck my teeth. A bad taste in my mouth. I try to swill it out with coffee, but my brew's gone cold. I spit back into the mug, go to the kitchen, drink a glass of water and stick the kettle on. As I wait for it to boil, I lean against the counter and stare at a brown stain on the lino.

That could have gone better. But fuck it; it's over with now. Hopefully. I pour the dregs from my mug into the sink and make myself another coffee. Light a cigarette as I walk back through to the living room.

Christ, what did she think I was going to do? The woman got me nicked. She think I was just going to roll over and forget it? Probably. Most people do. Brenda, Donkey, Morris fuckin' Tiernan.

But this Innes has balls.

I shouldn't be working for Morris; I know that. But it's something I have to do. I'll try to keep Paulo out of it as much as I can. Let him know that he's not involved, and this is something that I'll finish, no harm done. It won't take more than a couple of days of visiting casinos before I find Rob Stokes. The way Kev went on, the dealer has a gambling problem. And with all that cash at his disposal, the first itch he's going to get is to punt it.

It's not much of a plan, but it's something. It's a lead. And a lead's better than sitting here.

I grab cash and keys, head out of the flat. As I tuck some of Morris' money into my wallet, I notice a brown fleck on one of the notes. I pick at it with my nail and it comes away. Dirty money, blood money, it bubbles to the surface of my mind. And then I tell myself to shut up.

Yeah, keep telling yourself this is going to work out peachy, Cal.

Down the stairs, out into the carpark. My Micra looks like it's fit for the scrap yard. I only hope she can make it up to Newcastle and back. But what the hell, I'm living danger- ously. The caffeine's slipped into my blood stream, got me a little hyper. As I slip behind the wheel, I slam in Hamell On Trial.

'I'm good to go, I'm good to go, y'know…'

The lads' club still has the smell of church about it, that musty odour of enforced worship hanging in the air. At first glance, you'd think Paulo was running an under-age fight club. The lads in here have scars; they fight like they mean it. All Paulo tries to do is control it, mould that rage into something that might end up in a career. That, or they tire themselves straight. Hard knocks, but it seems to work.