THIRTY-TWO

Stokes turns off Benton Road before he hits the Metro station into a residential area. Mostly bungalows and semi-detached. Nice gardens, well-kept. Obviously owned, no council.

But as soon as I see the block of flats, I know that's where he lives. This is definitely rented accommodation, but the council tax is probably a bigger expense. He turns left into the block carpark.

'Right here's fine, mate,' I say to the driver.

The cabbie lets me out. I tip him well and make a note of the firm's number. I'm going to need a ride back. As he pulls away from the kerb, I sink into the shadows on a patch of wasteground, squint through the gloom.

Stokes appears, goes into the door nearest the end of the building.

So he lives in one of six flats. It's a start. When I'm sure he's inside, I cross the grass towards the block of flats. I check the windows for any sign of life. The one at the far end has the door to the balcony open and a flickering blue light behind curtains, probably a television. The one below has a lit window, too. I scan the rest of the flats for any signs of someone coming home.

Nothing.

I keep watching.

I wait. Watch. Listen. The television keeps blaring out. Sounds like the theme tune to Sex and the City.

Georgie, I'm having a shitty night.

That bothers me. Something I've missed. Yeah, I know George knows Stokes. That's a given. But does it go any further than that? Something's niggling at me, something about the way George's face tightened when Stokes came over. Something about the way he kept his distance when Stokes was at the bar, like he didn't want to be associated with him.

They'd know each other. Obviously. If Stokes is a regular, and a regular loser at that, of course he'd know George. And the barman's a shift junkie, so he'd be in most nights. But something about that glance, that twitch of the face. It wasn't just the knowledge that I'd caught him out.

It was like he was scared of Stokes.

Fuck it, forget it. It's nothing. The barrage of an approach- ing hangover, the twinge in my tooth, the idea I'm doing something wrong, that's what it is. It adds up to paranoia. Nobody's setting me up.

A shadow crosses in front of the curtains, thrown into strobed distortion. From the flat I can hear voices, but I can't make out what they're saying. I try to get closer. The grass squelches underfoot and I hope to hell I didn't step in dog shit.

The voices aren't American. Male and female. When the male voice starts shouting, I know it's Stokes. The female voice hits the same volume, but I still can't make out what's being said. The television almost drowns them out.

Almost. When he hits her, the smack is enough to make the breath catch in my throat.

It goes silent apart from the girls in New York.

A low male voice, saying something that tries to be soothing.

The soft sound of someone crying. Probably Alison.

A temper like his, I shouldn't have thought he'd save it for the tables. Nah, he's a guy who likes to bring it home with him. And Alison's on the other end of it. Money's a bitch for bringing the worst out of people, especially when they've got an addiction to feed.

I should call Mo right now, tell him to get his arse in gear and up to Newcastle. I've got an idea where Stokes lives. I can wait for Mo to arrive, then point him in the right direction.

Something stops me, though. I don't know if it's fear, duty or the idea that, fuck it, I might have the wrong place. I should double-check that before I even think about calling Mo. Then when I'm sure that this is the place, I'll give him the address and go home. If I'm not sure, I'll have to hang around. And if Mo finds out what Stokes has been doing to his little sister, he'll make it messier than usual.

And as much as Stokes is doing nothing to get off my shitlist, I don't want to be responsible for that. It's not in my job description.

Yeah right, Cal. That is your job description.

I walk away from the flat, pull my jacket tight, head out to the sounds of a main road just up the way. I think I've got enough information. Anything more than that, Mo can sort it out.

But the white knight in me won't give it up. I've got to do something to help Alison. I should sort this out so nobody else gets hurt.

Hurt any more than necessary, that is.

There's a moral decision to make here, and I'm not sure I'm the right man to make it. Too many things don't add up the way I need them to. The more I think about it, the more I think George knows Stokes of old. I mean, Christ, the guy's only been in town a week or so. And a man like him doesn't strike me as the type to make friends easily, no matter how loose that friendship is.

No, George has got to be one of those friends that Kev mentioned to me. One of Alison's mates. And the only reason he would have for grassing Stokes to me is that he knows what's going on in that flat. Maybe he's playing the white knight himself. Or maybe he's just like Kev, besotted with Alison Tiernan and hoping I'll get Stokes out of the way. Grab himself a handful of the Tiernan family and end up being next on Mo's list.

Jesus, I really hope that's not the case.

I pull out my mobile and ring for a cab. Light an Embassy and take a long drag on it.

No, I won't be calling Mo just yet. I have too many questions.

And Alison Tiernan's the only person who can answer them.

Rossie were sparked out in the middle seat of the van, Baz all cloudy-eyed at the wheel. I'd just done another wrap and it kept me night vision proper enabled. Glared at Innes' Micra like it were sitting there teasing us. We knew Innes weren't there. We knew he were out and about, but he'd have to come back for his car. I checked me mobile to see if there were any messages, but a big fat zero blinked at us.

He knew the deal. He found Stokes, he had to call us. I felt like calling me dad and telling him what the fuck were transpiring. But then what did I know? Nowt. Far as I knew, Innes were holed up in a pub somewhere fucked out his brains.

But nah, he came to Newcastle for a reason.

I seen the cab coming down the hill and I fuckin' knew.

'That's him,' I said. 'He's got summat.'

Baz snorted. Fucker were half-asleep. I gave him a nudge.

'Baz. Wake up, man.'

He opened his mouth, then turned away. Bastard.

The cab pulled in the carpark and I got close to the window, squinted right up so's I could see what were happening. I watched Innes fuck about in the car, then he got out and started walking to the hotel. Felt like tearing across the street and leathering the cunt in the back of the head, but I stayed put. Mature, that were me. Fuckin' mature. Mature enough to handle ten times this job.

'There y'are, you cunt,' I said. I watched for a new light in one of the windows, but nowt came. Muttered to meself and gave up after a couple minutes. Fuck it. We didn't need to go in his room and work him over. I nicked one of Baz's Regals and got out the van, lit up and watched the hotel through the smoke.

I could've burned the whole place down. I wanted to. Summat in us wanted to see the sky lit up like that, knowing that Innes was in the middle of it all. Proper hellfire damna- tion. Try that on for size, you Catholic fuck.

But nah, that were the kind of thing the old Mo would do. He'dgo in there like guns blazing, kick arse all over the shop and leave no man standing. But this now, this were the New Mo. This were Mature Mo. I went in there and burned, there'd be consequences, and I heard me dad in the back of me head telling us that he weren't gonna stand by us no more. He'd leave us to the spurs.

I stayed out the 'Ways this long. I didn't fancy a trip now.

I opened up the van door and gave Baz a knuckle knock on his head.