Stuart MacBride: Ash Henderson 2-book Crime Thriller Collection. Stuart MacBride

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ swallow tattoo perched on his wrist, blue ink spidering out into the surrounding skin.

      I hunched my shoulders up to my ears and slouched down, making myself as small as possible.

      Fuck.

      Shifty groaned. ‘Are you hiding from—’

      ‘I’m not hiding, I’m—’

      ‘Oh, you stupid prick. I told you to steer clear of—’

      ‘Shut up, OK?’ I glanced in the mirror again. ‘What’s he doing?’

      ‘Looking for someone.’

      See, that’s what happens when you have a local: people can find you. I downed the last of my water in one. The bubbles made my stomach churn. The bubbles. Nothing else.

      And then a voice came from right behind me, high-pitched and breathy. ‘Well, well, well, Detective Constable Ash Henderson, how fortuitous.’

      Too late to do a runner.

      I swivelled around on my seat, still holding the empty glass. Not the most elegant of weapons, but it would make one hell of a mess. ‘Joseph.’ I had a quick look behind him. ‘Where’s your boyfriend?’

      ‘Homophobia, Constable Henderson? I expected more from a man of your standing in the community.’ A small shake of the head. ‘If you must know, Francis is parking the BMW. But don’t worry, he’ll be joining us presently.’ Joseph pulled on a breadknife smile. ‘And Detective Inspector Morrow, how’s life treating yourself?’

      Shifty shrugged. ‘Did you know Oldcastle made heaps of poison gas for killing Nazis in World War One?’

      Joseph raised a scarred eyebrow. ‘Fascinating.’ Then back to me. ‘Constable Henderson: do you, by chance, have something for me?’

      A figure appeared at Joseph’s shoulder. Tall and broad, curly ginger hair tied back in a ponytail, broken nose, huge moustache with matching tuft below the bottom lip. He took off a pair of John Lennon sunglasses and slipped them inside his leather jacket. Small pink eyes. He gave me a stiff little nod. ‘’Spector.’

      I nodded back. ‘Francis.’

      Joseph took a pair of black leather gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. ‘Tell me, Francis, is our friend Constable Henderson on our list for today?’

      The big man produced a notebook and flicked through the pages, his forehead all creased up, tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. ‘Nah.’

      ‘Oh …’ Joseph frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      Thank Christ for that.

      ‘Oh well, perhaps tomorrow.’ He winked at me. ‘It seems Lady Fortune is smiling upon you this evening, Constable Henderson. Perhaps you should consider paying off your debt to Mr Inglis, before it becomes necessary to arrange a late-night home visit from our fiscal management services?’

      Francis sniffed. ‘Our boy’s off tae the bogs.’

      A thin man with a rectangular bald-spot was lurching his way towards the toilets. The door swung shut behind him with a thump. Francis set off after him.

      Joseph stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. ‘Actually, the Nazi Party didn’t come into being until 1920, so they can’t have been the recipients of Oldcastle’s gaseous emissions … Ah. Francis has liaised with our friend. Excellent.’

      Francis hauled the balding bloke out of the toilets.

      The guy was fumbling with his trousers, still doing up his flies. ‘Please, I can explain, I didn’t think it was due till next week, I mean I’ve got the money, I never said I didn’t have the money, did I?’

      Francis dragged him past, making for the entrance.

      ‘I can get it tomorrow, when the banks open, that’ll be OK, won’t it?’ Out onto the cobbled street. ‘Really, I’ve got the money, it’s not a problem, we can—’

      The door clunked shut.

      ‘And now, the girl you’ve all been waiting for, the one, the only, the incredibly sexy: Kayleigh!’ The lights dimmed and ‘Bad to the Bone’ thumped out of the speakers. Amateur hour was over.

      Joseph flashed his teeth again. ‘Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have business to attend to. Do enjoy the show.’

      Shifty waited until Joseph joined Francis outside, before turning to stare at me. ‘How much do you owe Andy Inglis?’

      I turned back to the bar, pulse pounding in my ears almost as loud as the music. Christ, that was close. I signalled Steve for another water. ‘The Birthday Boy might have lived near Cameron Park when he was a wee boy. You’re going to have to go back a lot further than nine years.’

      ‘Ash?’

      Up on stage Kayleigh showed everyone how it was done, hanging upside down, thighs wrapped around the pole, spotlights glittering off her sequined bra.

      ‘Enough. Too much.’ I ran my tongue over the two loose molars. ‘More than I’ve got.’

      Retching noises echoed out from one of the toilet cubicles. I splashed water on my face, took a deep breath, and stared at myself in the mirror. Fucking halfwit. Another splash of water, scrubbed away with a handful of green paper towels that smelled like sour milk. It went with the rank perfume of piss-soaked floors and bitter vomit.

      I checked my watch – half ten. Susanne would do her last set soon, then we could get the hell out of here. Before Joseph and Francis came back.

      Time for some fresh air.

      The fire exit had one of those, ‘THIS DOOR IS ALARMED’, signs on it, but it was open anyway – a brick stuck in the gap to keep it that way, so the staff could nip out for a sneaky cigarette. I pushed through into a gloomy alley. The security light bolted to the wall above the loading bay didn’t come on, just fizzed and crackled, never quite getting there.

      A siren wailed in the distance, the rumble of a late-night bus, a singing drunk, two women fighting, the thump-thump-thump bassline of whatever song was playing inside. The fumbling moans of a couple going at it, hidden in the shadows of a recessed doorway on the other side of the alley.

      I took a deep breath, hauling in cold air, letting out a cloud of white.

      Should have kept on driving to Newcastle.

      More moaning from the snoggers.

      Still could. Car was parked outside the club: get in and bugger off before they dump my mangled body in a shallow grave somewhere. Like Rebecca.

      ‘Fuck …’ I scrubbed a hand over my face.

      I wasn’t going anywhere. What was the point of struggling through the last four years, only to give up and run away before we’d caught the bastard?

      I pulled out my phone and called СКАЧАТЬ