Something Hidden: A totally unputdownable murder mystery novel (Andrew Hunter Book 2) Page 6

  ‘Deal. Bumfluff here will do the honours.’

  Bumfluff scrambled to his feet, scowling at Andrew and then at the lad who’d kicked him. There was no doubting where the nickname had come from – his chin was peppered with wispy light strands of barely there nothingness. There was scarcely enough hair to make a blanket for a bee. He adjusted his baseball cap, scragged the money from Andrew’s hand and then slouched his way around the roundabout without a word, scuffing his feet along the crisped grass.

  Andrew followed him towards the lengthening shadows. Beyond the hedge that looped around the play park was a three-storey cream-brick glorified outhouse that could probably be improved by losing a fight with a bulldozer. The walls were more dirt than rock, with strings of graffiti tags running along the side, plus a spray-painted allegation that someone named Sonia liked ‘it’ in a place that most people wouldn’t.

  Bumfluff kicked his way through a supposedly secure door, not bothering with the buzzers, and then waited at the bottom of a military-grey concrete slab of stairs. The whiff of cannabis hung in the air, just about masking the smell of urine. He pointed towards the next floor. ‘Up there.’

  ‘Where up there?’ Andrew replied.

  ‘God’s sake…’

  The soles of Bumfluff’s feet couldn’t have lifted more than a millimetre or two from the stairs as he skidded his way up, one step at a time, moaning under his breath. After four flights punctuated by crying babies and too-loud televisions, he stopped in front of flat eleven and held his hand out expectantly.

  ‘That one.’

  Andrew knocked on the door and waited, ignoring the accusatory stare. After another thump, the door swung inwards, catching on the chain and revealing an eye and half a cheek. A gnarled voice growled from inside: ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Are you Joe?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  Without turning away from the door Andrew pushed a ten-pound note in Bumfluff’s direction and offered his friendliest smile. ‘I’m Andrew Hunter and I was hoping I could talk to you about Luke Methodist.’

  The man started to close the door but Andrew was quicker, shuffling the toe of his boot into the gap and standing firm. ‘It’s not what you think – I’m here on behalf of Luke’s daughter.’

  The pressure from the door on Andrew’s foot abated as the eye continued to stare at him. ‘Luke’s daughter?’

  Andrew glanced sideways to where Bumfluff was disappearing down the stairs, before he turned back to the man and removed his foot from the door. ‘Can we have this conversation in there or out here, rather than through a door?’

  There was a pause and then the door shunted forward before the chain clicked off and it swung inwards.

  ‘Are you Joe?’ Andrew asked again. Better to check.

  The man nodded, turning and pointing to the flat beyond. His dressing gown hung to his knees, revealing a pair of stick-thin pigeon legs. He led Andrew into what could loosely be described as a kitchen. The cooker didn’t appear to have been used in years, with a dried pool of something brown sitting between the rings on top and a grimy haze of filth covering the glass of the oven. The microwave fared little better, with something green having dribbled along the front panel at some point before setting into a spattered mask.

  Joe sat at the table, which was covered in coffee-mug rings and had a saucer overflowing with ash sitting in the centre. He reached into his dressing gown pocket and plucked out a crinkled packet of cigarettes, offering it to Andrew.

  ‘Want one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’

  He stretched across to the cooker, fiddling with the knobs on the front until the smell of something burning started to fill the kitchen. When the sizzling began, he pressed his cigarette to the front ring, waited for it to spark, and then turned the cooker off again.

  Joe’s face was even thinner than Fiona’s, the skin on his cheeks sucked in between the bones, with a succession of razor nicks sprinkling his chin alongside a spread of uneven pepperpot stubble.

  He nodded towards a single chipped mug on the draining board, which was propping up a lonesome plate. His voice had a sandpaper-chewing quality to it. ‘I’d offer you a brew but…’

  ‘It’s okay. I wanted to talk to you about Luke.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a private investigator. Luke’s daughter came to me, wanting me to prove it wasn’t him who shot those kids.’

  Andrew hoped for a reaction but there was nothing other than a puff of smoke that disappeared towards the ceiling.

  ‘How’s she doing?’ Joe croaked.

  ‘Not well.’

  Joe nodded. ‘She’s a good kid – came down to say hello to her dad a few times. Tried to get him away but Luke was Luke. Bloody stubborn.’

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  Another puff, another shrug. Joe’s voice was getting lower the more he smoked. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘I heard you were his best friend on the street.’

  ‘I s’pose.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘A’ight.’

  ‘Just all right?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Andrew paused – this was like a bad date: one-word replies, nothing in common and no sex at the end. He needed a reaction.

  ‘Tell me about Kal Evans.’

  Joe held the cigarette in his mouth, sucking deeply until he coughed slightly. The accompanying puff of smoke dribbled from his nostrils and corners of his mouth as he winced.

  ‘He’s a bad man.’

  ‘He’s also in prison – he can’t do anything to anyone now.’

  ‘Don’t wanna talk ’bout him.’

  ‘Did Luke know him?’

  Joe’s head shrank into his dressing gown as he focused on the ashtray, splattering the remains of his cigarette into it. ‘Luke was my friend. We’d sit and talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Things. He didn’t like talking ’bout the army so we’d go on ’bout being kids; ’bout our kids.’ He twirled his hand to indicate the room. ‘It’s different now I’ve got this.’

  ‘No alcohol?’

  Joe snorted a pained laugh. ‘Right – just coffee, fags and daytime TV.’

  ‘Sounds like being a student.’

  Joe laughed properly this time, sending a spray of saliva across the table but seemingly not noticing. His eyes screwed into tiny dots, with the too-loose skin around his sockets sagging limply.

  ‘Were you ever a student?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Aye, they were the days.’

  ‘So tell me about Luke.’

  A sigh, shuffle and crotch-rub before, finally, eye contact. ‘You need a pal on the street, someone to keep an eye out for you. We’d sleep in shifts: I’d have a couple of hours, then he would. Because of his jacket, he used to get more money and food but he’d always share.’

  ‘His army jacket?’

  ‘It’s a symbol of respect, innit? That you’ve done your bit for the country. I was just some tramp on the street – he was the ex-army guy.’

  ‘I need you to tell me about Kal Evans.’

  Joe began rifling through his pockets again, yanking out another cigarette and reaching for the cooker.

  ‘Joe…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kal Evans. The police connected him to Luke Methodist because they said Luke owed drugs money. They must’ve got that from somewhere. Did you tell them that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So who did?’

  As the smell of burning filled the kitchen again, Joe stretched his cigarette towards the cooker’s hot ring. Andrew saw everything in slow motion as the chair leg scraped across the floor, ripping the cheap lino and sending Joe sprawling to the ground face-first in a flurry of swearing. Andrew was on his feet too slowly to prevent him falling but did manage to stop Joe from reaching onto the top of the scorching oven to haul himself up.

  Joe continued muttering obscenities under his breath as Andrew hel
ped him into a sitting position, lighting the cigarette for him and switching off the heat.

  ‘Do you want me to buy you a lighter, Joe? Or some matches?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re going to burn the flat down.’

  ‘Bah.’

  ‘Come on – I know you care. There are babies living downstairs – I heard them on the way up. It’s not just you that lives here, there are families.’

  Joe didn’t move from the floor, resting his head against the filthy oven door. He reached up and tried to open the drawer under the sink. Andrew did it for him, finding five boxes of matches and at least a dozen lighters inside. He passed a lighter down to Joe, who pocketed it, slumping lower against the oven.

  ‘Joe.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kal Evans. What did you tell the police?’

  ‘Nuffin’.’

  ‘You must’ve told them something.’

  ‘They already knew – well, thought they did.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘They showed me Kal’s picture and asked if I knew him. I said no but they knew I did – they knew everything.’

  ‘What’s everything?’

  Puff, puff, puff. Joe was two-thirds of the way through the cigarette already. ‘It’s different now.’

  It was like they were having two separate conversations.

  ‘What’s different?’

  Joe slammed his free hand onto the floor, not wincing, despite the fleshy clunk. ‘He’s a bad man.’

  ‘You said that.’

  ‘He’d bring around bags of… stuff… give us some for free, then others would come around to pick things up and leave us money.’

  Andrew could feel his brain grinding, trying to find the answer. ‘He’d give you drugs to pass on to his street dealers?’

  A shrug.

  ‘Then the dealers would bring back the profits for you to hand over to Kal?’

  A bigger shrug this time but also something close to a small nod. In a weird sort of way it made sense for all sides. Kal and the dealers were never seen together and their homeless handlers got a bit on the side.

  ‘Was Luke involved?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you were?’

  ‘The police knew me and Luke hung around together, so assumed he knew Kal.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He didn’t want anything to do with it but he’d cover for me.’

  Andrew picked up the fallen chair and reached down, helping Joe up until he was sitting at the table again, slurping the final breath of the cigarette before dropping it onto the saucer. Andrew sat opposite him.

  ‘How do you mean, cover?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Some of Kal’s lot liked to have fun.’

  Andrew thought about the definition of fun. ‘They’d get violent?’ he asked.

  ‘Not with Luke around. He was a bigger guy, plus he only liked to drink, none of the other stuff.’

  ‘So he wasn’t on drugs and he didn’t go along with anything Kal Evans had you doing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you tell that to the police?’

  Joe began scratching at his ear, sending a flurry of dried skin flakes tumbling to the floor.

  ‘Joe?’ Andrew pushed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The police.’

  ‘They’d already made their mind up – I knew Kal, so Luke did too, even though Luke would be off doing other things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He was getting help for his… y’know…’

  ‘Tell me,’ Andrew said.

  ‘The SPT, PST, PTD, something like that.’

  ‘Who was helping him?’

  ‘Dunno. He never wanted to say any more than that.’

  Andrew took a breath, trying to unpick the last few minutes of conversation. ‘Just to be sure, then. You’re saying that Luke wasn’t on drugs, didn’t owe Kal Evans any money, and wouldn’t have done anything for him.’

  Another shrug. ‘Right.’

  ‘Would you tell that to the police now?’

  Joe shook his head slowly. It took him a few seconds to reply. ‘I don’t talk to feds.’

  Nine

  ‘You look tired.’

  Andrew blinked back into the room, suddenly remembering where he was. He’d been thinking of Owen and Wendy, Luke and Fiona Methodist, and Joe with the shoes. A bizarre tangle of barely connected people woven together in a way that he was waiting to unravel. There was definitely something there.

  Around him was the scrape of cutlery, clink of glasses and general undercurrent of chatter. It was ridiculously loud considering how small the restaurant was.

  ‘Sorry,’ Andrew said, blinking again and suppressing a yawn.

  ‘We could’ve cancelled if you’ve had a long day.’

  Andrew stared at his ex-wife, the dark birthmark next to her lips, blonde bob, hints of wrinkles around her eyes that, if anything, made her more appealing than when they’d met as teenagers.

  She looked as if she’d lived.

  It was a date that wasn’t a date. Dinner with a friend, perhaps? Anything but a date.

  He managed a thin smile. ‘I’ve spent the whole day chasing after people.’

  Keira sipped her soup, returning his stare until he was forced to look away. It felt like she could read his mind.

  ‘This is the first time we’ve been out for dinner in Manchester in nearly nine years,’ she said softly.

  ‘It was a bit different then.’

  She nodded at the rest of the room: men in suits, women in dresses, a tapas menu, wine list and waiters with shiny shoes. The type of place where grown-ups went. ‘You mean this isn’t the uni refectory?’

  Andrew laughed but those were the good times: cheap food in the students’ union, local pubs and, shortly before they broke up, marginally posher pubs. Lots of things had changed since then.

  ‘How’s the soup?’ he asked.

  Pathetic: a get-out question. He’d be talking about the weather next. Anything to avoid that massive elephant in the corner that he’d left her, broken both of their hearts, and now, miraculously, they were sitting opposite each other as if it had never happened. They’d had a couple of lunches since she walked into his office three months ago and now this was the big one, or, as he’d told Jenny, this was someone to see.

  Keira saw straight through him, flicking a strand of hair away and offering him her spoon. ‘It’s good – want some?’

  Andrew peered down at his barely started bread that he couldn’t remember the name of. ‘You’re all right.’

  That was the end of that conversation.

  Luckily, the waiter arrived to refill their wine glasses. Polite smiles, vague offerings of thanks, and they were back to their uncomfortable silence. The pair of lunches had been slightly awkward affairs, punctuated by nothing conversations about what they’d each been watching on television, the type of music they were now into, and anything else that meant they didn’t have to talk about real things.

  Keira finished her soup and dabbed at her mouth with the napkin, before leaning back in her chair. Andrew could feel her staring at him but remained focused on his food, sensing that something important was coming.

  ‘So…’ she said, pursing her lips into an O, giving herself an opportunity to stop mid-sentence. One of them had to bring it up and Andrew had always been the coward when it came to awkward conversations. ‘It’s been more than eight years – you must’ve seen someone in that time…’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Andrew took a bite of his starter, giving himself a moment to think. Considering he’d known this would come up at some point, he probably should’ve thought of an answer. Behind him, a woman broke into cackling laughter, giving him an extra few seconds. Thank goodness for tipsy women with big gobs.

  ‘There were one or two,’ he said. ‘Nothing serious. I was seeing this woman, Sara, until a few mo
nths ago.’

  ‘Why’d you break up?’

  He blew out loudly. ‘She was into celebrity magazines, Saturday-night TV, that sort of thing. We had nothing in common.’

  ‘Why did you start seeing her?’

  Andrew threw his hands up, trying to make it seem like he didn’t know. He could hardly say that sex was great with Sara, even though he couldn’t stand to actually have a conversation with her.

  Keira giggled slightly. ‘Eight years is a long time for “nothing serious”.’

  Andrew started to answer and then realised the implication. Did that mean she’d had something significant with someone else in that time? Or was she speaking for both of them? He should probably just ask. The obvious truth was that he’d not had a full-on relationship with anyone else because no one else was Keira. He could hardly tell her that, though.

  Or maybe he should?

  No, he definitely shouldn’t.

  Or maybe he should?

  Stop it!

  He felt like he was fourteen again, unsure how to talk to the opposite sex. Back then it was Jane Harris with her breasts that had developed before any of the other girls’. They’d known each other since they were five years old; their mums took them for picnics when they were kids; they’d played with Lego together and, even as young teenagers, Jane continued to speak to him in public, despite having cooler friends. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask her out, instead ogling her chest from across the classroom, while pretending he was looking at the poster on the wall behind her.

  ‘Me neither, if you’re wondering,’ Keira said, reading his mind again.

  Andrew pushed his plate to one side, hoping the waiter would spot it as the woman behind spluttered into laughter once more. Didn’t she realise they were trying to have a serious conversation over here? Keira caught his eye, grinning at the inconvenience, before peering over his shoulder towards the woman who was currently snorting like a rabid piglet.

  ‘Don’t look now,’ Keira said, ‘but the bloke she’s with currently has a straw hanging from each nostril.’

  ‘And she’s laughing at that?’

  Keira’s blue eyes drifted back to Andrew again, smirking at him in a way her lips weren’t.