Bone Machine (16 page)

The Free Trade pub in Byker had, Decca thought, the best view in Newcastle. Situated at the top of a hill in one of the few
undeveloped areas along the north bank of the Tyne, it gave drinkers the opportunity to gaze down the hill and let their eyes
sweep along, taking in not only the bridges but also the Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art, the Courthouse, the Sage. The
whole of the reworked and redeveloped riverfront, even the Gateshead Hilton.

‘Look,’ he said to Christopher, sitting opposite him. Christopher looked. ‘You can look down that hill, see all along the
Tyne. There’s the bridges, the Millennium, the Tyne, the Swing, the High Level, the, um, the other two, and then the, er,
the last one. Beautiful, isn’t it?’

Christopher neither nodded nor spoke, just continued to look. His continuing silence made Decca nervous. Made him talk.

‘Makes you proud to be a Geordie, doesn’t it? Well, I mean, you’re not. I know that. I mean, it makes you proud, doesn’t it?
Looking along there.’ He shook his head. ‘City of me birth. That’s the future, down there.’

Decca looked again at the waterfront. There was serious money behind the new developments. Serious money. Every time he looked
at it he was riven with envy. Hungry to get a slice of it, aching to be on the inside of the deal-making. It would happen.
It had to happen.

Christopher said nothing, his untouched mineral water in front of him.

‘They were gonna build a towerblock, y’know. Here. Right in front of this window. Offices or expensive flats, somethin’ like
that. But they said no. People who drink here got it stopped. Must be pretty powerful to do that, eh?’

Christopher said nothing.

Decca took another pull from the neck of his bottle, looked around. ‘Mind, if they are that powerful,’ he said, ‘they’re hidin’
it well.’

The pub was of a dying breed: bare-board floors, Formica-topped tables, mismatched chairs. Nicotine walls and dark wooden
fittings. No sawdust, just spit. Standing outside, he wondered how it kept going, made a profit. But once inside he saw there
was no shortage of customers, even for a Saturday afternoon. It was an old man’s pub, but not just full of old men. Mostly
young men, plus women too. All in jeans and T-shirts. The occasional old sweater, leather jacket. Smoking roll-ups, drinking
pints. Putting songs on the jukebox he’d never heard of, reading papers he would never buy. Passing sections around, discussing
things they came across. Some of the girls would look OK if they made the effort. Bit of make-up, some more flattering clothes.
Heels. And ditch the roll-ups. Decca shook his head. The whole place felt alien to him. The girls especially. He couldn’t
understand why anyone wouldn’t want to make the most of themselves.

He felt out of place. Overdressed in his butter-soft designer leather jacket and designer, artfully tinted and distressed
jeans. Plus his expensively teased hair. He felt like a breed apart. And Christopher was no better. Wearing a leather jacket
so out of fashion it was threatening to make a comeback. Not that Decca planned on telling him.

Decca looked at his watch. Past three o’clock.

‘He’s late,’ he said, not expecting a response.

‘People of his sort are always late,’ said Christopher.

Decca looked up. Almost did a comic double take. ‘What?’

‘They are small. Then given tiny power. More than they ever had before. Think it allows them to behave as they wish.’ He shook
his head slowly, his eyes and features impassive. A slightly mobile Easter Island statue. ‘They all learn eventually.’

Decca said nothing. The tone of Christopher’s voice scared him even more than the words. It was monotonous, dead. He preferred
it when he didn’t speak.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Right.’

They waited in silence. Some unendurable rock racket on the jukebox. Decca wished for his RnB CDs. Wished he was working alone.
Or on a different job altogether.

The front door opened. Decca turned. Almost sighed in relief. Lenny, his arm encased in rigid plastic and strapped down to
his body, looked around. He saw them, made his way over.

‘Everyone all right for a drink?’ he said.

Decca pointed to his bottle. ‘Same again.’

Lenny attempted a smile, went to the bar.

Christopher leaned over. Fixed Decca with his dead man’s eyes. ‘This is not social. This is work.’

Decca swallowed hard. ‘I know.’ He shrugged. ‘Just … being polite.’

Christopher said nothing more, leaned back. Resumed staring out of the window. Decca kept his eyes on Lenny.

Lenny returned, placed a bottle of lager down for Decca, a gin and tonic for himself. He took the first mouthful, lips pulling
back over his slightly prominent teeth in his rodent-like little face as he did so.

‘What’s that?’ asked Decca.

‘Gin an’ tonic. What I always drink.’

Decca remembered Christopher’s earlier words about the granting of power to small men. ‘Tryin’ to be posh, Lenny?’

Lenny shrugged. ‘Don’t like beer.’ He took another rat-faced slurp. ‘Like this, though.’

Decca leaned forward, tried to make his face as expressionless as Christopher’s. ‘Hear you had some trouble the other night,
Lenny.’

Lenny gestured with his arm, winced from the pain. ‘Aye. An’ if I catch the bitch that did this, I’ll fuckin’ ’ave ’er. She
won’t know what’s hit ’er.’

‘Who was she?’

Lenny shrugged. ‘Dunno. A freelancer, I thought. Just got dropped off there. Said the usual girl wasn’t comin’. She would
be takin’ ’er place.’

‘Have you spoken to the usual girl?’

Lenny nodded.

‘And?’

‘Said someone turned up. Told her to steer clear. Said the place had been raided.’

‘Did you get the car numberplate?’

Lenny shook his head.

‘Did you recognize who took her?’

Another shake.

‘Police?’

‘Nah, we’da heard about it. We make our payments.’ Lenny looked between Decca and Christopher. ‘Why’s she so important, anyway?
Some tart? They sent another one along. She’s doin’ better than this one you’re lookin’ for. Less of an attitude.’

Decca ignored him. ‘So no one’s heard anythin’ from her?’

‘Well …’

‘Well what?’

Lenny leaned forward. ‘This is good stuff,’ he said, eyes alight with rat glee. ‘Might be worth a little bit extra. Y’knaworramean?’

He rubbed his greasy, filthy fingers against his equally unappealing thumb.

‘You want payin’ for this? That what you’re tellin’ me?’

Lenny grinned and nodded.

Decca stared at him. ‘Lenny, if you’ve got somethin’ to tell me, you tell me.’

‘Let’s make a deal,’ said Lenny.

‘Let’s not.’

They both looked up. Christopher had detached his gaze from the window and was now focusing on Lenny, giving him his dead-eyed,
Easter Island, unblinking stare.

‘You have information. You give us information.’ Christopher’s voice matched his eyes.

Lenny weighed up his options, decided on another pitch ‘Look, it’s got to be worth something, I—’

Christopher’s hand shot out with a speed that took even Decca by surprise. He grabbed Lenny’s bad arm, located the points
that were giving him the most pain and pressed down. Hard. Lenny’s mouth twisted in almost medieval agony, revealing dirty,
decaying teeth, unhindered by any regular dental hygiene regime.

‘Don’t scream, Lenny,’ said Christopher, pulling Lenny towards him across the table, making sure his victim’s body was blocking
the rest of the pub’s view of what was happening, ‘That would disappoint me.’

Decca almost smiled. It was the first time he had enjoyed having Christopher with him. A tingle of power ran through him.
He folded his arms, sat back. Stopped himself from smiling.

‘You heard the man, Lenny. Give it up.’

Lenny’s breath was coming in small, ragged gasps. He could barely articulate his thoughts, let alone speak.

Christopher eased off the pressure slightly. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Everything.’

‘I got a call from Noddy,’ gasped Lenny. ‘He had a visit from … the law the other night.’

Decca frowned. ‘Why?’

More gasps from Lenny. ‘I’m ganna be sick …’

‘I said, why?’

‘Nothin’ to do with the nine to five. Murder. Oh God, I’m gonna be sick …’

‘Not over me, you’re not,’ said Decca, made brave by Christopher’s actions. Christopher said nothing, just kept up the pressure.
Another gasp from Lenny. ‘What d’you mean, murder?’

‘That lass. The student …’

‘They charged the boyfriend, didn’t they?’

‘Let him go this mornin’. He was with one o’ Noddy’s birds … Jesus … That was his alibi. That was what they were checkin’.’

Decca nodded, frowned. ‘So what does that have to do with what happened at your place the other night?’

‘Please, please, I’ll tell you, just …’

Christopher relaxed his grip but kept his hand in place, ready to go again.

Lenny, panting, looked about to faint. ‘The coppers, they weren’t the first to come around.’

‘What d’you mean? Not the first?’

‘That lad’s brief sent someone to check up.’

‘So?’

Lenny attempted to regain his dignity. His voice took on a dramatic quality. ‘He had someone with ’im.’

Decca sighed. ‘This is becomin’ tedious, Lenny. D’you want Christopher to magically open your mouth again?’

Lenny shook his head so vigorously he was in danger of dislodging something. ‘Her. That tart from the other night. The one
who got snatched.’

Christopher leaned forward. Lenny flinched, rushed to tell the rest of his story. ‘That’s who was with him. The whore these
two came to talk to, she recognized her.’

‘How?’

‘Used to work there with her. Remembered her ’cos she had a bit of an attitude. Had minders to watch her all the time, make
sure she worked. That’s why they moved her to my place. Easier to do that from mine.’

‘And Noddy?’

‘When the coppers turned up, he thought he’d better tell someone.’

‘And that was you?’

‘Naw, that was Gyppy. Gyppy mentioned it to Weird Beard. Weird Beard mentioned it to Chainsaw. An’ Chainsaw mentioned it to
me. Chain of command, y’know. An’ then you called.’

‘Right. Did Noddy say who this bloke was?’

Lenny reached into his jacket pocket, wincing from pain, produced a grubby piece of paper. Squinted hard at it. ‘Donovan.
Aye, that’s what it says. That’s what he gave his name as. Joe Donovan.’

‘Is this Joe Donovan a solicitor?’ asked Christopher. ‘Police? What?’

‘Dunno.’ His voice pleading, desperate to be believed.

‘Will he be making a call to see Noddy’s prostitute again?’

‘Dunno. You need to talk to Noddy.’

‘And what was the girl doing with him?’

‘Dunno.’ Lenny was shaking.

‘And where can we find Noddy?’

‘Usual place.’

Christopher nodded, turned his attention back to the window. Decca looked at Lenny.

‘Next time something like this happens, you don’t go to Gyppy or anybody else. You come to me. Straight to me. Right?’

Lenny, nodding, cast a nervous glance at Christopher. ‘Can I go now?’

Decca nodded.

‘Next time we call you, make sure you’re on time.’ Christopher didn’t even bother to turn from the window this time. Lenny
stood up and left, leaving his drink half-finished. The door slammed shut as he exited. Decca turned to Christopher, smiled.

‘We make a pretty good team, don’t we?’

Christopher didn’t reply. Just stood up, walked towards the door. Decca swiftly downed his beer, took a deep breath, followed
him.

Donovan was sitting on a stool in the Intermezzo cafe, stirring his cappuccino and looking out of the window while something
smooth and Latin played over the sound system. He watched shoppers hurrying by, people making the most of the sunshine and
meeting friends at the outside tables, lives being lived.

He sipped his coffee. Smooth, like the music, but with an edge of bitterness.

Katya had gone shopping with Peta. Partly to make Katya more untraceable and partly to help her feel better. Disguised in
Peta’s old baseball cap and clothes, they were hitting the city centre together. Donovan, before meeting Janine Stewart, had
briefed Katya, informed her that Sharkey was footing the bill and tried to push her in the direction of expensive designer
stores. Jamal was off with his friend Jake. So Donovan was alone.

But not for long.

He saw Peta walking along High Friar Lane towards the Intermezzo and blinked: he couldn’t believe the other person was Katya.
Her clothes had changed. The dowdy jeans and sweatshirt combination he had seen her in since he met her was gone. A new skirt,
top, jacket and boots replaced them. Her make-up had been expertly applied and, most striking of all, her long, straight,
badly dyed blonde hair was gone, replaced by a shorter, spikier, more layered look consisting of various shades of red. Peta,
alongside her, had also treated herself to a total makeover.

They entered the Intermezzo, shopping bags bulging, spotted Donovan and made their way over to him. They stood before him,
smiling.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘You look stunning. Both of you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Katya. She dipped towards him as if meaning to kiss him, but stopped. Donovan was aware that Peta picked
up on that movement.

‘Peta, you too.’

Peta smiled. ‘Thank you. First time you’ve seen me in a skirt, I think,’ she said.

‘You were dressed in one the other night.’

Peta gave him a withering look. ‘That was work.’

‘Right.’

He looked at the carrier bags. Oasis and New Look, Warehouse and Monsoon.

‘Thought you were going for designer stuff?’ said Donovan.

‘I did try,’ said Peta.

‘I don’t need to,’ said Katya. ‘These stores are good.’

‘Oh, well. Sharkey’s money.’

The leather-upholstered booth behind them became vacant. Donovan moved his coffee to the table, the girls dropped their bags,
Peta headed off to the counter. Katya sat next to Donovan. Silence fell like a heavy curtain.

‘You OK?’ Donovan said eventually.