A Fistful of Knuckles (12 page)

He imagined Denzil seeing Spider’s face through the spyhole – the door opening – and then, looming out of nowhere, Patsy O’Riordan appears, his compact, rock-like fists slamming into Denzil’s face with terrifying force.

‘No,’ said Sam, shaking his head. ‘It’s impossible. I saw Spider’s fists last night at the fair, guv. They were well more than three inches across.’

‘Measure them, did you?’

‘I didn’t need to, Guv, I had one
this close,
right in my face.’

‘How close is “this close”, Tyler?’ Gene loomed towards Sam and thrust his own fist right against his face. His hard knuckles pushed against Sam’s nose. ‘Is “this close”
this
close?’

‘More or less,’ said Sam, backing off.

‘Well there you go!
Any
fist is going to look like a big ‘un
that
close. And I’ll bet you were dropping bricks in your freshly ironed Y-fronts an’ all. Sorry, Tyler, but I seriously doubt your judgment in this matter.’

‘Okay Guv, even if I’m wrong about the size of his fist, Spider still doesn’t have a motive for killing Denzil. Denzil and Spider were close. They were like brothers. Why would Spider betray Denzil like that?’

‘
I
can’t answer that question, Sammy boy,’ said Gene, getting to his feet and jangling his car keys. ‘But we both know who can.’

The Cortina screamed to a stop at the foot of an imposing concrete tower block.

‘That’s the place,’ said Gene. ‘That’s the address Stella gave us.’

‘I’m still not buying your theory, Guv,’ said Sam. ‘I can’t see Spider betraying Denzil like that, least of all to a monster like Patsy.’

‘Perhaps Spider bought his life with that betrayal,’ said Gene. ‘After all, it’s Denzil who wound up in the morgue, not Spider.’

‘You might be right that Denzil was betrayed by
someone
he trusted – but who’s to say it was Spider? What about Dermot, their trainer from the gym? What about Stella herself?’

‘It weren’t Stella,’ Gene scowled.

‘Why not?’

‘Coz it weren’t. I’d sense it otherwise.’

‘That’s no argument,’ said Sam.

‘I’m your DCI, I don’t
need
to argue!’

Sam looked across at him: ‘I hope you’re not letting your feelings sway your judgment, Guv.’

‘
Feelings?
’ roared Gene. ‘
For what? That clapped-out slapper
?! I’ll forget you spoke, Tyler.’

Feeling he had touched a raw nerve, Sam bit his tongue and fell silent as he followed Gene out of the Cortina and across to the tower block. The lifts were burnt-out wrecks so they were forced to take the stairs. The found themselves panting and grunting on an endless trudge up concrete stairwells that reeked of urine.

‘Spider
would
have to live on the eighty-second millionth floor,’ growled Gene.

‘Hell of a view, though,’ panted Sam, looking out across Manchester as the sun struggled up. And then he felt a sudden sense of overpowering vertigo. For a moment, he was sure he was falling – falling – hurtling towards the hard concrete below. He gripped a metal railing and steadied himself.

A memory of the future,
he told himself as he steadied his breathing and calmed his beating heart.
A flashback …
or a flash forward.

Either way, it made his head spin to think about it. Time and Space, it all began to swirl like colours in a kaleidoscope.

‘Move yourself, Tyler,’ barked Gene, shoving past him as he strode along the balcony looking for Spider’s front door.

‘Right with you, Guv,’ said Sam, forcing down the sense of disorientation that had overwhelmed him. And he thought:
you made the right decision to jump, to come back here … don’t let anything make you doubt that.

He caught up with Gene and found him examining a black front door.

‘Looks pretty solid,’ he said.

‘And the window’s blocked up with plywood,’ said Sam. ‘Like a barricade.’

‘He’s expecting trouble,’ said Gene. ‘He’ll be jumpy. We’d better tread carefully. Don’t want to spook him.’

‘Good idea, Guv.’

Gene hammered ferociously on the door and yelled through the letterbox: ‘Open up, Spider you slag, it’s the law!’

‘The gentle touch,’ commented Sam.

They heard movement on the other side of the door.

‘It’s okay, Spider,’ Sam called out. ‘It’s CID. We just want to talk to you about Denzil.’

‘I bet he legs it out the back way,’ snarled Gene, sizing up the door to smash it.

‘We’re eight storeys up, Guv – I don’t think there
is
a back way.’

A voice called out from behind the door. ‘Show me your badges.’

‘Spider, it’s me, the copper who spoke to you at the fair last night. Under the rollercoaster, remember?’

Gene gave Sam a sideways look: ‘Oh aye? Under the rollercoaster? And what did you two get up to under the rollercoaster?’

Sam ignored him: ‘Come on, Spider, don’t muck us about.’

‘I said show me your badges!’

Gene and Sam held their ID up to the spyhole.

‘Let me see your faces,’ the voice demanded.

‘Just open this door,’ Gene snapped.

‘Your faces! Show ‘em!’

Sam and Gene exchanged a look, then obligingly brought their faces to the spyhole. Sam imagined how they must look, distorted and bulbous in the fisheye lens.

There was a pause – and then, one by one, a series of heavy bolts were thrown back. The door inched open, and there was Spider. He stared at them warily; when he swallowed nervously, the spider tattoo on his neck seemed to flex its legs.

‘Hey-ho, remember us?’ said Gene, pushing Spider back into the hallway.

Sam followed them in. The flat was cramped and filthy. The windows were all blocked in with plywood; the only light came from a few bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling on frayed cables.

‘Your cleaner phoned in sick, has she?’ said Gene, shoving Spider into his one and only armchair. ‘Sorry to come barging into your web like this, Spider, but you seem rather shy when it comes to talking to policemen.’

‘I don’t trust coppers,’ Spider said, eyeing them both suspiciously. And to Sam he added: ‘Bet you’re saying I went for you, ain’t ‘cha.’

‘No, Spider, I’m not saying that. You got a bit heated, but I can understand that. You’re upset. You’re stressed.’

Spider looked away, disgusted by this attempt to empathize.

‘We just need to talk to you,’ said Sam. ‘It’s like I said before, it’s in your interests to cooperate. We’re not here to fit you up. We want to get our hands on the man who killed Denzil as much as you do.’

‘No you don’t,’ muttered Spider. ‘Maybe you
do
want him … but nowhere near as much as I do.’

‘You’d like us to think that,’ said Gene.

‘Guv, just give the fella some space,’ protested Sam. ‘Spider, why were you at Terry Barnard’s Fairground last night?’

Spider shrugged: ‘Free country.’

‘What were you hoping to find there?’

‘A decent toffee apple.’

‘You were looking for Patsy O’Riordan, weren’t you. Well? Weren’t you? You wanted to size him up, see what state he’s in – because he’s after you, isn’t he. He killed Denzil Obi, and now he’s coming for you. Am I right?’

Spider said nothing. Sam heard Gene inhaling loudly through his nostrils – a sure sign his patience was rapidly running out – so before the guv could put his foot in, Sam said quickly: ‘Spider, I’m going to level with you. Patsy O’Riordan is our prime suspect. We think he killed Denzil. And we think
you
think so too. Why did he do it? We don’t care about whatever you and Denzil got up to in the past – we’re not here for you, we’re here to find Denzil’s killer and bring him to justice. And to do that, we need your help. So please, just tell us what you know. Why would Patsy have a grudge? Spider? Please talk to us.’

‘You’re wasting your time, Sam,’ piped up Gene. ‘He won’t say a word. And you know why?
Coz he’s got blood on his hands.
Ain’t that right, Spider?’

Spider said nothing. His eyes flashed menacingly at Gene. His tattoo flexed its spindly legs as he swallowed.

‘I’m not just talking about your murky, mucky past,’ said Gene, looming over Spider. ‘You cut a deal with O’Riordan, didn’t you! Eh? Speak up! It were
you
led O’Riordan to Denzil’s flat, weren’t it! It were
you
who betrayed your own best mate, just to save yourself, weren’t it!
Weren’t it
!’

Spider looked up at Gene, eyes filled with hate. Gene glowered back at him.

‘That’s my superior officer’s theory, not mine,’ Sam put in. ‘If DCI Hunt’s wrong, just say. Spider – staying silent won’t help you and it won’t help us nail O’Riordan.’

‘I knew it …’ Spider murmured.

‘What, Spider? What did you know?’

‘I knew you’d point the finger at
me
.’

‘Nobody’s pointing the finger at you, Spider,’ said Sam.

‘
I
am,’ intoned Gene, ‘
if
you hadn’t noticed, Tyler.’

‘For God’s sake, Guv, this isn’t helping!’

‘He’s a scumbag,’ said Gene. ‘Look at him. Look at that stupid tattoo. Look at his stinking rat hole. You don’t negotiate with human crap like this, Tyler, you flush it down the khazi.’ And turning to Spider he said: ‘Consider yourself well and truly flushed, Spider. I’m nicking you. Obstruction. Withholding evidence. Being in possession of a criminally grubby flat that don’t have no bleedin’ lifts. I’ll work out the details on the way to the station, they don’t matter much – what counts if that you’ll be ‘fessing up by the time I’m through with you.’

Sam expected Spider to react defensively, furiously – but instead, he seemed more resigned than anything else. Had he come to expect no more from life than injustice and rough treatment? Did he know nothing better than a world of threats and intimidations?

When I came face-to-face with him under the rollercoaster, he seemed like a man on the very brink of a breakdown. His nerves were shredded. Denzil’s death had shattered him. And look at how he lives! Barricaded-in, paranoid, alone. What kind of existence is this? Is it as bleak and grey and cheerless on the inside of Spider’s mind as it is in the walkways and stairwells of this awful estate? How can we expect a man as strung-out as this to work with us?

Damn it all, Gene’s bloody gorilla routine is only going to make things worse. Spider needs empathy, not threats. He needs to know that when he speaks, he’ll be listened to. Unless he trusts us, he’ll clam up, go into himself, pursue whatever private plans for revenge he has.

I need to shut the guv up. I need to get him out of the way, and establish some sort of contact with Spider that will start to win his trust and–

At that instant, there was a sudden flash of light, and Sam found himself falling backwards, striking a wall, slithering to the floor.

A bomb …
he thought, his head spinning, his vision full of popping lights.

Gene’s voice was reaching him as if from the far end of a huge, echoing cavern:
Tyler … get off your arse and help … Tyler!

The lights began to disperse. Sam saw the floor, the blocked-in window, the yellowed light bulbs – then he saw Gene and Spider locked together, grappling.

‘Guv …’ he said – or rather, he tried to, but his jaw was burning with pain.

What the hell happened? It was like a bomb went off …

His spinning brain was starting to put itself back together again. Here and there, normal service was resumed. Thoughts began to flow again.

He punched me. Spider bloody well punched me! A lightning blow, I never even saw it coming.

He wondered dimly if his jaw was really broken or if it just felt like it was.

Only feet away from him, the guv and Spider crashed to and fro, hurling each other against the walls, until suddenly Spider broke free and dashed from the flat. At once, Gene turned on Sam, looming over him like a very pissed off yeti in a camelhair coat.

‘You’re not dead yet, Tyler!’ he boomed into Sam’s face. ‘So you got no excuses! On your feet and get
moving
!’

Tyler felt himself dragged up, and the next thing he knew he was running out of the flat and along the concrete balcony, following Gene’s flapping coat tails. Up ahead, Spider dashed down a stairwell and vanished from sight.

Despite his spinning brain, and the pain throbbing through his jaw, Sam had enough wits to comprehend that Spider was fleeing the interview, that they were pursuing him, that this was a chase.

‘Shift your lazy arse, Tyler!’ Gene bellowed. ‘The spider has legged it! The bastard’s getting away!’

Sense and consciousness was still coming back to Sam’s spinning head as he pounded down the stairwell after Spider. His jaw throbbed. It had been one hell of a punch – a real boxer’s punch – a jaw-cracker of a blow.

Spider belted down the concrete steps, turned sharply and dashed away along one of the balconies.

‘After him!’ gasped Gene, doubling up and struggling for breath. His face was puce, his eyes bloodshot. His diet of eighty fags a day washed down with a bottle and a half of scotch was kicking in.

Sam belted along the balcony. Spider glanced round, came to a stop, and raised his fists, ready to fight.

‘Don’t be an idiot, Spider,’ said Sam, edging closer. ‘I need to talk to you, that’s all.’

Spider tightened his stance. He was serious.

‘Pack it in, Spider. We can’t nail O’Riordan if you don’t help us!’

‘You don’t want to nail O’Riordan, you want to nail
me
!’

‘No we don’t! Ignore my guv’nor, he’s just trying to intimidate you.’

‘I know what he’s doing!’

‘Spider, please, trust me – I know it’s hard but
trust me
!’

A front door right next to him suddenly opened, and a bleary-eyed bloke in his vest and pants peered out. ‘Do what?’

Spider shoved past him and dashed into the flat.

‘Oi!’

Sam flashed his badge at the man in pants – ‘Police!’ – and raced in after Spider, crashing through a pyramid of empty Kestrel lager cans heaped in the hallway. He smashed through a door at the far end and saw clothes strewn on the floor, a bed, and a woman in the bed clutching the blankets to her breasts and screaming as Spider clambered across her, making for the window.