A Fistful of Knuckles (19 page)

‘Sumfing …’ growled Patsy, ‘… Sumfing that makes sure that if you try and push
me,
I can pull
you …
’

‘Name it,’ said Sam. ‘What security can I give you?’

‘Oh, I’ve got my security already,’ he said.

‘What are you talking about? Do you mean my DCI? Patsy, you can’t keep him as a hostage!’

Patsy laughed, then bit Tracy’s earlobe in a way that was more cannibalistic than amorous.

‘I don’t need no ‘ostage,’ he said. And then: ‘Get a shower on the go, Trace. Get in and get yourself ready.’

‘Sure, babes.’

As Tracy slid from his knee, Patsy whacked her on the backside. She flinched. It was a pathetic, grovelling gesture. Sam’s heart broke for her. As she squirmed past, her eyes did not even flicker in Sam’s direction.

Too scared. Too scared to so much as risk looking at me.

Tracy disappeared into the tiny shower cubicle.

Patsy got slowly to his feet and said: ‘I want to make this very clear, son – I did
not
kill Denzil Obi.’

‘We’ve been through all that.’

But Patsy drew closer, his face very intense, and said: ‘Now I want
you
to say it.’

From next door came the sound of the shower starting up.

‘Patsy, I don’t know what you’re-’

‘I said I want you to say it. So say it.’

Sam frowned. What was going on here? Why was he asking for him to say this? It was like he wanted somebody to overhear. But who? Tracy?

In the next moment, the penny dropped.

‘You put something under that table just as I was coming in here,’ said Sam. ‘It was a tape recorder, wasn’t it.’

‘Say it. Say I didn’t kill Denzil.’

‘This is your security, is it? This is your push-me-pull-you? Well, if it keeps you happy.’ Sam cleared his throat and projected his voice clearly: ‘I – DI Sam Tyler, am officially telling you, Patsy O’Riordan, that you are most definitely not a suspect in the murder of Denzil Obi. And what’s more, both myself and DCI Gene Hunt are recruiting you to pin the blame for that murder on a man we both know is completely innocent.’

There! That implicates Gene, whether he likes it or not! We’re both in this plan together.

Patsy swilled down his scotch, and then heaved himself to his feet. Crouching, he leant under the table and produced the tape recorder he had hidden there, a huge black model with clunky buttons. He clicked it off and removed the C-90 tape.

‘Push-me-pull-you,’ he said, holding it up.

Determined to win his trust to the maximum, Sam said: ‘You’ve got more than enough on that tape to get me into some serious hot water with the Home Office. If that tape ever got out, I’d be for the high jump. Discredited. Indicted. But it won’t get out. Will it.’

Patsy said nothing, but poured himself another scotch – a huge one. He didn’t offer any to Sam.

‘Now we’ve made our contract,’ said Patsy, ‘let’s sign it.’

‘I thought we already had.’

‘No, no. Like gentlemen.’

Sam frowned, unsure and all at once unsettled. What was Patsy expecting him to do? Were they supposed to draw knives across their wrists and mingle their blood? Did he want them to fight? To wrestle? God almighty, he wasn’t about to get all
Women in Love
on him, was he?!

‘She’s yours for ten minutes,’ Patsy said, and he nodded his foul, bullet-shaped head in the direction of the shower.

‘Patsy, I’m more interested in what’s happened to my DCI.’

‘Don’t talk like that, son. I’m offering to lend you my most treasured possession. A refusal often offends.’

Holding the incriminating C-90 in his hard, boxer’s hand, Patsy lumbered past Sam, filling the doorway that led outside and pausing there. Without turning, he said: ‘Say fank you.’

From outside came the blaring music of the fairground; from within, the hissing of the shower in the cubicle.

Sam said nothing.

‘I’ll be with Princess when you’re done,’ Patsy said, and carefully shut the caravan door behind him.

Sam hesitated, thinking of Annie, thinking of Gene. He glanced out of the net-curtained windows at the dark sky overhead and the crazy whirl of the fairground lights beneath it. Over the sound of music pounding from the rides (Suzi Q had long since given way to
Crocodile Rock
) Sam caught the yap and snarl of Princess as Patsy teased her in his bullying way.

Through the frosted glass door of the shower cubicle, Sam could see water streaming, steam rising, and the hazy pink blur of Tracy Porter within. Her nylon tracksuit trousers and Steve McQueen tee-shirt lay on the floor outside the cubicle, perfectly folded, in keeping with Patsy’s fetish for domestic order and tidiness.

Demurely, Sam tapped his knuckles against the glass door.

‘Tracy. It’s me. He wants me to … to come in there with you.’

At once, Tracy opened the door. Sam averted his eyes from her naked body.

‘I’m not going to do anything,’ he stammered.

‘Well you’d better!’ Tracy hissed. ‘Coz else he’ll know!’

Sam risked a glance at her. Her hair was streaming wet and plastered across her naked shoulders, but Sam’s attention was caught by the array of bruises, bites, cigarette burns and red welts that adorned
her
body almost as totally as Patsy’s tattoos adorned
his
. How many months or years of abuse did those marks bear witness to? How much pain and humiliation had they cost this poor slip of a girl?

‘Come on, get on wiv it,’ she said, her voice low and urgent. ‘
He
won’t want to ‘ang about, not more than ten minutes he won’t, not after a fight.’

So, Sam was to use this girl’s body, perfunctorily, without humanity, as a goodwill gift from Patsy. And then he was to hand that body back over to its rightful owner to do with as he pleased.

He looked at Tracy’s face, still misshapen and discoloured, her eyes already lifeless and doll-like as she resigned herself to what was expected of her. She would give herself to him, because that’s how Patsy sealed his deals, and then Patsy himself would be in here, demanding his due.

Sam could not dare to imagine the life she endured.

‘Get
on
wiv it!’ she urged, stepping naked from the shower.

Sam grabbed a towel and threw it over her. Tracy let it fall. Sam gathered it up and this time draped it around her brutalized body with care, bringing it together over her breasts to cover them. Tracy looked at him, frowning, uncomprehending, anxious.

‘You gotta do it,’ she insisted in a low voice. ‘He’ll know if you don’t. He’ll blame me.’

Did she recall that they had met before? Did she not remember him at all?

‘Please, Tracy, listen.’

‘He
wants
you to do it. You
gotta
do it.’

‘I’m Sam. I’m the policeman you met at the hospital.’

‘I’m not
stoopid
, mate. I know who you are. And you ain’t my first copper, believe me, so just do it!’

Sam was dumbfounded: ‘Tracy – I’m here to help you.’

‘Just bleedin’
do
it!’

She grabbed at his belt buckle, but Sam took her by the wrist and gently moved her hand away.

‘No.’

She pulled her hand free and grabbed at him again. This time, Sam grasped both her wrists and held them. He could feel old scars and raised welts on them. There was a brief, confused struggle that dislodged Tracy’s towel and exposed her once again. Sam released her wrists and tried to grab the towel, but somehow ended up falling into the shower cubicle, with Tracy beneath him. Hot water rained down on his head and streamed along his jacket as Tracy hooked her legs around his body and tried to kiss him with her bruised lips. Sam struggled free, got to his feet and stumbled back, sopping wet. Tracy lay on her back looking up at him, half in the cubicle and half out of it. Sam switched off the hot water, gently helped her to stand, and patiently wrapped the towel around her once again.

‘I’ll tell him we did it,’ he whispered, wiping hot water from his eyes. ‘You won’t get into trouble on my account.’

‘Are you a pooftah, is that it?’

‘No, it’s nothing like that.’

‘Then it’s me. I ain’t like one of them page 3 birds. But you can do anyfink you want wiv me, so that makes up, dunnit.’

‘Tracy, please.’

‘He wants blokes to be jealous. He wants blokes to want me.’

‘Tracy – listen to me – not all men are like Patsy. Not all men treat women like he does.’

She glanced fearfully at the open windows of the caravan, terrified of seeing Patsy’s face appear suddenly at one of them. With a stifled cry, she hustled Sam inside the shower cubicle and slammed the glass door shut. Sam – sopping wet and fully clothed – stood pressed up against Tracy in her wraparound towel; above them, the plastic shower head slowly drip- drip-dripped hot water.

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Tracy cut across him, her voice low and urgent: ‘You wanna help me, mate? Then
do it
, and tell
him
it was all right, then clear off. Coz if you don’t, it’s
me
what’s gonna cop it, you understand?’

‘Do you
want
to live like this, Tracy?’

‘You ain’t the Samaritans, you’re just some fella, so get your kecks off and
do it
!’

‘I can’t believe you want to live like this.’

‘I just want to
live,
mate – that’s the best I can hope for – and them what upset Pats, they don’t live so long, you know?’

‘Like Denzil,’ said Sam, throwing the name out to see if she would react.

And, to his surprise, she came straight back with: ‘Yes! Just like Denzil!’

‘So you
did
know him?!’

Tracy laughed – or rather, she snorted. It was a bitter, cynical sound.

‘I knew him all right,’ she said.

‘Did you … have sexual relations with him?’

Tracy peered up at him as if Sam had spoken in Norwegian.

‘What I mean is, Tracy, were you … were you and him
doing it
?’

‘I see …’ she said quietly. Her bruised face grew hard. Lines appeared on her forehead. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You
are
a copper, ain’t ‘cha.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Pin it on the bird, that’s your game, innit. It’s Pats what clobbered him, but it’s
me
what’s gonna take the blame.’

‘Why? Why would
you
take the blame? You didn’t do anything. Unless …’

Tracy scowled at him, full of hate, but she didn’t need to say a word. Sam was filling in the gaps in his imagination.

‘Patsy used you to get at Denzil – didn’t he?’ Sam whispered.

‘No.’

‘You were sent to seduce him, to win his trust.’

‘No. Course not.’

‘Where’d you meet him – at the gym?’

‘I never met him. I don’t know no Denzil.’

‘You met him at the gym. You won him over. And he invited you back to his flat.’

‘No.’

‘That’s how Patsy found out where Denzil lived. But he needed to get past all those locks and bolts on the front door. He needed a decoy to get inside … a Trojan horse.’

‘No. I don’t even know what that is.’

‘So you turned up at Denzil’s place. You knocked on the door. And he looked through the spyhole. And what he saw was you …
you,
but not Patsy, lurking round the corner.’

‘This is all bollocks.’

‘And so he opened the door. He pulled back all those locks and bolts, and he opened the door. And in steamed Patsy …’

Tracy’s face was just as hard, just as full of hate as before, but now her eyes were filling with tears.

‘No,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘No, it weren’t nuffing like that. It weren’t
nuffing
like that! No.’

‘He used you. That bastard Patsy used you!’

‘No. No!’

‘You poor girl. You poor, poor girl.’

Sam put his arms round her – but she shoved him away.

‘You got ev’ryfing wrong!’ she grizzled. ‘Ev’ryfing!’

‘I don’t think I have,’ said Sam quietly. He knew, in that way only a copper can really know, that all the pieces were sliding into place. ‘He used you. And you were there. You were there when Denzil died, weren’t you.’

‘No I wasn’t!’

‘And you tried to stop Patsy. He was beating Denzil Obi to a pulp and you couldn’t bear it – so you intervened.’

‘Just shuddup, will ya!’

‘You intervened, tried to stop him, and he turned on you. And that’s how you ended up in A&E that night.’

‘I fell against the door!’ Tracy howled. ‘I walked into the cupboard!
Now just drop your pants and do it
!’

And then, in terror at the sound of her own raised voice, she clamped both hands over her mouth and stared at Sam with eyes that almost bugged out of her head. The towel fell from her. Sam left it; instead, he put his arms round her frail, fragile body and hugged her. And this time, she didn’t push him away. She didn’t push him away, nor did she return his embrace; she just stood there, crying silently.

‘I’m going to help you,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I’m going to
save
you.’

‘You can’t,’ she muttered.

‘You’ll see.’

‘You’ll get us both killed.’

‘You’ll see.’

‘Just go. It’s better that way.’

‘No. I told you. I’m going to save you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because …’ He hesitated. After a few moments, he said: ‘Just because.’

Snuffling noisily, Tracy said in a timid voice: ‘I think you’ve had your ten minutes, mate.’

‘Good shower?’ asked Patsy, as Sam emerged from the caravan drying his hair with a towel.

Patsy was standing, smoking a fag, Princess on red alert beside him, prickly and defensive of her master. Behind them, the fairground glittered and sparkled beneath the black sky. What with the lights and the night sky and his disfiguring tattoos, Patsy looked like a malign alien monster just emerged from its spacecraft.

‘Very good shower,’ said Sam.

‘Hot enough?’

‘Plenty hot enough.’

Patsy flicked away the fag and roughly patted Princess. It was then that Sam saw that – theatrically, melodramatically – the incriminating C-90 cassette was hanging from the chain around the Rottweiler’s throat. The implication was clear:
if you want it copper, then come and get it …