Читать книгу Gone in the Night - Mary-Jane Riley - Страница 26

Alex had walked through the underpass many times before, lowering her gaze so as not to attract the attention of the winos and the druggies, always feeling slightly apprehensive. But with Cora they became individuals. The woman knew them by name, laughed with them, told them off for their filthy language. And Alex thought she was doing something for society by buying the Big Issue and occasionally giving to Crisis at Christmas. But it was Cora who was doing the right thing, seeing the homeless as people, with names and personalities and lives.

‘Still not found ’im then, Cora?’ A man with badly discoloured teeth and wearing a tatty flat cap waved a bottle of cheap cider at her.

Cora shook her head. ‘’Fraid not Tiger.’

‘Perhaps he’s got himself a girlfriend. A bed for the week, you know?’ He leered at her.

She took no notice of the leer. ‘Maybe. But I’m worried about him. When was the last time you saw him?’

Tiger shrugged. Pursed his lips. ‘Well, it ain’t changed since the other day. Coulda been last month. Or three weeks ago.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘My memory’s not so good these days.’

‘Has anybody spoken to you recently?’ asked Alex.

‘Besides the cops?’ There was general laughter. He stared at her. ‘And who are you anyways? Are you a copper? Or a do-gooder?’

Alex tried to smile as easily as Cora, though her heart was thudding in her chest. ‘Neither. I’m a journalist.’

‘You can write about me then,’ said another man, swaggering up to her. ‘Tell my life story. How I got here. You’d never believe I was an accountant in a past life, would you?’ His sour alcoholic breath wreathed around her.

He was right, she wouldn’t have believed it, but she knew perfectly well that anyone could become homeless – most people were only a couple of missed rent or mortgage payments away from it.

‘Gambling,’ he said, before hawking and spitting to the left of her. She didn’t move a muscle. ‘Lost everything. Had a good life once, everything going for me. Now look at me. No house. No wife. No kids. No life.’

Alex looked him straight in his rheumy eyes. ‘I would like to write your life story,’ she said firmly. She lifted her voice. ‘All of your stories.’ Her words echoed around the underpass. ‘I mean it. If you want me to. But first we want to find Rick.’

‘What about the coppers? Maybe they’ve picked him up.’ A challenge.

Alex shook her head. ‘Not as far as we know.’ Alex had rung Detective Inspector Sam Slater on the way to the underpass and he’d checked for her. No one had been taken off the streets early that morning or late last night, with or without any injuries.

A girl – who could have been aged anywhere between twenty and fifty – peeled herself off the wall. ‘Have you talked to Boney?’

‘We were going to go and see Martin. He was the last person to see Rick.’

Alex couldn’t help but notice the glances that went around the group. ‘What?’ she said.

‘Haven’t seen Martin since yesterday,’ said the girl. ‘Din’t turn up for the soup round last night. He allus turns up for the Sally Army soup round. Greedy bugger. Wasn’t there today neither. Ethel was tied up to the lamppost. Guess she’s gone to the dog pound. He could’ve moved on, I suppose. Back to Yarmouth.’

Cora shook her head. ‘No, he didn’t like the place.’

The girl shrugged. ‘Boney’d know. He knows everything.’

‘Where do we find Boney?’

Cora tugged at her sleeve. ‘I know where he is. Come on.’

Half an hour later and Alex found herself in the corner of a car park on the outskirts of central Norwich helping Cora pull at a sheet of corrugated iron.

‘If we just push this along like so—’ panted Cora. ‘We can shimmy—’ She squeezed her small frame through a narrow gap in the fence she had made. ‘Voila! Easy-peasy.’

Taking a deep breath, Alex followed.

‘Is this what I think it is?’ said Alex, looking around at the lichen-covered gravestones that sat, higgledy-piggledy in a small area of waterlogged grass. Some were leaning so precariously it would give a health and safety inspector nightmares. In between the overgrown graves and forgotten chipped weeping angels was long grass dotted with molehills.

‘It’s an old Jewish cemetery,’ said Cora as they made their way through the wet grass. ‘Years old I’m told. It’s forgotten by almost everyone except Boney and his crew. I think some historians want to make it some sort of protected area, restore it and all that. Put in a visitor’s centre I shouldn’t wonder. But there’s no money, apparently. So for now, it’s home to Boney. And his, er, mates.’ Her mouth was set in a line.

‘So who exactly is Boney?’ Alex was curious.

Cora sighed. ‘He helps the homeless people in the city. Finds places in hostels for them, gets the soup run out to them. Takes a small cut, but, hey, he’s got to earn a living, I guess. Gets them good pitches, makes sure they’re not turfed off them by someone new to the area – he even has a couple of coppers in his pocket who turn a blind eye to some of the people on the streets. Some might say they’re not doing their job; I think they’re showing a bit of humanity.’ Her expression grew dark. ‘But Boney’s also responsible for the never-ending supply of drugs – heroin, crystal meth, Spice, you name it, he can get it. Says it helps.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it does. Oh, he can also supply a dog.’

‘Ethel?’ Alex asked, thinking of Martin.

‘Yes.’

‘Where are they then? Boney and his friends?’

Cora nodded to an even more overgrown area of the cemetery, in which stood a shed. ‘That’s where the caretaker used to store his tools,’ she said.

The door opened and a cadaverously thin man dressed in skintight jeans and a very grubby Parka stood in the doorway. His head was shaved, showing the outline of his knobbly skull, and his whole face was covered in what Alex thought were Maori-type tattoos. His bottom lip, eyebrow and cheek were pierced, and one of his earlobes had been stretched so it hung fleshily down.

‘Cora.’ Boney had a high-pitched voice but with a cultured accent. Alex wondered what his story was and whether he might tell her sometime. Could make a good article. He smiled and held out his arms. His incisors had been filed to sharp points. ‘Long time no see.’

Behind Boney Alex saw a disparate group of men and women, girls and boys, all thin and grubby and all dressed in what looked like cast-offs. Many of them didn’t look more than teenagers. She was reminded of the Lost Boys from Peter Pan and her heart bled for them. She thought of her own son, Gus, and how easily he could have ended up as a lost boy, but thankfully he had weathered the crises that had beset him as a teenager and as a young man trying to find his way in the world. Now he was safely at university with his girlfriend. He’d be back soon for a weekend of rest and relaxation and she couldn’t wait to see him.

Cora ignored the open arms and folded her own. ‘Boney.’

‘Still looking for that wastrel brother of yours?’

‘Yes. Please, Boney, have you any idea where he might be?’

Alex stepped forward, she needed to be at the front of this. ‘And Martin. Apparently he’s gone missing too, together with Nobby and a woman called Lindy. That’s four people.’ She lifted her chin.

‘Who might you be?’ Boney’s tongue flicked out of his mouth and played with his lip ring. His eyes gleamed.

‘I’m Alex.’ She wished he wouldn’t do that with his tongue and the ring, it was really disconcerting.

‘And what have you got to do with our delicious Cora?’

‘I’m a friend. I’m helping her look for Rick.’

‘First I’ve heard about Cora having a little friend. Usually too busy with work and looking after Rick, isn’t that right, Cora? Always helping the fucking cripples.’

‘Shut up, Boney.’ Cora brushed his words aside. ‘And Rick isn’t a cripple. I’ve helped you and now it’s payback time. That was the deal if you remember. One good turn and all that. You know everything that happens on the streets. You must have heard something about Rick. About Martin.’

‘And Lindy. And Nobby,’ said Alex, wondering how exactly Cora had helped Boney in the past.

Boney’s eyes narrowed. Now his smile was dangerous, his teeth vicious. His followers shuffled impatiently behind him. As yet, none of them had said a word. ‘If you take my advice,’ he said, enunciating every word and sounding like a school teacher, ‘you will forget about Lindy and Martin and Nobby and, yes, even Ricky-boy, and get on with your lives. Nice shiner you’ve got there, Cora. I’d’ve thought you got that message last night.’ He turned his head sharply and his eyes bored into Alex. ‘You too, Alex Devlin. Don’t think I don’t know who you are. Journalist.’ He spat out the word.

Alex was shaken but was determined not to show it. ‘If you know who I am then you know I like to write about social issues.’ She was pleased to hear her voice came out evenly.

He pulled at his earlobe. ‘Really? Social issues.’ He laughed. ‘What bollocks. Social fucking issues. Want to write my life story?’

‘I might,’ said Alex, determined to stand her ground and not be intimidated. ‘Can’t promise anything though.’

Boney did nothing for a moment, then a smile curled his lips. ‘Fuck me. Ballsy. I like that. As for you, Cora, no can do, I’m afraid. I guess your old bro has just buggered off. Like the rest.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens.’

‘I don’t believe you, Boney,’ said Cora, hotly. ‘You know everything that goes on. And you owe me.’

‘I owe you nothing. Now, get out of here. Before I make you go.’

‘What’ll you do?’ said Alex, emboldened. ‘Call the police?’

‘Come on, Alex.’ Cora tugged at her sleeve. ‘He’s not going to help us. I should have known his word’s not to be trusted.’

Boney’s mocking laughter followed them out of the cemetery.

‘So, what was the favour you did for the charming Boney?’

They were sitting in a coffee shop back in the city trying to get warm and dry, two sausage rolls and two cups of coffee in front of them. Alex couldn’t feel her toes.

‘I stitched up one of his gang members after a knife fight,’ said Cora, her hands shredding a paper serviette. She looked down at what she was doing and gave a hollow laugh. ‘See, I don’t know what to do with my hands when I can’t smoke.’ She shaped the pieces of serviette into a pile.

‘Drink some coffee.’ Alex pushed the cup towards her. Cora curled her hands around the china mug. ‘Had Rick been involved? Is that why you did it?’

‘Got it in one,’ said Cora. ‘A fight between the homeless guys and some youths from the city. Boney and his boys waded in. I didn’t want the coppers coming along, shutting Rick away. He wouldn’t be able to stand that, you see. But Boney. I thought he’d be as good as his word. That’ll teach me. I won’t make that mistake again,’ said Cora. ‘At the time he said he owed me one. Would repay me. Shows there’s no honour among thieves.’ She shook her head. ‘But you know, I can’t believe he doesn’t know something.’

‘You’re right.’ Alex took a sip of her coffee. ‘I’ve been doing this job for so long now that you develop a sixth sense for when people are lying. And he was lying.’ Alex put her cup down carefully. ‘What happened last night, Cora?’

Cora’s head snapped up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Boney said that you had a message last night. What did he mean? It’s something to do with that nasty bruise on your cheek, isn’t it? And you’ve been moving as if you hurt in other places too.’

‘Oh, that.’

‘Yes, that, Cora.’

Cora drank some coffee. ‘Couple of thugs tied me up and threw me into a wheelie bin.’ Alex gasped. ‘Told me to stop poking my nose in where it wasn’t wanted.’

‘Cora – anything could have happened. The bin lorry could have come and—’

‘It very nearly did. But whoever was behind it didn’t want me to die. Not yet anyway. They paid someone to let me out just in time.’

Alex looked at her steadily. ‘Who do you think’s involved?’

‘Dunno.’ Cora avoided her eyes.

Alex didn’t believe her.

‘You asked me about the Riders.’

‘So?’ Still Cora didn’t – or wouldn’t – look at her.

‘You don’t like them.’

‘No shit, Sherlock. Look, leave it, Alex.’

Alex put down her coffee cup. ‘You think it’s one of them.’

‘I said, leave it.’

But Alex didn’t want to ‘leave it’. She decided to try another avenue. ‘So Boney knew about it. The wheelie bin thing, I mean.’

‘It would seem so.’

‘Do you know his real name?’

Cora smiled, a real smile that lit up her face and chased away the pasty edges. ‘Someone on the street told me once. Nigel.’

Alex raised an eyebrow. ‘Nigel?’

‘Nigel Bennet.’

Alex grinned. ‘He doesn’t look much like any Nigels I know.’ She fished her phone out of her bag. ‘Let’s see if Google knows who he is.’ Her fingers stabbed at the phone. ‘There are five Nigel Bennets on LinkedIn, but I can’t imagine his business would have a profile on there.’ She scrolled some more. ‘A few on Facebook. Unlikely too.’

‘He’s not really going to be on social media, is he?’ Cora sounded impatient.

‘No, not now maybe, though it’s always worth checking. He could be like one of those stupid people who post pictures of money and goods they’ve stolen. Now let’s see …’ She turned the phone round to Cora. ‘Look, there are a couple of Nigel Bennets in images. But I can’t tell if any of them are him. Especially without the—’ she gestured at her face.

Cora smiled. ‘You mean the piercings, the long lobes and the sharp teeth?’ She squinted at the screen. ‘Nor me. Too fuzzy. You’re not going to find him there. I wouldn’t bother, if I were you.’

Alex put her phone away. ‘You’re probably right.’

‘What do we do now?’

‘Now,’ said Alex, smearing some Colman’s mustard over her sausage roll before popping a piece into her mouth and deciding not to pursue the Nigel angle for the moment, ‘we report Rick missing – yes we will,’ she emphasized as she saw Cora about to interrupt. ‘He’s a vulnerable person and if he’s on the police radar then they’ll look out for him.’