Black Water Read online

  Her heartbeat quickened as she read the message; she glanced at the wipers. The words were all written in capitals. There was something about the unevenness of the letters and the text-spelling that suggested the work of someone young, a child even. The paper looked like a page torn from a school copybook.

  So they’ve got kids to do their dirty work now.

  Crowe tightened her lips at the thought.

  She continued her observations. The locks of the door and chain were untouched.

  No forced entry. The wipers must have been shoved through the letterbox. That will give forensics something to work on.

  She visualised the woman’s shocked reaction as she read the note and fell, hitting her head off the table.

  Once outside, she got Peters to bring the cordon out further, boxing off the small two-bed terraced houses and the road. She walked over to an old Renault Clio parked in front of Ms King’s house.

  The wipers were gone, broken off.

  Jig had a stick in his right hand and the bars of a flicker scooter in his left. He crouched down, bouncing slightly.

  ‘And they’re off,’ he shouted, cracking Bowie’s behind.

  The Staffie took the strain of the rope tying it to the flicker and pushed forward into a run, right down the middle of the road.

  Spikey cycled beside, doing the commentary.

  ‘Jig Time’s made an early lead. The jockey does be riding the bollix out of him.’

  A car screeched to a halt to avoid them.

  ‘Jig Time has jumped Becher’s Brook and the jockey’s still on. He has the bit between his teeth today, the mad bastard.’

  Dizzy Dylan ran towards them, his hands waving in the air.

  ‘Some woman’s dead,’ he shouted, panting. ‘Coppers outside a gaff on Larkin.’

  Jig pulled up.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dunno. Missus someone.’

  Crowe watched Tyrell’s dirty Mondeo slam over a kerb and park on the corner. He walked towards her in looping strides, his shoulders stooped, glancing furtively around him without moving his head. She could see the DI was sucking on his mints.

  ‘Hey, mister? What happened?’ a girl in tight shiny leggings and false eyelashes shouted up to Tyrell, but he didn’t notice her.

  ‘She’s dead,’ a little boy beside her said.

  ‘She been shot?’ the girl asked, chewing, her mouth open.

  ‘No one’s been shot, now move back,’ Crowe said, as Tyrell approached.

  ‘Crowe,’ he said, looming nearly a foot over her, ‘what have we got?’

  ‘A woman in her sixties died from what looks like blunt force trauma to the head,’ she said, looking up at him.

  She pulled up the images on her phone. ‘It appears she may have fallen and hit a hall table in the small front porch. As you can see, there are suspicious aspects . . .’

  ‘What’s this?’ Tyrell snapped.

  Crowe looked up and down at her photos.

  ‘You know if there’s a prosecution out of this and the defence looks for disclosure, this is evidence,’ he said, with a nod at the images. ‘They could argue the scene was interfered with by you taking these photos. That’s why we leave it to the scenes of crime people. You’re going for sergeant. You should know better.’

  ‘Sorry, DI,’ she said, curling a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

  ‘Don’t apologise. Just be careful.’

  Crowe was still holding the phone in the palm of her hand. She felt both awkward and stupid.

  ‘Here, show us anyway,’ Tyrell said.

  He stretched out a yellow-stained finger but the screen suddenly went black.

  ‘Sorry, it turns off quickly.’

  He looked at her, she knew impatiently, as she tapped in her code and held out the image again. His blue eyes narrowed.

  ‘There’s two broken wipers inside, most likely pushed through the letterbox,’ Crowe said. ‘And this car here,’ she said, pointing back to the windscreen, ‘looks like it had its wipers ripped off.’

  Crowe had secured brown evidence bags over the ends of the wipers for further tests. Tyrell nodded ever so slightly when he saw them.

  She tapped on another image.

  ‘And then there’s this note.’

  Tyrell leaned in, cracking the mint in his mouth.

  ‘They knew, or suspected, she was talking to us,’ Crowe said. ‘Looks like a threat that went wrong. Also, the writing looks like the hand of someone young, a child even.’

  ‘Who’s the deceased?’ Tyrell asked.

  ‘Mary King, the neighbour said. She lived there alone. Her son is Leo King. She reported him missing three weeks ago.’

  Crowe saw the lines on the DI’s forehead rise slightly. In a man who gave little away, she was learning to spot any tell-tale signs.

  ‘DI, did you deal with Leo before?’

  ‘Little fucking weed,’ Tyrell replied. ‘Caught with a load of gear a while ago. He wouldn’t spill who he was holding for. Got bail, of course, and did a runner.’

  She could see he was still thinking.

  ‘How was she discovered?’ he asked.

  ‘The neighbour, Ms Mulligan,’ Crowe said, pointing to the house with Grecian plaster casts of reclining women in both the living-room and upstairs bedroom windows. ‘She called in to Ms King and became concerned when she got no answer. She looked through the letterbox and saw the deceased’s body.’

  ‘Great,’ Tyrell interrupted. ‘So her prints and DNA are now on the letterbox.’

  ‘Yes. The ambulance crew went through Ms Mulligan’s house and gained entry to Ms King’s through the back door.’

  Crowe could see Tyrell’s eyes rise slightly to his right and she figured he had recalled something – he didn’t look pleased.

  ‘DI?’

  ‘She met Flynn a few days ago,’ he said.

  Crowe scrambled her brain for information, trying to impress Tyrell.

  ‘Isn’t Detective Sergeant Flynn the new liaison for locals being intimidated by gangs?’

  But Tyrell was already heading for the neighbour’s house, taking in the distance in a matter of steps, barely acknowledging Ms Mulligan at the door.

  ‘Missus. Are ya a detective, a lady one?’

  Crowe looked down at the boy from earlier, peeping up from under the cordon.

  ‘Ya ever kill anyone?’ he said excitedly, pointing at her gun. ‘Ya ever shoot a woman?’

  ‘No, little fella,’ Crowe replied, pulling her jacket across her holster and zipping it up. ‘Now, please step back.’

  ‘I live there,’ he said, pointing to a house where a large woman leaned against a door, smoking and chatting to a neighbour, who was in her pyjamas.

  Crowe scanned the swelling crowd. Children in their school uniforms jumped and shaped as if they had pins and needles. Many were on their mobiles, texting, taking photos or listening to music. A young girl pushed a buggy towards the scene, a big teddy strapped in the front. Kids clambered up on walls, with packets of crisps and cans of Coke, to watch the drama. Teenagers with hoodies and baseball caps looked on darkly, some of them cycling around in loops, phones pressed to their ears.

  ‘Bet ya someone’s been shot, gunned down like a dog,’ Spikey shouted back, making a gun gesture with his hand. Jig crouched low on the flicker, Bowie panting beside him. ‘Here, let’s go over to the others,’ Spikey said.

  Sharon, Taylor and little Bill were there. The girls were sharing earphones, swaying to music. They smiled at the boys in between shouting out the words from the song. Crouched behind them, Jig’s mind was all fuzzy.

  How the fuck is the woman dead? Am I going to be locked up for years, like me da was?

  He twitched around to see if anyone was looking at him.

  I needs to talk to Ghost.

  ‘I’ll ring the coroner and the pathologist,’ Tyrell said, coming back out. ‘We’ll organise a house-to-house and harvest any CCTV. We’ll need to get a handwriting expert on the note.
See what you can find out about the deceased and who was hassling her.’ He nodded to the massing kids. ‘And keep those fucking ants back.’

  Crowe looked behind her, halting at the sight of a kid taking a piss against the wall of a house. She turned back to Tyrell, thinking about what he had said earlier.

  ‘DI, how did the people behind this know she was talking to us? You said the deceased had spoken to Sergeant Flynn just days ago. You think it could have come from inside?’

  Tyrell clenched a piece of mint between his teeth. Crowe lowered her eyes, silently cursing herself.

  ‘Did I say that?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, curling a hair behind her ear.

  ‘What did I tell you about apologising?’

  Crowe felt her cheeks warm and bowed her head, hoping Tyrell wouldn’t notice.

  But all she heard was him stride away, crunching on his mint.

  4

  Jig scrunched his nose at the stink from her mouth.

  ‘I don’t know where yer fucking jumper is,’ his ma shouted. ‘Do I?’

  He pulled open the fridge. Bowie barked at the sound. There was a lump of butter, the dregs of milk and that onion cheese spread he hated. A bottle of vodka lay flat along one of the ledges, a thin film of liquid sliding from the force of the door opening.

  ‘And don’t be moaning about no food neither,’ she continued, shouting over Bowie and the chatter of morning TV.

  ‘Welcome back. Now, with the days getting longer and the weather, fingers crossed, I know, getting better, we have the lowdown on the coolest garden furniture.’

  ‘There’s cheese spread and butter there, and here,’ she said, throwing a squashed bag of sliced bread onto the table.

  ‘Shut up, will ya,’ she shouted at Bowie, moving to hit him.

  Jig wanted to tell her to fuck the fuck off, but knew better. The TV presenter broke his ma’s concentration, giving him an opportunity to slip away. Bowie followed. He picked up his Man U scarf from the mound behind the door and wrapped it around his face.

  ‘Cunt,’ he said, closing the front door. The scarf muffled his curse. But he still looked over his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t followed to land him a couple of slaps. He hated her smacking him around the head outside, in front of people.

  He grabbed a bicycle pump off the ground and swung it around, aimless. He kneeled over one of the bikes and gave it a good beating. Bowie barked with each slap.

  Wonder how she’d like it if I gave her a smack in the gob with this.

  He lashed into the bins.

  The red mark on the back of his hand pained from all the hitting. He squirmed at the memory of his ma, blitzed off her tits on vodka and tablets and trying to make tea, swinging a boiled kettle. She tripped and spilled steaming water over his hand. He fucking roared the house down and lashed around the kitchen. He thought his bones were cracking. She smacked him one and told him to ‘give over’ and ‘stop his moaning’ over a drop of hot water. ‘No fucking way’ would she call an ambulance and have some ‘snooty staff’ at the hospital asking questions.

  Jig held his hand under the cold water tap all night. But it still roared red after. All the while, she snored in the sitting room, in front of the TV.

  Shayo had asked him about it, but he just told him he spilled the water on himself. He knew Shayo didn’t believe him. But he couldn’t give a fuck. That fella could be a nosy bollix.

  Jig flung the pump at the bins. He stood on the bars of the gate and swung on it back and forth, listening to it protest at the strain. He kept doing it, hoping the rusted joints would just collapse out from the wall.

  What else can I do? Not going up to school now.

  He picked up a few stones and threw them onto neighbours’ roofs and listened to them rattle and bounce back down. Bowie barked and Jig tapped him on his wide head.

  ‘Let’s run to the canal,’ Jig said.

  He sprinted down the road, Bowie zigzagging in front of him, looking back every couple of seconds, his big tongue lolling about.

  As he stopped running, Jig heard the deep growl from behind. His hair prickled. He turned to the road. His eyes bulged as bull bars passed before him, silver and gleaming. He could see his face distorted in the reflection, like melted plastic. Huge shiny side mirrors and massive silver wheels, wrapped in jet black tyres as high as his shoulders, cruised past.

  The jeep hummed to a halt.

  Jig stood back and looked up at the tinted windows. He gaped in awe; his cheeks sweated behind the scarf.

  The jeep vibrated from the bass inside and Jig tried to recognise the rap artist that was playing. The passenger window glided down with the smoothest of sounds.

  ‘Alright?’

  Jig got on his toes, but the seat was so far back he couldn’t get a proper look at Ghost’s face. A hand rested over the window, a smoke lodged between blackened knuckles. Jig stared at the tattoo on Ghost’s long, bony hand. It was a grim reaper, coloured in black and white, a flowing tattered cape revealing the side of its face: a large black eye, a sharp nose and a slit of a mouth. Two scythes above its head arced down either side to a sharp point. Ghost had loads more on his arms and his legs and a huge one of a skeleton’s head all over his back. Jig had heard about that, but hadn’t seen it, yet.

  He looked back up and squinted. He could make out Ghost’s shadowed head. His eye sockets were dark, like deep holes in the grass.

  ‘Ya off to rob a bank or something?’

  Jig didn’t get it at first, then pulled down his scarf, and smiled up at Ghost.

  ‘Good man,’ Ghost said. ‘What ya up to?’

  ‘Not much,’ Jig said, scuffing his runners on bits of glass. He heard a crackle and saw the light of the cigarette creep around Ghost’s pale mouth.

  ‘No school, no?’

  ‘I hates that place,’ Jig said, kicking the ground.

  ‘No matter,’ Ghost said, taking a drag and then pointing at the road. ‘This is where ya learn, Jig. On the street.’

  Jig nodded and gave Bowie a pat.

  ‘Ya down training the other night?’ Ghost asked.

  ‘Yeah, practising some frees, I was.’

  ‘How’s the Shayo? Still getting all stressed at youse keeping him late?’

  Jig laughed and nodded. And waited.

  ‘So,’ Ghost said, lowering his voice. ‘Did ya hear what happened?’

  Jig barely heard him with the music, but his tone had switched. Jig called it the ‘no fucking messing’ voice. He didn’t reply. He didn’t know what to say.

  Ghost leaned forward and glanced at the side mirror. His cheekbone looked sore, pressed against his skin.

  ‘Ya thinking about it?’ Ghost said to him.

  He nodded. That woman dying was scratching away inside his head okay, but he kept telling it to fuck off.

  ‘I’m gonna have to keep ya closer now,’ Ghost said, pulling on his cigarette.

  Jig smiled at that.

  I’ll be in Ghost’s crew soon, proper like.

  ‘Cos it’s a bit of a fuck up,’ Ghost muttered. ‘It’s gonna cause some heat.’

  Jig’s stomach shrivelled. He was confused now.

  I done what he told me to do.

  ‘There’s gonna be a price,’ Ghost continued, his voice nearly drowning under the music. ‘It will have to be worked off.’

  Jig twisted on his feet, looking up at the shadows.

  What price? What’s he on about?

  The cigarette butt flew past him. Ghost slapped a hand on Jig’s head and shook his hair.

  ‘But that’s good, little man,’ Ghost said with a grim smile, the tips of his narrow teeth showing, ‘cos, ya be, like, my man.’

  Jig smiled back as Ghost’s window glided up. He loved that sound. The jeep growled. Jig stared at the four exhausts as the jeep accelerated down the road and swerved around the corner.

  Jig looked around, waiting for someone
to salute him or give a nod of acknowledgement. Bowie jumped up against him.

  ‘Ya hear that, Bowie,’ Jig said, putting his arm around the dog’s head, getting a big lick in return, ‘Ghost said I’m his man.’

  5

  The thud of the toddler’s head against the window dragged Shay away from his thoughts.

  The child swayed on his mother’s lap as the Luas snaked around the hospital. She leaned against the window, her eyes half closed, her mouth open. One hand clasped a roll, the other was curved loosely around the boy.

  Shay stared absently at them as a familiar record played in his mind.

  How the fuck am I going to get my life back? And how much longer is it going to take?

  Another thud. The mother moved, her loop earrings jangling. She took a bite out of her roll and slumped back, chewing slowly like a camel.

  Shay was on his way back from college. He went to the meeting, as usual, and gave his report. He was told he was doing well. But, he knew they wanted more from him.

  The Luas stopped and he watched two girls in roller-skates clatter on.

  This was all part of his rehabilitation, he told himself; the long payback for what he had done.

  Yes, it’s taking fucking ages. Yes, it’s wrecking Lisa’s head. But there’s no other way.

  Another thud, louder this time.

  Shay looked over at the child. The boy cried, twisting his head around for attention.

  For fuck’s sake.

  He reached across and tapped the mother on the shoulder, slipping back before she roused.

  ‘Whaaaa?’

  The word sounded like it had been pulled out of her mouth by a rope. Her eyes opened, her vision trailing behind.

  ‘What is it, chicken?’ she said to her son. She pushed the sagging bread against the child’s mouth. ‘Here, have some roll.’ The boy struggled to cry, breathe and take the roll all at the same time.

  The girls on the roller-skates rattled past, slapping off the sides of the seats on the tram.

  He looked at the time on his phone. He had to collect the kids. Their ages tumbled around his mind like a lottery machine. Molly was four, Charlie a year behind.

  They were soaking up everything the area had to offer, like proverbial sponges.