Bleed For Me

41

The problem with secrets and lies is that you can never tell which is which until you dig them up and sniff. Some things are buried for safekeeping; some are buried to hide the stench; and some are buried because they’re toxic and take a long time to disappear.

Annie Robinson lies as easily as she kisses. I can still taste her. I can see her eyes beneath her fringe, awkward and sad. I see a woman ready to surrender completely - to freefall into love, if only to escape the memories of a bad marriage.

Thirty minutes later I’m almost home. My mobile is chirruping. Ruiz.

‘I’ve found the freak with the tattoos.’

‘Where?’

‘I was watching the minicab office, thinking he was never going to show, thinking I got better things to do, thinking about how I’m retired and I’m too old for this shit . . .’

‘OK, OK.’

‘Anyway, he finally turned up and picked up a girl. He took her to a hotel in Bristol. Fancy place. Dropped her off. Waited downstairs while she did her horizontal polka with some suit on a business trip. Afterwards he dropped her at a train station and drove to a gaff off the Stapleton Road - a bed and breakfast hotel called the Royal. Place needs a facelift or a bulldozer. Now he’s in a pub around the corner. I’m sitting outside.’

‘Do we know his name?’

‘Mate of mine - shall remain nameless - ran the number plate. It’s an Audi A4 registered to a Mark Conlon. Lives in Cardiff. Nameless is running a full computer check. He should have something in a few hours. You want to join me? I’m not fronting this freak alone.’

I don’t think we should front him at all.

Thirty minutes later I knock on the steamed-up window of his Mercedes. Ruiz unlocks the doors and I slide inside. Sinatra is singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’. Takeaway wrappers litter the floor.

Ruiz offers me a cold chip.

‘I’ve eaten.’

‘Yeah, but what were you eating? Is that lipstick I see? You’ve been knobbing your schoolteacher friend while I’ve been out here freezing my bollocks off.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘Shame. Is there lipstick anywhere else?’

‘You have a one-track mind.’

‘When you get to my age it’s the only track worth playing.’

We’re outside an ugly modern pub with red-brick walls, small windows and harsh lines. Streetlights reflect from the wet black pavement. Ruiz takes a sip from a thermos mug.

‘You been inside?’

‘Not yet.’

Glancing at the pub I ponder the wisdom of this. We don’t know anything about Conlon except that he put three men in hospital and one of them now speaks through a hole in his neck.

‘Novak Brennan was supplying drugs at university. Ellis might have been one of his dealers.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Annie Robinson.’

Ruiz rolls down his window and tosses the dregs of his tea. ‘Novak always knew how to spot a gap in the market.’

The pub door opens. Light spills out. Two men step on to the pavement. Conlon is the taller of the two. He’s wearing dark jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. The second man is older with a receding hairline and a stiff military bearing. He’s dressed in a beige raincoat, carrying an umbrella like a walking stick.

Conlon glances down the street. For a moment he seems to be looking directly at us, but it’s too dark for him to see anyone inside the Merc. Conlon reacts to something. He grabs the man by the lapels and pushes him hard against the side of a car. The older man is nodding. Scared.

Conlon shoves him away and gets behind the wheel. The Audi pulls away.

‘You want to follow him?’ asks Ruiz.

The older man is walking towards us.

‘Wait! I want to see who this is.’

Reaching below the dash, Ruiz pops the bonnet. Climbing out, he unhooks the latch and the bonnet hinges open. The man has almost reached us. The streetlight reflects from his bald patch and his umbrella clicks on the pavement with each second step.

‘Hey, guv, you wouldn’t happen to have any jumper leads?’ asks Ruiz. ‘I can’t get a spark out of this thing.’

The man barely pauses. Looking flustered and feverish, he mumbles a reply and keeps walking. He’s in his fifties with a solitary band of greying hair that warms the top of his ears. I know him from somewhere.

‘Is there a garage nearby?’ asks Ruiz.

The man stops and turns. ‘Perhaps you should call the AA.’ His accent is public school. Genteel. Erudite.

‘Not a member,’ says Ruiz. ‘Always thought it was a waste of money. Isn’t that the way?’

‘Quite,’ says the man, turning again. His eyes meet mine. I see no hint of recognition.

‘Well, you have a nice evening,’ says Ruiz.

His umbrella swings and clicks as he walks away.

Ruiz shuts the bonnet and slides back behind the wheel.

‘Now there’s a turn-up.’ He glances in the rear-view mirror.

‘You recognised him.’

‘Didn’t you?’

That’s the thing about Ruiz: he doesn’t forget. He has a memory for names, dates, places and faces - for the victims and perpetrators - going back ten, twenty, thirty years.

‘I know I’ve seen him somewhere,’ I say.

‘You saw him on Thursday.’

And then I remember . . . Bristol Crown Court . . . he was sitting in the front row of the jury box. The foreman.

Ruiz has found my father’s birthday present - the bottle of Scotch I forgot to wrap or to send. He cracks the lid and pours a generous amount over ice before settling the bottle on a table in the lounge where it can keep him company.

We sit opposite each other, listening to the ice melting. Ruiz once told me that he didn’t talk politics any more, or read newspapers, or watch the News at Ten. One of his ex-wives had accused him of opting out of public debate. Ruiz told her that he’d served his tour of duty. He’d manned the barricades against outraged pacifists, anti-globalisation protesters, poll-tax rioters and hunt saboteurs. He had fought the good fight against the violent, corrupt, treacherous, hypocritical, cowardly, deviant and insane. Now it was time for others to take up the battle because he had given up trying to save or change the world. He simply wanted to survive it.

‘What did we just see?’ I ask.

‘We saw evidence of jury tampering.’

‘Maybe it was a chance meeting?’

‘It’s against the law to approach a member of a jury.’

‘He’s one of twelve.’

‘He’s the foreman!’

‘Yeah, but he’s not Henry Fonda and this isn’t Twelve Angry Men. You need ten jurors for a majority verdict.’

‘What about a hung jury? You need three.’

‘Maybe they have three.’

‘So there’s a retrial and they do it all again with a different jury. That doesn’t help Novak.’

‘So what do you suggest?’ I say.

‘We have to tell someone.’

‘The judge?’

Ruiz almost chokes. ‘You’re joking. He’ll abort the trial. That poor kid giving evidence will have to go through it all again.’

‘Maybe he’ll just dismiss the foreman. The jury can still deliberate. Eleven is enough.’

Ruiz stares at the fireplace. ‘Maybe we should talk to a lawyer.’

He gives Eddie Barrett a call. Puts him on speakerphone. It’s a bank holiday Monday and somebody is going to pay for Eddie’s fifteen minutes - probably me. His voice comes through like a foghorn.

‘You two bumboys are getting a reputation. You’re like Elton and David without the wedding. I thought you’d retired, Ruiz.’

‘On holidays.’

‘Try Benidorm next time, or Jamaica. Get yourself some black bootie. What do you want?’

‘I got a hypothetical,’ says Ruiz.

‘I hate fucking hypotheticals. Don’t you fairies ever deal with real situations?’

‘We weren’t boy scouts like you, Eddie.’

‘Dib fucking dob. What’s your hypothetical?’

Ruiz pitches the question: ‘You’re at trial. You discover the foreman of the jury meeting up with an acquaintance of the defendant. This particular acquaintance has a history of violence. And this particular defendant has a history of getting away with murder. What do you do?’

‘Am I the defence or the prosecution?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Sure it fucking matters.’

‘You’re neutral.’

‘Could it be an accidental meeting?’

‘Doubtful.’

Eddie sucks air through his teeth. ‘The trial is probably fucked but the judge might just cut the foreman loose. Warn the jury. Keep going.’

‘So you’d tell the judge?’

‘Nah, I’d tell the police.’

‘Will you help us?’ I ask.

Eddie laughs. ‘Now there’s a fucking hypothetical!’