Dead Wrong - [51]

My guess was that it was all bound up together. The drugs that once gave Joey pleasure, not to mention profit, now brought paranoia and pain. He was an addict like his father before him, out of control.

‘I got to go.’ He stood up, trembling a little.

I clicked the tape recorder off. ‘Another appointment?’

‘Need to see if anything’s arrived yet, stuff’s been in short supply this last couple of days.’ No wonder he was so twitchy.

‘If you change your mind about…’

‘I won’t,’ he looked away from me.

‘I can play them this tape but I don’t know whether it’s enough to get Luke off. They have witnesses who are prepared to testify, to appear and say Luke killed Ahktar. If you’d come to an identity parade?’

‘No.’

‘But-’

‘It won’t bring Ahktar back, will it? And they’ll kill me.’

‘How long are you going to hide?’

‘Long as it takes.’

‘And Luke?’

‘I told you what went down. That’s it. I got to go.’ He walked away.

I watched him go, off to buy a bit more oblivion. I wondered what the drug culture would be like by the time Maddie was exploring it. How would I protect her from the worst excesses whilst letting her take the risks that all teenagers sought? Hah! I thought, I won’t. I’ll be on the sidelines worrying, trying not to let it show. If I can’t even get her to talk to me now about what goes on at school, she’s hardly going to confide in me about her drug taking!

A patter of applause at the end of the game and then the bowl-players were called for tea over at the small clapboard pavilion at the far side of the green.

I left the park and made my way back to the car, calling in at the public toilets below the entertainment complex. They were all galvanised steel and mottled concrete floors reeking of industrial-strength disinfectant and damp concrete, resilient to seawater, sand and the ravages of tourists.

I passed the train station on my way back to the main road but there was no sign of Joey. In the car park I noticed a white van. Unmarked. My stomach flipped and my heart stammered. I reasoned with myself all the way home, but the worry wouldn’t go away. It just lodged there like a bone in my throat.

When I arrived back in Manchester I felt sticky from the journey and my shoulder was stiff from the combination of driving and fretting, but I decided to strike while the iron was hot.

I was on time; it was nearly four o’clock, but the court was empty again. Finished for the day. No wonder the wheels of justice took such a long time to turn. I felt like kicking the statues in frustration. Instead, I rang Mr Pitt’s office. My bullish tone the previous day must have had some effect because the secretary greeted me with something bordering on warmth and told me she was glad I’d got in touch; Mr Pitt had been called out at short notice on a matter of some urgency, but was very anxious to hear what I had to say. Could I leave a number where I could be reached this evening? I gave her my home number and my mobile – I was going for a drink with Diane. She had no idea when he might call and warned me it could be quite late. I reassured her that anytime was fine.

I should have rung Mrs Deason, then. But I was putting it off. Still hoping that my fears about the white van were unfounded. What would I say? He’s a wreck, Mrs D. He’s all skin and bone, he’s got a graveyard cough, he’s jumpy as hell, nerves shot to pieces and when he’s not got enough drugs he’s getting panic attacks and paranoia. Oh, and by the way, I think I was followed to Prestatyn. They may be on his trail – the people who want to keep him quiet. The people who broke his fingers. So, I put it off, deciding to call her the next day. And in the meantime try and get things in perspective.

It was warm enough to sit outside the pub for the first hour. As it got darker the midges drove us inside. Diane had not tried any more lonely hearts’ adverts.

‘I haven’t had time,’ she said. ‘I’ve been working flat out. You know, they did a feature on dating agencies on Richard and Judy.’

‘Diane.’ She knows daytime TV makes me squirm.

‘It’s very educational,’ she remonstrated, ‘popular culture. As an artiste,’ she waggled her eyebrows, ‘I feel obliged to keep up with the trends of the time. To have my finger on the pulse.’

‘Be better off on the remote control,’ I muttered.

She ignored me. ‘They were saying how hard it is to meet new people these days. A lot of couples meet through work so that rules me out.’

‘What about your commissions, your patrons or whatever?’

She snorted. ‘Hah! No nice Spanish restaurateurs as yet. No, the place that wants the corkscrews is owned by a woman with a string of caravans in Southport and some boarding kennels in Hyde. Talk about diversification.’ She took a swig of her drink.

‘I’ve been to the seaside today,’ I confessed. ‘Work, not pleasure. Well, I had a paddle.’

‘Southport?’

‘Prestatyn.’

‘I got stung by a jellyfish in Prestatyn,’ she said. ‘Awful. I could feel the poison travelling round my body for hours, honestly. Little stings and prickles breaking out everywhere, even my eyelids. Hardly a mark on me but bloody painful. So how was sunny Prestatyn?’