Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) by Emma Salisbury

I take a look behind me; right enough the van driver
is doing his nut, banging on the horn again and yelling at the windscreen. His
passenger is gesturing with his hands: wanker and dickhead is the
gist of it.
    It’s
at times like this Marcus must get a kick out of blacked-out windows, for
without a word being uttered between them he and his minions climb out of the
car, moving as one in the direction of the van and its occupants who’ve been
protesting so noisily. I don’t know whether it’s the sight of three angry black
men bearing down on them or the machete Devlin pulls out from his jacket but
the occupants of the van become silent.
    The
driver even winds down his window: ‘Nae offence, Pal,’ he’s smiling now, we’re
all mates here . He looks to his companion for corroboration. They’re
builders by the look of it, muscle turned to fat but still capable of holding
their own under normal circumstances, only these circumstances are far from
normal.
    ‘Aye!’
agrees the driver’s mate, ‘Jist havin’ a laugh. Thought ye wiz some daft mare from
Morningside, lost her way.’ His hands are still moving, but in a placating
gesture, easy now, let’s all just go hame and forget all about it . The
lights have changed but none of the cars behind complain, each driver hoping
that whatever happens next won’t involve them.
    Hear
no evil, see no evil, speak even less.
    Marcus
and his men intimidate the traffic lane just by standing there and I know
they’ll not do anything because of what happened outside the army barracks in
London, the builders are just too thick to realise. Instead Devlin takes out
his mobile, takes a picture of the front of the van: the fat men inside it and
the vehicle registration. He walks up to the driver’s window, shows them the
image on the screen.
    ‘A
keepsake,’ he says merrily, ‘Means mi cyan get y’address any time mi like. In
case mi need fi come look fe yi.’ Marcus and Barrington walk back to the X5,
Devlin takes his time, enjoying the moment, turning to salute the vehicles
behind to thank them for their patience.
    Once
back in the car we head out towards Salamander Road and the industrial estates
along the approach to Seafield. Gus McEwan owns a scrap yard along this stretch
of road, just before the turn off to Portobello, and Barrington turns into the
entrance for it, heading towards a couple of lock-ups at the arse end of a dirt
track. At that moment Marcus’s mobile starts to ring and he answers it with an
abrupt ‘What?’ He remains silent as he listens to the caller for a couple of
beats before snarling: ‘Why me juss hearin’ dis?’ I start to pity the other
person when Marcus ends the call and turns his full attention to me.
    ‘OK.
Tell me what you fuckin’ know.’
    I
swallow. ‘Swanson’s was turned over today. They got away with ten grand.’
    ‘How
ye know dis?’ Marcus continues to stare.
    ‘My
girlfriend works there.’ I say simply. The word feels strange, although I’ve
never used Candy and girlfriend in the same sentence before it’s what I’m
hoping for. I only hope she feels the same.
    Marcus
digests this information for a couple of minutes. He sits perfectly still as he
does this, whether wondering who might be behind it or contemplating world
peace I can’t be sure, but he settles back in his seat as though waiting for
his favourite song to start. I wonder if he’s been inside. There are no tell-tale
tattoos, and his dark skin is flawless save for the chib on his chin. Rumour
has it the dealer who inflicted it still takes his meals through a straw.
Marcus turns his head in my direction. ‘Wha’ ye wan’ me do?’ He smirks, as
though he already knows the answer to that and is just seeing if I have the
guts to spit it out.
    ‘They
could have killed her.’ I tell him. Not an answer, I know, but a statement of
fact.
    ‘Armed?’
    I
nod. ‘Guns.’ I add quickly to avoid any confusion.
    Marcus
rubs a finger along his scalp as though