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

ride tae the cells when they want to score some easy points, but other
than that they leave him alone.’
    It’s
common knowledge that junkies help keep the arrest stats afloat: stop and
search a junkie or a stoner and hey presto you’ll find some substance which
will count as possession.
    I
nod. It’s obvious Kirsty isn’t aware of her brother’s relationship, or whatever
you’d want to call it, with MacIntyre. But then who’d brag about being on
friendly terms with the police?
    ‘Does
he have many lucky days at the bookies, then?’ I venture.
    Kirsty
rolls her eyes, ‘He loses more than he wins,’ she mutters, ‘which is why he
keeps in with Uncle Doug, so. He’s bailed him out more times than I can count.’
And then, more bitterly: ‘Which is why he keeps making the same fuckin’
mistakes.’
    ‘Sounds
decent of your uncle. Is he your Mum or Dad’s brother?’
    ‘Neither.’
Kirsty shrugs, ‘He shacked up with Mum when we were wee. Although it didn’t
work out between them he’s continued looking out for us. It’s why we call him
uncle.’
    I
smiled, thinking of Jude. ‘I geddit.’
    ‘Now
if you’ve finished with the interrogation,’ Kirsty’s smiling but her eyes are
having none of it. ‘I’ll get on with some work.’
    I
laugh, but I can feel my cheeks burning. Kirsty walks round to the other side
of the bar, starts collecting empty glasses and discarded packets of crisps.
Occasionally she glances over at me as though trying to fathom something. Her
uncle, who must’ve been sitting in the back room, pokes his head into the bar
as though weighing up whether he’s needed. In his late fifties, he has a year
round tan, courtesy of regular Spanish holidays and frequent visits to the
local Polish tanning salon during busy periods. The VA is as far from a
destination pub as you can get: sticky carpets and overflowing toilets, the
smell of strong disinfectant masking the odour of piss and vomit, yet during
the Festival unsuspecting tourists flock inside on their way to HMS Britannia
docked at Ocean Terminal. It’s worth calling in just to see the shock on the
visitors’ faces - folk that’ve paid good money to leave behind the
Mediterranean and come here.
    It’s
relatively quiet at the start of the week and with a quick nod from Kirsty the
landlord retreats into the back once more. I’m nearing the end of my pint and
debating whether I can afford another and more importantly whether I want to
carry on drinking alone at the bar. The gob-shites several feet away have been
eyeing me up and I would swear they’ve been moving closer since their return
from their smoke half an hour ago. A few more inches and they’ll be in talking
distance and I’d rather poke my eyes out than become their bar buddy.
    I
replace my pint glass on the top of the counter when I become aware of a lull
in the decibel level in the room. It’s a noticeable dip, the kind of hush
before a fight breaks out, but rather than glee there’s a palpable hostility
that can mean only one thing. I turn round to see several uniformed officers
standing in the pub’s doorway, surveying the bar like a bunch of newly landed
aliens. All around me I can hear the shifting of buttocks as those with a
guilty conscience toy with slipping out the back way and those with nothing to
fear jockey for a ring-side seat.
    A
woman sitting at a small table by the window throws a jacket over the knock off
foot spa and electric blanket she’d been about to offload. A canny shoplifter
with the ability to steal to order, she carries around catalogues so ye can
pick out what ye want, a bit like a mobile Argos. Yet the police don’t give her
a second look. Instead, unless I’m being paranoid, they seem very pleased to
see me . I look from one to the other: most had been at Swanson’s factory
earlier in the day: the tea-drinkers and the kiddie cop, all looking at me like
I’m some long lost family member.
    There’s
an uneasy feeling in the pit of my