Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [33]
"Your head still hurts?"
He nodded. Bad idea. It hurt.
"Can you tell me your name?"
He could.
"And your address?"
He could.
"That's great," the doctor said. "There are some gentlemen here to see you."
They weren't gentlemen. They were cops.
They asked him what he'd been up to. How he'd hurt his head.
"Fell," he said.
"The doctor tells us you were hit."
"Don't remember."
"So you didn't fall?"
"Don't remember."
They handed him a card and told him to phone if his memory returned.
When Phil left the hospital, first thing he did was call his mum. He'd already called Tommy several times that morning. In the toilets. Private. In case. But no joy. He remembered more of what had happened in the cemetery. Couldn't remember being hit and hadn't seen who'd hit him. But no prizes for guessing.
Smith had taken Tommy. Fuck.
"Where is he?" Mum said when Phil called.
"Where's who?" He knew it was stupid as soon as he'd said it. He was the stupid one all right.
"Tommy. Who do you think?"
"Hoping you'd be able to tell me."
A long shot. But, no. Tommy hadn't gone home. Mum thought he was with Phil. Thought he'd stayed over. She was pissed off with him for leaving her with Jordan. Not that she minded but he could have given her some warning. She was pissed off with him for not answering his phone too.
Phil made some shit up but it didn't calm her down. Since when had Tommy started sleeping around like a teenager? Phil wasn't sure.
"New girlfriend. You know how it is."
But she didn't. She hung up.
Phil knew why Smith was doing this. He had no idea who Smith was. Or how he fitted in. But Phil knew what it was about.
Smith was playing some kind of blackmail card. Holding something over Tommy. But Tommy was clean, always had been. Phil did the dirty work. Tommy didn't have the stomach for it. Had the brains, maybe, but those weren't much good sometimes.
That Milne fucker. That's what this was about.
You try to do something for the best and somebody screws it up. The fucker was a professional, too.
This hired killer was chopping Milne up, everything all fine and dandy. Then some lovey-dovey couple spots him. It's two in the fucking morning, in the woods. Can't get any peace anywhere. So the killer leaves the body. He runs. It's touch and go. But he gets away with it. Milne's dead, which is a start. But not what Phil wanted. Phil wanted him disappeared, all neat and clean.
Next day Tommy finds out. Says, "Somebody cut Greg Milne's head off. Why would anybody do that?"
Phil shrugged.
Tommy pushed. "You think of a reason?"
"Cause he was a thieving bastard?"
"You saying I had a reason?"
"Thought you'd already said that."
"What do you mean?"
"You told Jean you were going to kill him."
"Jean?" Tommy said. "Jean. The wife. Right. You still shagging her?"
Phil said nothing. He twisted the ring she'd bought him, round and round his finger. Quarter turns. A Viking longship. Silver. He'd had to take it back and get a bigger one. The new one fitted like a charm. Nobody'd ever bought him jewellery before.
"Cause if you are," Tommy said, "the police will want to speak to you."
"It's over. Long time ago."
"Where were you last night?"
"Party at Harris's house. Drank beer. Watched some porn. Fell asleep."
"Cosy."
"What're you saying, Tommy?"
"Sure you weren't with her?"
"You don't believe me?"
Tommy eyeballed him. "You have anything to do with what happened to Milne?"
"Jesus. You not listening? What do you take me for?"
Tommy continued to stare at him. Phil held his gaze. Easy.
"Okay," Tommy said, looking away. "Just wondering." He scratched an eyebrow. "Who do you think it was?"
"Killed Milne? Guy was an alchy. And a thief. And in debt up to his eyeballs. Christ knows who he pissed off."
Tommy didn't want to know. Not really. Which was fine with Phil. Let Tommy think everything was above board. Tommy was a funny guy. Smuggling fags was okay. No violence, though. He didn't approve.
About a week later Phil met with the Spanish kid, Carlos. He looked about twelve, immediately demanded the rest of his money. As arranged.