CHAPTER 13

Andy exited the car. Never easy from a VW Golf. One of the downsides of bulging muscles. He knew he should probably get something more intimidating, but he liked the Golf’s zippiness and fuel economy. Besides, if it was your car you relied on to intimidate, you were fucked from the start. No one had ever had their arm twisted by a Lamborghini. He’d prefer looser clothing too, but the tight T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans and boots – all black – helped create the right impression. He marched toward the house in his most imposing manner, chest puffed, arms swinging. That was half the battle. Look like you’re ready to smash ’em, and usually you don’t have to.

Nice place. Clean air. Lots of trees. He’d even driven past a pelican on a post. And the house. Nothing too grand but fucking waterfront. Cha-ching. Be worth a coupla, even a few, mill and here they were on the verge of argy-bargy over a few thou. Asset rich, cash poor, boo fuckin’ hoo.

He banged on the front door – again, create an impression – drew himself up to his full, slightly below average, height and put on his steeliest glare, his mouth a serious line. He didn’t mind Joe, but business was business. Once he’d got his money, they could have a laugh and a cuppa.

The door swung open and a friendly looking, brown-haired woman in a blue collarless shirt, white slacks and glasses smiled up at him. ‘Hello, you must be Andy. Do come in. I’m Barb.’

‘Where’s Joe?’

‘Oh dear. Come and sit down and I’ll tell you all about it. Tea? And I’ve made banana bread.’

Puzzled, Andy followed her into a lounge room where he sat on the only straight-backed chair. Sinking into a couch made you vulnerable. Barb disappeared, and soon returned holding a tray supporting two cups of tea, a bowl of sugar, two plates with forks, and sliced banana bread. That freshly baked smell took him right back to London and his dad’s after-school hummingbird cake.

Steady on.

‘You Joe’s mum? He lives here, right?’

‘No. And yes, but actually no.’

‘What?’

‘You see, Joe’s … How well did you know him?’

Andy narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’

‘Well, I’m sorry, but Joe is dead.’

Andy stared at her, automatically trying to show nothing because impassiveness was part of the job. Usually, if he discovered a debtor had died, and it wasn’t that unusual in his part of the industry, all he felt was disappointment that he wouldn’t get his money. Being a collector of drug debts wasn’t generally conducive to forming close work-based friendships, but he’d liked Joe. Unlike most, he didn’t whine. He bargained, he tried to manipulate, but he didn’t whine. And he could be funny.

Plus, they had history. They had almost been mates a few years ago, before Andy got clean. Both had been users, scamming to get through, and had recognised in each other an intelligence and wit greater that the average junkie. They did a few bonding break-and-enters together, shitting themselves then sharing the triumph of stolen electronic devices. They had bought together, used together, partied on ice together, slumped in the corner on heroin together.

Then, three years ago, a guy Andy knew had, on ice, grabbed a kitchen knife and stabbed someone, nearly killed him and got six years. Thing was, the guy hadn’t been a psycho. Andy had never seem him lose his temper when he wasn’t off his face. He realised then that ice wasn’t like booze. Booze let the anger you already had come out. Ice brought its own. What happened when you were on it was a lottery.

Andy had done karate at school, boxing afterwards, and that put him in more danger of losing that lottery, because most of the useless, skinny pricks who took ice couldn’t punch out a flyscreen. He, however, knew how to inflict proper damage.

So he stopped. Stocked up on chicken soup and wipes, locked himself in his flat, a week of agony, a few more of the world being grey, then smashing it at the gym became his new habit. Whenever he felt twitchy, he’d lift.

The big question was ‘What next?’ Limited options with a six-year sinkhole in his résumé. Thirty-two felt too old to be starting a trade and he didn’t want to be labouring on a building site the rest of his life. He knew the drug world. Why not debt collecting? He was tough and could handle himself. More importantly he looked tough and like he could handle himself. After a bit of practice he got good at intense stares and speaking quietly but with menace.

He had never looked into it closely, but he suspected that what he did – buy debts from drug dealers for fifty cents in the dollar, then try to collect – might not even be illegal. If it was, it was nothing major, except on the rare occasions he had to punch people. It was a power game really. Most debtors started by trying to manipulate him – ‘I’ll have it in two weeks. No stress.’ When that didn’t work they moved on to aggression – ‘Fuck you man. I never even owed that much.’ That never worked. Next was pathetic whining – ‘Please, bruv. Me mum’s just got cancer. I’m falling apart.’

At least Joe told you how much he had, or didn’t have, and was reasonably realistic about when he would get the rest. That didn’t mean Andy went soft on him. If someone was dragging the chain, you couldn’t afford to, or word would spread and before you know it, everyone was taking the piss.

Now Joe was dead. Never a surprise when a junkie dies, but still. He’d liked him.

‘Was he a friend of yours?’ asked Barb.

‘Didn’t mind him. Lot of pricks in my business. Some would argue I’m one of them. He was better than most. What happened?’

‘Overdose.’ She told him about finding Joe and the positive steps he had been making beforehand, and then offered a second slice of banana bread.

‘Shame,’ said Andy, between munches. ‘Not easy to get out of the life. So it was you who messaged me from his phone. “Fuckface?”’

‘Just trying to get into the spirit of it. He owed you money, yes?’

Andy nodded.

‘How much?’

‘Three thousand, two hundred.’ He sipped his tea. Delicious. He didn’t drink enough tea. Again, the straightjacket of his image. Had to be beer, straight scotch or black coffee, especially given the car. He took another bite.

‘What was it for?’ Barb asked.

Andy tried to give her his best ‘don’t-you-be-asking-me-no-questions’ glare, but it didn’t really work when you were chewing a mouthful of delicious banana bread made by the person you were trying to glare at. He settled for, ‘It’s kind of a confidential business. Like a doctor.’

‘Can I guess? Drug debt? From before he went to jail?’

Andy didn’t move a muscle. Again, not easy for someone who had as many big ones as he did, especially as some of them occasionally twitched of their own accord.

‘I found this,’ she said. From underneath a gardening magazine on the coffee table she produced an envelope. ‘Three thousand.’

She pushed the envelope across the table, and he had to stop his eyebrows from heading north. When debtors died before repayment, that was usually it. Hard to make a claim on an estate for a drug debt, especially when the estate usually amounted to a pair of jeans, a couple of flannos and some leaky sneakers.

‘Why are you giving it to me?’ he asked.

‘I found it in his room, and he owes you. His brother inherits this house, so he doesn’t need it.’

‘But if you’d have pocketed it, I’d have never known. No one would have, I’m guessing.’

She considered this. ‘That’s not the point, is it?’

‘Isn’t it?’ He picked up the envelope and put it in his jacket pocket. ‘Well, thanks.’ He put his hands on his knees.

‘By the way, that’s not the envelope I found the money in,’ said Barb quickly. ‘I’ve kept that one as a clue.’

He frowned. ‘A clue to what?’

‘Well, you see, Andy, I think Joe was murdered.’

He leaned back and took a slow sip of tea. Technically, it didn’t matter how Joe died, especially now he had most of the money, but even tough guys were allowed to be curious, weren’t they?

‘Why do you think that?’

She told him about Joe’s mouthguard, belt, injecting site, key, pyjamas and sheets. She had to explain some of it a couple of times, but what she said did make some sense. Placing your mouthguard next to your bed before you shot up was just the sort of sensible forward planning drug users were famous for not doing. And she definitely had a point about the belt. He had never known a junkie to do anything they didn’t need to, particularly if it would result in increasing the time it took to get drugs into their system.

‘But this is all theory, of course,’ she concluded. ‘Maybe I’m wrong. Can you introduce me to the local drug dealer?’

‘You sure that’s the best option, Barb? Been a tough few weeks, has it? Maybe at your age you’re sick and tired of being sensible, playing by the rules. Seen that before. But is this—’

‘My age! How old do you think I am?’

Andy guessed and then, not being stupid, subtracted five. ‘Umm, fifty-two?’

‘Fifty-eight. Not sure I believe you, though. I work in the sun, and I’ve never been one for all those creams. But I’m not asking for me.’

‘Ah. You want me to find out if Joe scored?’

She smiled. ‘Bingo. If he did, case closed. He bought the drugs, used them and overdosed. But if he didn’t buy any drugs …’ She opened her arms.

‘Case open.’

‘Exactly. It suggests someone else injected him. He didn’t own a car, so if he bought them it must have been from someone near. Do they deliver?’

‘Not to people like Joe.’

Barb pushed the banana bread toward Andy. He took a third slice.

After a mouthful, he spoke. ‘I think I know who he would have gone to.’

‘By the way,’ continued Barb, ‘if he was murdered, you’ll be happy to know you’re not a suspect. I’ve officially cleared you.’

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Andy, only half sarcastically, because whatever the circumstances, it was always better not to be on a list of suspects. ‘When you say, “officially’’ …?’

‘I mean unofficially. I’ve cleared you because it would be stupid to kill someone who owes you money, especially when you have no chance of getting it back when they’re dead, and you do not strike me as stupid, Andy.’

‘Right back at ya on that one, Barb.’

‘So what do you say? Will you help me find out if Joe did or did not’ – she made quotation marks with her fingers – ‘“score”? Show me the mean streets of Woy Woy?’

Andy thought it through. ‘No. Sorry. My reputation is that I’m safe. I do a good job, don’t tell no one about it, and keep a low profile.’

‘Understood. I guess I’ll have to go about it another way, then.’

‘Lovely banana bread, though. It really was.’ He started to get up.

‘I’ll go to the police, and tell them what I know,’ said Barb.

Andy slowly sat back down. ‘Tell them what exactly?’

‘I haven’t had many dealings with the police, but my understanding from various books and television shows is that you’re supposed to tell them everything you know.’

‘Including about me?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘I mean, you did say I wasn’t a suspect.’

‘Not to me. Who knows what the police will think?’ She shrugged. ‘You seem like a nice person though, Andy.’

‘Thank you, Barbara. I’m not, though, usually.’

‘I really want to find out what happened to Joe. How about we make a deal? You help me find out if Joe bought drugs before he died, and if at some later stage I do need to talk to the police I’ll leave you right out of it.’

Andy’s usual go-to to ensure people didn’t talk about him was to stand tall, clench his neck, bulge his eyes, tell them never to mention his fucking name, and let fear do the rest. Didn’t quite feel right to do that to a motherly type feeding him homemade baked goods, though.

He had liked Joe. Someone killing him just as he was getting himself sorted out, if that’s what had happened, wasn’t on. Helping uncover the truth wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

‘Deal. On one condition,’ Andy said. ‘Bake me another one of these.’