‘From the first night spent on the streets it takes an average of four weeks before the homeless person accepts the situation as the norm. A way of life. That’s not made up; they’re figures provided by Shelter and they know what they’re talking about.’
I nodded. I already knew this, but this was obviously a man who liked to hear the sound of his own voice. Pontificating.
‘Of course, many of them, even the very young kids are addicted to drugs or solvents’ he continued. ‘Glue sniffing isn’t just confined to glue, you know? Anything containing a volatile substance will have the same effect. The substance that produces the high is called Toluene. Nail varnish, lighter fluid, hair spray, de-icer, rags soaked in paraffin and petrol, all widely available and cheap to buy.’
I knew this too. His knowledge had been gleaned from official reports; mine came from experience. I very much doubted whether he’d spent last night in a shooting gallery, surrounded by addicts, needles, syringes, the detritus of that offshoot of society all around. I had. Three nights now and I was still not yet fully accepted by the regulars, still a casual. Not unwelcome, but nowhere near to full acceptance.
I switched off as he continued talking; nothing of any use here. The office furniture was antique dark wood, long since broken-in and softened by the passage of time. A huge battered and scuffed desk with a leather-bound blotting pad in the exact centre. Green blotting paper, pristine, no doodles or scribbled telephone numbers. Three pens lined up precisely on the right side of the blotting pad. Ordinary cheap functional ballpoint pens, each with their ends well chewed. The man who sat at this desk had an orderly mind, but also worried a lot.
He stopped talking, looking pleased with himself. I nodded my appreciation; his apparent gratification almost made me regret I’d not been listening to a word he’d said.
‘TWOC-boy?’ I asked, again. “David Marshall?’
David Marshall had earned his street name from his penchant for car theft and joy riding. Taking without owner’s consent appeared on any number of charge sheets. He was a minor player, but his elder brother was a different story. David hadn’t been seen around for a while. The man in whose office I sat was his probation officer. I’d hoped he’d have a contact address on file.
‘David? Oh, yes, he’s dropped out of sight, I’m afraid. Done it before. Missed the last two appointments.’
‘Do you have an address?’
He withdrew a buff folder from his top drawer, studied the contents. ‘Only address I have on file is Dainty Street. That’s from a while ago.’
I nodded. Wrote down the address. Even though I knew it was a dead-end. I’d already been there.
‘Ever have anything to do with the brother?’
‘Sean, you mean?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘Not officially. Never a realistic candidate for probation, that one, but I’ve heard all the stories. Always in trouble, parents chucked him out. Was an urchin, apparently. Do you know about the urchins?’
I nodded. If you’d grown up on Merseyside, especially if you supported Liverpool, you knew about the urchins. The pernicious urchins they called themselves. Some very bad lads used to run with the urchins. Those bad lads were running great swathes of the city now. Another possible lead. I knew a couple of former urchins. Back when football hooliganism was rife, they’d formed reputations that had stood them in good stead in their future careers. Enforcers. Persuaders. The actual wording of the job description was unclear, but there was always a demand for a proven hard case.
Outside, a reluctant glimmer of light seeped down from leaden skies. Matching my mood. TWOC-boy had disappeared off the radar and his brother was proving equally elusive. Sean Marshall was an evil little bastard; not a Mickey Mouse car thief like his brother.
The Probation Service offices were tucked away behind the Courthouse. Last chance saloon it may have been, despite the best intentions of most of the people who worked there with such selfless dedication, but from my vantage point the only callers were the dregs of humanity. Bottom of the food chain.
A couple on the steps, stood out. They were arguing and apparently enjoying trading insults, but that wasn’t what attracted my attention. The girl, about nineteen or twenty, was wearing what appeared to be a narrow strip of pink cling-film stretching from halfway across her breasts to mid-thigh. Shocking pink. It clung to every curve like a determined limpet attached to a rock in an Atlantic storm. Incongruous anywhere outside a club in Ibiza, it was a ludicrous choice for a drab day on Merseyside.
The man pointing fingers, shouting insults in return had less flesh on his bones than a greyhound in full training. Eyes blazing, he stormed off, abandoning her in the midst of a fresh tirade. He walked away, not looking back and I followed. I didn’t know him, but I’d recognised him immediately. He was an errand boy for one of the big men. Their patch was outside the city itself and it would have to have been a good reason to bring him here from Kirkby. It wasn’t my case, but rival gang members only strayed onto another’s turf when a big job was in the offing. I’d heard rumours about a link between the two gangs; not given it much credence. Until now. The go-between in the negotiations was said to be none other than Sean Marshall.
I let him get a hundred yards ahead, matching him stride for stride, but his agitation was obvious. Even in broad daylight he was taking a chance just by being here. Far from his own turf. He crossed the road, re-crossed it again a minute later, stopped abruptly, looked into a shop window, moved on. He was wary, looking for pursuers, but not sufficiently attuned to look any further than his immediate vicinity. I kept my distance, strolled along in his wake.
As the crowds thickened in Church Street I closed up a little, saw him turn off, heading for the Bluecoat Chambers. When I reached the side street I saw him sitting on a stone bench. Alone, but two lads in hoodies were standing at the far end of the road, glancing back. They split up, running, one to the left, the other to the right in an obviously pre-arranged manner. I broke into a run, drew level with the man I’d been following. Saw the blood, watched him slide off the bench to the floor. A single glance was enough. He wouldn’t be any use to me now.
