Chapter 36
852 Words
36
Tyrone couldn’t remember a time he’d been in so much pain. At least in the boxing ring the referee would call a halt to proceedings if you were getting your arse handed to you on a plate. When you got beaten up in the street — or a park — though, things were very different.
The boxing ring allowed you to see your opponent, too. You knew what was happening and could prepare. When someone jumps you from behind, a boxer has about as much chance of fighting back as anyone else. That was something Tyrone was acutely aware of as he lay in his hospital bed, his head throbbing, his ribs in agony every time he took a breath.
‘How are you feeling, Tyrone?’ the nurse asked him, as she adjusted the drip that was hanging up next to his bed.
‘Great,’ he mumbled, the effort hurting his ribs.
‘The police are here. They want to talk to you about what happened. Are you up to that?’
He sorely wanted to say no, wanted the nurse to tell them to piss off. But he knew they’d only be back later. At least this way he could use his present condition to end the conversation early if he wanted to.
He made a face and gesture that told the nurse he wasn’t particularly bothered either way. She smiled and left the room.
A minute or two later, he saw a man he recognised as DCI Culverhouse come onto the ward, accompanied by a younger woman he hadn’t seen before.
‘We meet again, Tyrone,’ Culverhouse said.
‘What they sent you for?’ Tyrone croaked.
‘Ah. You were expecting a wet-behind-the-ears uniformed constable, weren’t you? Didn’t expect CID to come in to take a witness statement. Thing is, we’re not daft. It’s our job to find links and make connections. So when you mentioned Trenton-Lowe, we did a bit of digging. And what do you know? A couple of hours later you’re duffed up in the park and brought in here. Just another massive coincidence, of course. Anyone connected with the Trenton-Lowe job seems to be plagued by them. Only thing is, I don’t believe in coincidences,’ Culverhouse said, sitting down on the chair next to Tyrone’s bed. ‘I believe in joining the dots. And you’re going to help me. This is Detective Sergeant Knight, by the way. She can write really quickly, so feel free to start whenever you’re ready.’
Tyrone glanced at Wendy, then looked up at the polystyrene-tiled ceiling and closed his eyes.
‘I got jumped. I dunno who it was or why they did it. It’s a rough area. It happens.’
Culverhouse shook his head. ‘Nah. Remember what I said about coincidences? Besides, people like you don’t get jumped. Look at you. You’re built like a brick shithouse.’
‘Kids,’ Tyrone said. ‘It’s a badge of honour if they manage it. That’s why pro boxers get started on in clubs and stuff.’
‘Kids? Thought there was only one of them?’
‘Kid then.’
Culverhouse snorted. ‘So you expect me to believe that a lifelong boxer with a physique like yours can end up like this because he got decked by a scrawny little kid off a local estate?’
‘He took me by surprise. It happens.’
‘Nah. It doesn’t. You know that as well as I do. If it was a kid, you’d have been able to defend yourself. Your whole job, your whole way of life is about defending yourself.’
‘He was too quick. He got me on the back of the head before I saw him.’
‘Alright,’ Culverhouse said, leaning back and crossing his arms. ‘So why was nothing taken? You’ve got the latest iPhone, a decent pair of headphones which I happen to know cost upwards of a hundred quid — joys of having a teenage daughter — and your wallet was still in your pocket. Why’d they not take any of that?’
It was the first time this had crossed Tyrone’s mind. He’d been in so much pain and had only recently properly regained consciousness, he hadn’t even thought about his phone or his wallet. ‘I dunno,’ he said.
‘I do. Because this wasn’t about robbing you, and it wasn’t about pride or badges of honour. It was about doing you over because someone very specifically and very deliberately wanted to do you over. So who was it?’
Tyrone grunted. ‘I don’t know. I told you. I didn’t see him.’
Culverhouse stayed silent for a few moments. ‘Why were you so afraid when you came to see me yesterday afternoon, Tyrone?’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Yes you were, you were shitting your pants. I’ve interviewed enough scrotes over the years to know a pant-shitter when I see one. Who’s been on your back, Tyrone? Who’s been threatening you?’
‘No-one.’
Culverhouse nodded slowly. He reached inside his jacket pocket, took out a mobile phone and dropped it on Tyrone’s chest, watching as the man doubled over and yelped in agony.
‘Forgot to say, we brought this back for you,’ Culverhouse said. ‘Standard practice to have a little flick through if a crime’s been committed. Like assault, say. We occasionally find the odd clue or two. By the way, you really should change your PIN number. The person’s year of birth’s always the first thing we try.’
Tyrone looked down at the phone, knowing damn well what was coming next. If they’d got into his phone, they would have read his messages, checked his call logs. He knew it would be easier for him if he told them everything. At least, everything about the text messages and what they meant with the homophobic slurs.
He sighed, closed his eyes and swallowed.
- Writer
