Beggars Banquet by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online Page A

battlefield, all broken glass and rocks. Dog shit was smeared up and down the chute, the swings had been wrapped around themselves until they couldn’t be reached. The roundabout had disappeared one night, leaving only a metal stump in place. You’d be safer sending your kids to play on the North Circular.
    ‘It’s quite simple,’ Daintry said. ‘I want you to get rid of a package for me. There’s good money in it.’
    ‘How much money?’
    ‘A hundred.’
    I paused at that. A hundred pounds, just to dispose of a package . . .
    ‘But you’ll need a deep hole,’ said Daintry.
    Yeah, of course. It was that kind of package. I wondered who it was. There was a story going around that Daintry had set up a nice little disposal operation which dealt with Human Resource Waste from miles around. Villains as far away as Watford and Luton were bringing ‘packages’ for him to dispose of. But it was just a story, just one of many.
    ‘A hundred,’ I said, nodding.
    ‘All right, one twenty-five. But it’s got to be tonight.’

    I knew just the hole.
    They were building a new footbridge over the North Circular, over to the west near Wembley. I knew the gang wouldn’t be working night-shift: the job wasn’t that urgent and who could afford the shift bonus these days? There’d be a few deep holes there all right. And while the gang might notice a big black bin-bag at the bottom of one of them, they wouldn’t do anything about it. People were always dumping rubbish down the holes. It all got covered over with concrete, gone and quite forgotten. I hadn’t seen a dead body before, and I didn’t intend seeing one now. So I insisted it was all wrapped up before I’d stick it in the car-boot.
    Daintry and I stood in the lock-up he rented and looked down at the black bin-liner.
    ‘It’s not so big, is it?’ I said.
    ‘I broke the rigor mortis,’ he explained. ‘That way you can get it into the car.’
    I nodded and went outside to throw up. I felt better after that. Curried chicken never did agree with me.
    ‘I’m not sure I can do it,’ I said, wiping my mouth.
    Daintry was ready for me. ‘Ah, that’s a pity.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets, studying the tips of his shoes. ‘How’s your old mum, by the way? Keeping well, is she?’
    ‘She’s fine, yeah . . .’ I stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Nothing, nothing. Let’s hope her good health continues.’ He looked up at me, a glint in his eye. ‘Still fancy Brenda?’
    ‘Who says I do?’
    He laughed. ‘Common knowledge. Must be the way your trousers bulge whenever you see her shadow.’
    ‘That’s rubbish.’
    ‘She seems well enough, too. The marriage is a bit shaky, but what can you expect? That Harry of hers is a monster.’ Daintry paused, fingering his thin gold neck-chain. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he took a tap to the skull one of these dark nights.’
    ‘Oh?’
    He shrugged. ‘Just a guess. Pity you can’t . . .’ He touched the bin-bag with his shoe. ‘You know.’ And he smiled.
    We loaded the bag together. It wasn’t heavy, and was easy enough to manoeuvre. I could feel a foot and a leg, or maybe a hand and arm. I tried not to think about it. Imagine him threatening my old mum! He was lucky I’m not quick to ignite, not like him, or it’d’ve been broken nose city and hospital cuisine. But what he said about Brenda’s husband put thoughts of my mum right out of my head.
    We closed the boot and I went to lock it.
    ‘He’s not going to make a run for it,’ Daintry said.
    ‘I suppose not,’ I admitted. But I locked the boot anyway.
    Then the car wouldn’t start, and when it did start it kept cutting out, like the engine was flooding or something. Maybe a block in the fuel line. I’d let it get very low before the last fill of petrol. There might be a lot of rubbish swilling around in the tank. After a couple of miles it cut out on me at some traffic lights in Dalston. I rolled down my window and waved for