Read Online Taking Pity by David Mark - Free Book Online

of his lip. “Be taking it up the arse next.”
    He coughs. Sprays spit and undigested food onto his shirtfront and the tabletop. Wipes it with the palm of his hand.
    Behind him he hears the doors bang again. Turns around to see that the suits have fucked off. Probably on their way to a trial across the road. Probably going to make a fortune for pushing bits of shit around the judge’s chambers like dung beetles in expensive shoes. He has no time for lawyers. Doesn’t like the way they talk. Doesn’t understand what would compel somebody to do such a job. Feels the same way about parking attendants, traffic wardens, and prison guards. He has a lot of hate inside him. Reserves most of it for coppers who don’t know how to play the game. Despite his own poor disciplinary record, he considers himself to be a passable detective. He’s not bent. Not on the take. He’ll accept a few free pints or a bottle of whiskey as a thank-you or a sweetener, but he would never make the kinds of deals that some of his colleagues have done over the years. It was the head of the Drugs Squad who let the Headhunters take root in the city—exchanging a blind eye for good headlines and ready information. Ray can’t abide that approach. He thinks of a villain as a villain. Hopes he has passed some kind of moral backbone on to the few protégés he has helped out over his long career.
    That thought makes him contort his face afresh. Pictures his friend Shaz Archer. She’s been riding his coattails for years and he has enjoyed her company all the way. She’s from money. From good stock. She’s good-looking, fashionable, and sexy as hell, though Ray has never entertained the notion of bedding her. He cares for her. Thinks she could make a good cop. Admires her tenacity and willingness to do whatever it takes to get ahead—even if that means undoing a couple of extra buttons on her blouse while interviewing reluctant witnesses. But she’s let him down during his suspension. Fallen in love with some slick bastard she hasn’t even had the courtesy to introduce him to. Left him lonely and ignored while she has been throwing her legs over her shoulders and making pretty eyes at some ponce from London. Silly cow should know better. She’s got a case of her own that could be the making of her. Lorry driver, stabbed to death while on remand at Hull nick. She’d even known the prick. Had interviewed him months ago while the Headhunters were in the ascendancy and got nothing more for her trouble than a cup of piss to the face. His status as prison hero didn’t last long. Within six weeks, he’d had his throat cut with a sharpened phone card and been left to bleed out in the urinals.
    Colin watches the street. Tops up his wine and takes a sip. Wipes his nose with a knuckle and wonders why the fuck he still bothers to put on a tie when the most exciting thing he will do today is go to the market for a couple of slices of cold meat and a six-pack of beer . . .
    His phone rings. He doesn’t hear it at first. It doesn’t ring very often, so he barely recognizes the tone. Finally, he pulls the old-fashioned, coffin-shaped phone from his trouser pocket. It’s from a withheld number. He holds his breath. Reaches into his pocket for the battered old pocket tape recorder. Begins recording even before he answers. Wonders. Sneers . . .
    “Col Ray,” he says, settling back into his chair and putting the electronic cigarette to his lips.
    “Well, hello, Detective Chief Inspector.”
    It’s a voice Colin Ray last heard months ago. It’s accentless but refined. Posh without giving much away. It belongs to a man whom Colin Ray has spoken to twice before. The first time it contained promises, and then threats. The second, it adopted a superior, mocking tone, and goaded him into taking a key chain to a drug dealer in the cells. Some people call him Mr. Mouthpiece, but Colin files him under the mental heading of “Gobshite.”
    “Well, I never,”