or maybe MI6.’
‘Murphy isn’t in that league.’
‘Maybe not, but it might be worth treading softly on this one,’ she warns.
‘I’m very light on my feet. You should see me dance.’
‘A ballroom king - now I’ve heard everything.’
She hangs up and Ruiz contemplates why a club owner like Tony Murphy would warrant so much secrecy. There were rumours years ago that he laundered money for the IRA, but not even Murphy would be crazy enough to swim with those sharks.
Ruiz starts looking for the block of flats where Toby Streak said he dropped Nadia Macbeth. What he finds is a graffiti-stained pile of shit with scorch marks around the balconies and plywood nailed over most of the windows. A black guy with dreadlocks opens the door and blinks at the brightness, whacked out on something.
‘You know what time it is, mon?’
‘Four o’clock.’
‘People are sleeping.’
‘It’s the afternoon.’
‘Time is relative. That’s what Mr Einstein say.’
‘He also said only two things are infinite - the universe and human stupidity - and he wasn’t completely sure about the universe.’
The rasta scratches his arse. Ruiz looks past him. The hallway is littered with junk mail, bills and final demands.
‘I’m looking for someone.’
‘You a copper?’
‘Do I look like one?’
‘You fat enough.’
‘I’ll polish my boot on your arse.’
‘That would be police brutality, mon.’
‘Not if my foot slipped. I’m looking for someone. Her name’s Nadia Macbeth.’
‘You want a girl. Why didn’t you say so? Follow Puffa.’
He motions Ruiz inside and down the hall. The carpet sticks to his feet. Puffa leads him into a semi-dark room strewn with burnt spoons, bent cans, water bottles and foil wrappers. He kicks a mound of blankets. A white face emerges, with sunken cheeks and chemical green eyes. He calls her Treka.
‘So what do you think? Talk to Puffa. We can negotiate.’
‘I’m only interested in Nadia Macbeth.’
‘Nobody here called Nadia.’
Treka crawls back under the blanket.
Ruiz brushes past Puffa and begins searching the flat. He talks to a kid who looks about twenty, but is probably younger. He’s eating cereal straight from the box and staring at a corner where the TV used to be.
‘You ever heard of Nadia Macbeth?’ he asks.
‘I heard of Macbeth. Studied it at school. It’s one of them Shakespeare plays about three witches and a dude who wants to be king.’
‘You must have been listening.’
Ruiz takes out his mobile and looks at the list of recent messages, before hitting a button to return a call. The sound of a phone ringing fills the room. Puffa looks at the ceiling pretending he can’t hear it. The handset is vibrating in his pocket.
‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ asks Ruiz.
‘Not just now,’ says Puffa.’
‘I think you should.’
Puffa pulls out the handset. Flips it open. ‘Hello?’ he asks nervously.
‘Hello,’ answers Ruiz.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes you can. Every time you open your mouth it’s like a fart in a colander. From now on you’re going to answer my questions honestly or I’m going to set fire to your dreads.’
Puffa’s eyes go wide and he puts both hands on his head.
‘How did you get this mobile?’
‘Dude left it here.’
‘What was his name?’
Puffa shrugs.
Ruiz points to the kid with the cereal box. ‘What was the name of that play you studied?’
‘Macbeth.’
He looks at Puffa. ‘That’s a clue.’
Puffa starts bleating about having memory problems. ‘I smoke too much grass, mon. I forget things, you know.’
Ruiz gathers the occupants of the flat into one room. There are six of them - junkies, hookers and runaways, all of them whacked out on something, sweating or ill. He takes Puffa through the story again, marvelling at how he can tie himself into knots and harangue himself for telling lies, before starting a completely new explanation about how he came by Sami Macbeth’s
‘Murphy isn’t in that league.’
‘Maybe not, but it might be worth treading softly on this one,’ she warns.
‘I’m very light on my feet. You should see me dance.’
‘A ballroom king - now I’ve heard everything.’
She hangs up and Ruiz contemplates why a club owner like Tony Murphy would warrant so much secrecy. There were rumours years ago that he laundered money for the IRA, but not even Murphy would be crazy enough to swim with those sharks.
Ruiz starts looking for the block of flats where Toby Streak said he dropped Nadia Macbeth. What he finds is a graffiti-stained pile of shit with scorch marks around the balconies and plywood nailed over most of the windows. A black guy with dreadlocks opens the door and blinks at the brightness, whacked out on something.
‘You know what time it is, mon?’
‘Four o’clock.’
‘People are sleeping.’
‘It’s the afternoon.’
‘Time is relative. That’s what Mr Einstein say.’
‘He also said only two things are infinite - the universe and human stupidity - and he wasn’t completely sure about the universe.’
The rasta scratches his arse. Ruiz looks past him. The hallway is littered with junk mail, bills and final demands.
‘I’m looking for someone.’
‘You a copper?’
‘Do I look like one?’
‘You fat enough.’
‘I’ll polish my boot on your arse.’
‘That would be police brutality, mon.’
‘Not if my foot slipped. I’m looking for someone. Her name’s Nadia Macbeth.’
‘You want a girl. Why didn’t you say so? Follow Puffa.’
He motions Ruiz inside and down the hall. The carpet sticks to his feet. Puffa leads him into a semi-dark room strewn with burnt spoons, bent cans, water bottles and foil wrappers. He kicks a mound of blankets. A white face emerges, with sunken cheeks and chemical green eyes. He calls her Treka.
‘So what do you think? Talk to Puffa. We can negotiate.’
‘I’m only interested in Nadia Macbeth.’
‘Nobody here called Nadia.’
Treka crawls back under the blanket.
Ruiz brushes past Puffa and begins searching the flat. He talks to a kid who looks about twenty, but is probably younger. He’s eating cereal straight from the box and staring at a corner where the TV used to be.
‘You ever heard of Nadia Macbeth?’ he asks.
‘I heard of Macbeth. Studied it at school. It’s one of them Shakespeare plays about three witches and a dude who wants to be king.’
‘You must have been listening.’
Ruiz takes out his mobile and looks at the list of recent messages, before hitting a button to return a call. The sound of a phone ringing fills the room. Puffa looks at the ceiling pretending he can’t hear it. The handset is vibrating in his pocket.
‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ asks Ruiz.
‘Not just now,’ says Puffa.’
‘I think you should.’
Puffa pulls out the handset. Flips it open. ‘Hello?’ he asks nervously.
‘Hello,’ answers Ruiz.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes you can. Every time you open your mouth it’s like a fart in a colander. From now on you’re going to answer my questions honestly or I’m going to set fire to your dreads.’
Puffa’s eyes go wide and he puts both hands on his head.
‘How did you get this mobile?’
‘Dude left it here.’
‘What was his name?’
Puffa shrugs.
Ruiz points to the kid with the cereal box. ‘What was the name of that play you studied?’
‘Macbeth.’
He looks at Puffa. ‘That’s a clue.’
Puffa starts bleating about having memory problems. ‘I smoke too much grass, mon. I forget things, you know.’
Ruiz gathers the occupants of the flat into one room. There are six of them - junkies, hookers and runaways, all of them whacked out on something, sweating or ill. He takes Puffa through the story again, marvelling at how he can tie himself into knots and harangue himself for telling lies, before starting a completely new explanation about how he came by Sami Macbeth’s
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