Spine Farm: A Paignton Noir Mystery by Leins Tom

Author:Leins, Tom
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dirty Books
Published: 2018-12-14T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6: Frankie Teardrop

48 hours later.

The Dirty Lemon.

I’m on my third pint when Frankie Teardrop lurches towards me on his Zimmer frame. He sits on the seat opposite me and unfastens his rusted leg braces with a sigh.

He has a jagged groove across his forehead where he was once hit with a knuckle-duster in Sport XS – after spilling someone’s plastic pint of Red Stripe one happy hour. Yeah – people take happy hour really fucking seriously in this town.

He used to live in the Black Regent rooming house, in the room next to mine, and I used to help him up the stairs when he was drunk – which was most nights. Now he lives in sheltered accommodation. On the fucking ground floor.

He unfurls a ragged-looking Herald Express and place it on the table next to my pint.

The front cover has a picture of the field where we discovered the bones, under the headline SPINE FARM. The byline credits the story to Naomi fucking Dunford. Chief Crime Correspondent.

I thumb past the spread legs on page three to the double-page spread on pages four and five. More photos – blurry snapshots of crime scene tape, shovels, mud. There’s a particularly unflattering shot of a disconsolate-looking Hedges sat on his car bonnet, white coveralls zipped up over his suit, cigarette dangling limply from his lips.

Frankie grins.

“Don’t just look at the pictures, son. Read the fucking article.”

He jabs a stubby forefinger at the middle of the page.

“…Joseph Rey, 38, from Totnes Road exclusively told the Herald Express: ‘I discovered the f*****g spine farm’. Rey, who is understood to be between jobs, is not thought to be under suspicion…”

“What the fuck?”

“You’re famous, son! I haven’t seen a member of your family in the Herald since your Uncle Alvin’s second stag night!”

He cackles – and his forehead creases around the huge scar.

“You know my uncle?”

He nods.

“Everyone knows your uncle, son. Matter of fact, Joe, I knew both your uncles. Fucking tragedy what happened, son – absolute fucking tragedy.”

I drink an inch of my pint, trying to conceal my lack of comprehension. Wanting him to elaborate, but not willing to ask him.

“I spent a lot of time with your other uncle as a kid. Alan. Alvin’s twin. Lovely lad.”

He gestures at his own withered legs.

“He was a sickly, weedy little boy – just like me. We both spent time at the old school for Delicate Children. What a creepy fucking shit-hole that was.”

He shudders ever so slightly at the memory, but I notice it all the same.

“What happened?”

Frankie glances at me.

“Shit. You don’t know, do you?”

I shake my head.

“My family tree is complicated, mate. I don’t know shit.”

“Alan went missing – one day after school. They never discovered the body. Alvin was never the same again – your mother neither.”

The revelation feels like a kick to the gut. The off-hand reference to my mother hits even harder, and I fight the urge to vomit – spitting a string of bile into the empty glass on the table instead.

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