Gutted gd-2

by Tony Black

  Mac brought over my pint of Guinness, a grim nod towards the paper, said, ‘They were quick.’

  ‘I tipped them off last night.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘Called them from the hill.’

  ‘Is that wise, Gus?’

  I looked up, put on my ‘since when was I wise?’ look.

  Mac came round from the bar and sat down beside me. ‘Right, c’mon, Dury, what the fuck are you up to here?’

  I took the head off my Guinness, tipped back the glass, said, ‘You ever hear of a bloke called Thomas Fulton?’

  Mac’s gaze went up to the ceiling. ‘Fulton, nah, can’t say it rings a bell, why?’

  ‘He’s our corpse. I know the name, just can’t place it.’

  ‘Common name.’

  ‘I know, I know. But that cop last night, when he saw who it was he was rattled, really rattled. He got on the blower, called someone, called this Tam bloke Moosey… You know that one?’

  ‘I knew a bookie once called Moosey, and there was a Moosey in the Riddrie Hilton as well. Haven’t heard hide nor hair of them for years.’

  ‘Will you ask about?’

  ‘Aye, sure…’ He sat back, took a sharp intake of breath. ‘But what’s the point in all this? You’ve got a business to run here; you don’t need this aggro.’

  I chugged back my pint, rose. ‘It’s got my interest.’

  Mac watched me as I put on my coat. He had a pained look on his face, brows pressed hard on his slit eyes. ‘Interest?’

  ‘Something’s not right.’

  He stood up. ‘So fucking what? It’s not your problem.’

  Funny thing was, I agreed. ‘I know. I just want to satisfy a… professional curiosity.’

  Chapter 5

  On the street I fell into near-shock: we had sunshine. It bounced off the cobbles and brought back memories of better days. Christ, I’d be listening out for birdsong next. I walked through the close skirting the Holy Wall and onto the main drag of Easter Road. The street was packed, builders mainly. The flats round here had been late to get dragged into the property-price surge. Now they’d shot-up twenty per cent in six months; not even the news of a credit crunch had put a halt to them. Our massive immigrant influx had put such a pressure on housing we were insulated. Least that’s what the estate agents were telling us.

  When I was a lad, this street rang with old women in headscarves, dashing between the little grocers’ and butchers’ shops. Now, not a one. Where did they suddenly go? And all those headscarves — must be enough of them lying about to sail Scotland to Australia.

  I caught the bus into the city’s mangled, tourist-drenched heart. I made a mental note: never again. The street seethed. Unctuous, lardass businessmen from Nowhere, Arkansas with wives who share a plastic surgeon with Joan Rivers in tow. All screaming out for McDonald’s and Starbucks.

  Why I’m slamming Americans, I don’t know. These days, they’re as likely to be Russian, Chinese, French — like it matters in our tragic little globalised world.

  My real interest was in what I’d stumbled across on Corstorphine Hill. And I knew who to ask about it; there was even a slight possibility of feathering my own nest at the same time. The money would be very handy; dire straits was the address next door to the Wall. I didn’t want to be the man who ran Col’s pub into the ground in under a year since he’d passed.

  I made my way to my former employers’ premises — oh yeah, once I had prospects, gym membership, the whole nine yards. The paper used to be based in one of the city’s old baronial buildings. They sold it, turned it into a hotel. The office is now housed in one of Edinburgh’s many chucked-up-in-five-minutes jobs. I hear if times get tough the building can be quickly converted into a shopping mall. Forget about the workers who spend all their waking lives in there; best to keep those options open. The way newspapers were going since the web came along, I could see a Portakabin on the horizon.

  As I walked in the front door I looked about for Auld Davey. He’d been the doorman since Adam was a boy. Okay, it was a wee while since I’d been in the place but things had changed — Davey’s desk was gone for a start. I looked about for someone. Nobody in sight. Then I spotted it: a touch screen on the wall.

  What the fuck?

  Davey had been carted, then.

  Departments were listed on a kind of spider-graph. I tapped ‘Editorial’. Faces from the newsdesk flashed up.

  ‘Holy crap, it’s like Press Gang!’

  To a one they were twenty-somethings. Did any of them have the shoulders for this job? I scrolled up the K-ladder, found the man I was after. My esteemed former editor, Mr Bacon, or Rasher as I still called him, was clinging to his job in a world of much younger, brighter, sparklier new recruits.

  I pressed his ‘call’ button.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, too quickly. The computer screen was still loading. Felt a bit stupid; checked over my shoulder instinctively. No one had clocked my mistake.

  An electronic beep came from the box, ‘connected’ flashed up on the screen. ‘Hello, Bacon here.’

  ‘Bingo.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  I tried again. ‘Ah, hello… just so chuffed to have this screen thing working.’

  A note of impatience crept into Rasher’s voice. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting the red carpet but perhaps a bit more of a welcome after that last scoop I handed you.’ I’d delivered the results of my previous case — and attendant political sleaze — in a package with a bow for Rasher.

  ‘Dury! By the cringe… I’ll buzz you.’

  ‘You what? I’m here at the front door. Don’t pull the old “I’ll call later” caper.’

  A huff. Loud one.

  ‘Dury, I mean the gate… I’ll buzz the gate open. Grab the lift to the top floor, I’ll get you in the newsroom.’

  Felt like a dope, not for the first time. ‘Right. Gotcha.’

  The lift was marked ‘elevator’. Made sense: Christ, we’re all so mid-Atlantic now, aren’t we? As I ascended I saw the place had changed more than I’d imagined. The biggest department, by a country mile, was advertising. There used to be a running joke between the sales force and the reporters that their work paid all the wages. The old joke never took into account the reason why people were buying the paper in the first place; it looked like the idea had filtered all the way up to the boardroom.

  The newsroom had been decimated. I remembered the days when this place hummed with activity. Now it was a sorry reflection of its former glory. The staff numbers must have been cut by fifty per cent, padded out a bit by a few kids chasing work experience. I shook my head.

  Rasher was in full flow, blasting a subeditor for a headline. ‘“ Heartless thieves”,’ he roared. ‘“ Heartless thieves”… Is there another type?’

  I crept up, said, ‘Well, there’s the thieves that took the Stone of Destiny.’

  Sniggers.

  Rasher turned, black-faced, ready to pounce. His mutton chop sideburns caught stray static as he creased his face. ‘Dury, I might have fucking known!’

  I’d got away with it. He offered a hand, said, ‘Man, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’ He’d put on a Sean Connery accent: ‘sight’ came out as ‘shite’. Like I could argue with that.

  ‘You’re still hanging in there, then… Bit thin on staff, no?’

  He raised an arm, circled a finger for effect. ‘You’ll see more than a few changes, Gus.’

  ‘Oh yeah, at least one or two.’ I could remember when newsrooms reeked with ciggie smoke; this lot, at a guess, were green-tea drinkers.

  ‘Would you like the tour?’

  I smiled, a wry one. ‘Eh, another time maybe… I’m, er, here on business.’

  Rasher stopped still. ‘Sounds ominous.’

  I knew my smile had slipped. ‘It is.’

  He led the way through the newsroom. Not one reporter looked away from their screen. It was like a call centre, or worse, a battery far
m. In my day reporters did their job on the streets. I wondered if this lot would last a day without Google.

  Rasher closed the door to his office, pulled out a chair, waved sit.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Coffee?’

  My lip twitched — a betrayal, what poker players call a ‘tell’.

  ‘Ah, of course,’ said Rasher. He dipped into a drawer in his desk, produced a bottle of Talisker. ‘A drop of this, perhaps.’

  He had my number.

  ‘So, you mentioned business…’

  That I had for him. In spades.

  ‘The Corstorphine Hill murder… what have you got on it?’

  Rasher leaned forward in his chair, looked uneasy. ‘You’re working that?’

  ‘Not really. I just got started.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘That tip-off you got last night?’

  ‘Bizarro — guy on the scene.’

  ‘Yeah… that was me.’

  He looked scoobied. ‘That was you? Who found the body?’

  I spilled. Told him about stumbling over the corpse; think I stumbled over a few of my words in the telling. The memory was chilling.

  Rasher beamed. ‘That’s a page-one exclusive.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I’ll give you a front-page byline for that… The story in your own words: “How I happened on the murder scene”. Fucking magic stuff.’ He was out of his chair, flashing headlines at me as he perched on the edge of his desk. ‘This is top flight, Gus. Jesus, thanks for bringing this in.’

  The idea of resurrecting my writing career sent my mind racing. What would my ex-wife make of that? It would be an eye-opener for Debs all right.

  I played Rasher, said, ‘I’m actually after information.’

  ‘Fire away, whatever I can do to help flesh out the article.’

  The word ‘flesh’ sent a jolt through me.

  ‘I picked up the name of the victim. I take it plod hasn’t let you know yet.’

  Rasher sat down, leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. ‘I spoke to the wee arsewipe this morning… Didn’t give me a thing, except that “waiting to notify next of kin” shite.’

  ‘Johnstone?’

  ‘That’s him. Right cheeky wee cunt — thinks he’s doing you a favour when he’s really just doing a job we pay him for.’

  ‘I met him last night. He doesn’t know I have the name.’

  Rasher opened his palms. ‘Well, I’m all ears… and it stays here.’

  He didn’t need to add that last bit — I knew Rasher wouldn’t run the name until plod had released it. I said, ‘Thomas Fulton.’

  Rasher leaned back, tucked his hands behind his head, ‘The Moose.’

  ‘You know this guy?’

  He was up again, pacing about the room. The static from the cheap carpet tiles set his sideburns twitching once more. ‘You don’t remember the skinny wee runt, Gus?’

  ‘I thought I’d heard the name.’

  Rasher picked up the scoosh bottle, topped himself up then offered me a refill. I nodded.

  ‘Moosey was the one the police had down for the Crawford kid’s mauling.’

  I came up blank. ‘The what?’

  ‘The kid that got attacked by a pit bull. They reckoned it was Moosey’s dog… Never managed to pin it on him, though.’

  I twisted round to face him. He’d dropped his pitch, found a reverent tone, was enough to capture my interest. ‘Why not?’

  Rasher sat back down. He exhaled slowly as he placed his glass down in front of him, ‘Moosey was one of Rab Hart’s crew.’

  ‘Shit.’ Much as I tried to keep my nose clean, stay away from the city’s knuckle-breakers and pugs, there was one name everybody knew. Of a bad lot, Rab Hart was the worst.

  ‘Aye, shit’s about the strength of it.’ Rasher took a deep swig on his whisky. ‘Things are very lively in that outfit right now.’

  ‘Lively?’

  ‘Well, I say lively — chaos would be more like it. You know Rab’s inside…’

  I didn’t.

  ‘Facing a ten stretch for counterfeiting.’ He paused. ‘Ralph Lauren shirts. He was yanked with a warehouse full of them. There was a raid; some polis got battered.’

  ‘So who’s running Rab’s firm?’

  ‘He is, from Saughton Prison. Only, from what I hear there’s been some jostling to take over in his absence.’

  ‘Not folk I’d want to be jostling with — could get nasty.’

  Rasher nodded. ‘Aye, oh aye, especially if Rab wins his appeal.. be a few heads cracked then.’

  The words made me tense in my seat — did I want my head to be one of them?

  ‘When’s his appeal?’ I said.

  Rasher put down his glass, rubbed hands together. ‘Any day now.’

  Chapter 6

  Spent a couple of hours on Rasher’s article. Can’t say it was my best work — was a bit ring-rusty. But still, it felt good to be back doing the do. I even allowed myself to entertain the idea that I might be resurrecting my career, and all that might entail. Had even fooled myself with a notion of justice — not for Moosey, who looked like the worst kind of criminal trash, but because I could see something wasn’t right here.

  The way plod had behaved was off for sure. I was convinced Jonny Johnstone was all needle; those boys have my card marked, but I didn’t like the kip of him. I wanted to have all my ducks in a row if he decided to take an interest in me.

  Rasher said he’d get one of his office juniors to pull some files off the system for me, old newspaper cuttings detailing the Crawford child’s killing, and some stuff on Edinburgh’s answer to Al Capone — Rab Hart. He saw a series of articles, with a big photo byline; I was a name again. Nearly.

  I looked out of the cafe window: an endless trail of backpacks, all shapes and sizes, traipsing up and down the streets. They’d stop, stare up at buildings on the sniff for a plaque or anything that would give resonance to their visit. A close. A pend. A wynd. All endless opportunities for photographs. I swear, I’ve seen these people on their knees photographing the cobbles.

  I was waiting for my mate Hod. Since his property business had taken off, he’d decided there was more to life than sitting behind a desk. He’d appointed managers, become an adrenaline junkie for a while. Now he was bored again, thought I was a route to some action. Truth told, I was glad of the help. He’d jumped at the chance to track down the Crawfords for me, do some snooping.

  There was a CD being pumped out in the cafe, Lennon covers by contemporary artists. I caught the first one on the way in — Lenny Kravitz doing ‘Cold Turkey’… Not for the first time, I thought. U2 had grabbed ‘Instant Karma!’ by the bollocks; sounded painful. Now the Black Eyed Peas were murdering ‘Power to the People’.

  I’d had enough. Muttered, ‘Is nothing sacred any more?’

  ‘Dream the fuck on.’ It was Hod.

  ‘What’s that on your face?’

  ‘Trying for a beard. I hear it looks distinguished.’

  ‘Dishevelled more like.’

  He took that where it was intended, on the chin; changed subject. ‘I’ve checked out the Crawfords. They’ve got a place on Ann Street.’

  I knew it well — on the edge of Stockbridge; the pretentious called it New Town.

  ‘Good for them.’

  ‘Did you know they had another kid?’

  I didn’t. But it interested me no end when he spilled the details before me. The Crawfords had a lad about the same age as the yobs on the hill. Hod had pictures on his camera phone. Showed me a skelf of a youth. They were poor quality.

  ‘I can’t place him. They all look alike these days,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, fucking Bay City Rollers rejects. Look at that hair: it’s in a side-sweep.’

  He wasn’t wrong. ‘It’s the fashion.’

  ‘Y’what? The fashion’s to look like Archie fucking Macpherson?’

  ‘Would you prefer Arthur Montford and those jackets?’r />
  We laughed it up.

  Hod said, ‘You don’t think our boyo there could be one of those yobs off the hill.’

  I looked closer. ‘Well, he’s in the right gear.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense, though, y’know…’ Hod brushed at the stubble on his chin, turned away to look out the window. ‘Him coming from a good family.’

  There were more tourists passing by.

  ‘Does anything make sense, ever?’

  He didn’t answer me. I knew where he was coming from. This kid was up to no fucking good.

  Hod spoke, got agitated, brought down his finger on the tabletop. The salt-shaker trembled. ‘The guy who we’re told was responsible for killing this kid’s sister turns up gutted like a fish and he’s maybe yards away on the night in question… Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  I looked at him, shook my head. ‘I’m thinking the beard’s not gonna work, Hod.’

  He stood up. ‘Fuck off. Ready to rumble?’

  I took out my mobi. ‘Can you put those pictures on my phone? They might be useful.’

  ‘Sure — I’ll Bluetooth it.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever… Here it is. Do your stuff.’

  Hod fiddled with the settings, sent the pictures, then we got moving. At the door he turned. ‘One more thing… Joseph Crawford, the kid’s father, he was a lawyer.’

  ‘ Was a lawyer?’

  ‘He’s a judge now.’

  ‘You mean we’re about to doorstep a judge?’

  ‘Thought it worth mentioning.’

  They say Ann Street was the Queen Mum’s favourite street in Edinburgh. When she was on her way to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, so the story goes, she would always ask her chauffeur to make a detour down Ann Street. She loved the Georgian splendour of the architecture; reminded her of a bygone era. I could do without it myself. Reminded me of what had always been wrong with this city and the country in general — the haves having far too fucking much at the expense of the have-nots.

  I checked out the Crawfords’ place — a carefully manicured lawn and, what was that, topiary? I shuddered at the thought. Their one concession to conspicuous parading of their wealth, however, was a silver-grey 5 Series Beemer, just pulling in. A 5 Series says one thing: ‘still on the up’. Not quite a 7 Series; that says ‘I’ve arrived’. A car like this, you have a ways to go. Gave me some room to negotiate.