Gutted gd-2

by Tony Black

  Ann Street’s front gardens are what can only be described as elegant. Whenever I see this kind of finery in the city I always think of Stevenson, the creator of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He grew up round this way and managed to weave a story that summed up Edinburgh’s dichotomy nicely: beautiful on the outside, rotten on the inside.

  I felt a twitch begin on my shoulder blades as I took the gate of the Crawfords’ home. The working-class programming told me I should be doffing cap and trudging to the rear of the property. The twitch migrated, set itself up in my chest as my heart rate increased.

  I pushed the buzzer, chucked my tab into the rose bushes.

  No one answered. I pressed again.

  Movement.

  Slow footsteps towards the window. I could see a white shape flit behind the glass, then the door was opened an inch or two.

  ‘Hello, Mark,’ I said.

  ‘You can fuck off.’

  ‘Nice words… Bet the neighbours adore you.’

  He widened the gap a little, spat at me. I watched him step back and try to slam the wood in my face but I was ahead of him, had my shoulder in place to take the weight and propelled myself forward. The door slipped from Mark’s hands, slammed into the wall.

  ‘Butterfingers,’ I said.

  He watched me for a moment then backed up the hall, balling fists.

  I stepped inside. Closed the door behind me, sang at him, ‘I think we’re alone now…’

  He lunged. I saw the swing of his heavy right hook and stepped in to block it with my forearm. I had my own right at the ready, sledged him in the gut. He dropped to the floor, gasping. The young yob curled up, taking a fair share of Persian rug with him. I grabbed him by the collar, raised him.

  ‘Get in there, y’daft wee cunt.’

  He found it impossible to straighten. He walked like Groucho Marx into the living room, wheezing and spluttering. I put the sole of my boot on his arse and forced him onto the couch. He curled up again, still gasping for air.

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at, laddie?’ I said. ‘That was the most pathetic put-up I’ve ever seen…’

  ‘Fuck off.’ He could only manage a whisper.

  ‘I mean, running with the Sighthill massive and that’s the best you can do? I’m ashamed for you.’ I took out another Bensons, sparked up. As I walked about the place Mark kept his eyes on me. ‘I mean, what did you think you were up to there, Mark? Playing the hard man, eh? Running with the young crew to get closer to Moosey, and maybe, just maybe, the chance to pay him back for what he did to… Christine?’

  The mention of his sister forced him to sit upright, spew words: ‘You don’t know a thing, nothing. You’re just a washed-up fucking alkie who’s got nothing better to do with his days than go about noising other folk up.’

  I laughed. ‘Been doing your homework on me, Mark… Wise. I’ve been doing mine on you too. It turns out that dog on the hill, one I rescued, it’s registered to you.’

  He said nothing.

  I pressed him. ‘Is that an official “no comment”? Doesn’t look very good, Mark. How do you think the police would take that news?’

  He rose, shook his fist. ‘The police think you’re the one.’

  I drew on my tab. ‘Now what would give them that idea? Your father, perhaps?’ I let that suggestion sting, watched him for a reaction. There was none. He stood before me, trembling.

  ‘What were you doing up there, Mark? The night Moosey was killed. The man who they say killed Christine, little Chrissy, your sister.. ’

  He ran at me with his hands out. I stepped aside and booted him in the knees. He clattered into the fireguard, brought down an ornamental poker. He curled on the floor again, clutching his legs.

  ‘Mark, I’m not fucking messing with you… Two men are dead, there’s money missing, and some serious people are unhappy about the whole fucking situation. Now, believe me, I might just be the best friend you have. Come clean and tell me what you know or you’re gonna be going the same way as Moosey and Tupac.’

  He gritted his teeth. They were among the whitest teeth I’d ever seen — made me realise just how young this lad was. I knelt down, put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Mark, I mean it… tell me what you were doing up there. Did you lead those lads on? Did you tell them about the money Moosey was carrying, was that it?’

  He writhed on the floor, teeth still gritted. ‘You don’t know a fucking thing — you’re just a dumb fucking alkie.’

  ‘Mark, I know about the fifty grand. I know Moosey was carrying it that night and I know what the kind of crew you were running with will do for fifty grand.’

  ‘You don’t know fuck all.’

  He started to get up. I rose with him, supported his elbow; he snatched it away. ‘Moosey got what he fucking deserved, he killed my sister.’ He bawled at me, ‘He killed my fucking sister!’

  His nose was inches from my face. I could see the tears spilling from his eyes as he roared, ‘That man killed my fucking sister!’

  I grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him. ‘Mark, tell me what happened on the hill. Who killed Moosey that night?’

  I was shaking him hard as the door to the living room was flung open and Katrina Crawford walked in. She was holding two heavily laden carrier bags in each hand, swung them before her and dumped them on the couch. She crossed the distance between us and forcibly snatched her son from my clutches.

  ‘Leave him be,’ she yelled, ‘he’s just a boy.’

  I felt my brow roll up to the ceiling; I flung up my hands. ‘I have this boy of yours on the murder scene… He was so stupid he registered his bloody dog!’ I grabbed him by the collar, spun him to face me. He was still gritting his teeth. ‘Tell her, tell her about the dog… Tell her how you didn’t even have the marbles to register it under a false address. Makes me think you’re just not cut out for the life of crime, Mark.’

  His mother manhandled him out of the room, led him upstairs. I followed. When she got halfway up the wide staircase, Katrina Crawford turned. ‘I bought that dog for him… and I want it back.’

  I laughed, ‘You bought it…’

  Mark looked at his mother, wondering where this was all going. She spoke: ‘I bought the dog, it’s my property. Are you going to give it back?’

  I smiled. ‘Not a fucking chance.’ I turned for the door, said, ‘Tell the police. Maybe they’ll haul us both in for a chat, Mrs Crawford.’

  She turned her head slightly, removed a hand from her son’s shoulder and tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear. I thought she might say something but she merely opened her mouth, almost imperceptibly, then closed it again.

  ‘Och, you don’t like that idea,’ I said. ‘Wonder why.’

  Chapter 32

  My docs were pounding off the pavement. I lit out before I was being cable-tied by plod in the Crawfords’ front yard. I could see it coming, this lot were playing for keeps. It was looking as if I was up against more than a connected family. No one acts that arrogantly in the face of damning evidence unless they’ve got some serious protection.

  At the end of Ann Street I ran into the jolly-hockey-sticks brigade. A crowd of students, chinless Home Counties types, Oxbridge rejects up here to drink our bars dry of gin at mummy and daddy’s expense. They were acting up, playing slapsie and yaw-yawing at each swipe as it landed. As I waded through them I caught sight of a bloke tending his garden. He was in his element, lapping up their antics. It was the kind of metaphor for what Scotland had become that I didn’t want to see. I thought: This life I could not get used to. There might be comfort in reward, but what you had to sell to reach this level I wasn’t putting on the market. Ever.

  A north wind T-boned me at the junction. Fastened my coat just as a Volvo estate pulled up. It was Katrina Crawford.

  ‘I didn’t mean to make you agitated,’ she said.

  I almost laughed — when was I never? Said, ‘Oh no?’

  She scanned the junction. A Tesco home delivery driver was drumming
his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for her to pull out. ‘I’d really like to talk to you if that’s okay, Mr Dury.’

  ‘What about?’

  The driver sounded his horn. The judge’s wife turned down the corner of her mouth, waved him away impatiently. ‘Would you like to get in?’

  I didn’t answer that one; walked round the front of the car and opened the passenger’s door. I slumped in the seat and eyed her cautiously.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  We drove through the city, avoiding the main thoroughfares; it was a big car but she handled it effortlessly. Small chat was all I got from her, nonsense about the state of the roads since the trams work had gone ahead. I wanted to pull on the handbrake, say Cut the shit, but I sat back and observed her. Katrina Crawford wasn’t the type to show nerves. Likely she’d had too much practice at her New Town dinner parties to be fazed by a near-jakey like me.

  She pulled the Volvo up outside the Parliament, took a slot in the car bays in Holyrood Park. ‘It seems nice out. Shall we go and sit by the swan pond?’

  ‘Okay.’

  I played it cool, as cool as I could be. I wanted to grab her paisley-swirl pashmina, tighten it till she told me what the fuck was going on with her son and the murder of Tam Fulton, why I was being put in the frame for it and just what kind of a mug did she take me for?

  As we walked through the park she yabbered; more small chat. ‘It’s so lovely here. They want to build on all the green belt now, though.’

  ‘Oh, I think Her Majesty wouldn’t be too chuffed with her view of the Craigs being interrupted. This patch of green’s safe enough… Some people in Edinburgh you just don’t mess with.’

  She didn’t register a hit; politely smiled. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘If it was up to me I’d be building on all the golf courses. Not that we need more developments in Edinburgh, but we do need fewer golf courses… everywhere. Do you play golf, Mrs Crawford?’

  A wide smile. ‘Yes, a little. You can call me Katrina.’

  We schlepped on, sticking to the path. Had a feeling we were being followed but there was no sign of it. I hadn’t met the plod yet that could manage to tail me without making himself known, so I put it down to paranoia, or the fact that I was getting jumpy.

  My mind had been on Moosey. Swung the pendulum from being pissed off for getting me wrapped up in another below-radar city killing to something approaching sympathy. The more I imagined what must have been going on, the more I saw Moosey as a pathetic pawn.

  Katrina took a seat on a bench by the side of the loch. ‘Here will do.’ A smile; fine lines formed at the sides of her mouth. She put her bag over her shoulder, asked me to sit.

  ‘I’d sooner stand.’

  She didn’t respond, looked ahead.

  The wind came sharp below the Craigs, whistling down over Saint Margaret’s Loch and smacking the senses. Made me feel like a drink, said, ‘Why don’t you tell me about Christine.’

  She lost her composure, seemed less communicative. The strap of her bag fell from her shoulder. She watched it rest on the crook of her arm but didn’t move to correct it. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

  I wasn’t either. I felt an inward wince that I’d raised the death of this woman’s daughter so abruptly. ‘I’m sorry… it must still be very painful for you.’

  A weak smile. ‘No, it’s all right… I mean, yes, it’s still a fresh wound but I can talk about her. I loved my daughter.’

  She seemed to suddenly tense up; her jawline firmed and tight muscles showed in her neck.

  I said, ‘I understand.’

  ‘Do you?’

  She turned to face me but I couldn’t hold her gaze. I dropped my eyes and ferreted for my cigarettes. I lit a tab, offered, but got a shake of the head.

  ‘We all know about loss, don’t we?’ I said.

  ‘After a certain age, Mr Dury… Christine was three years old when she was murdered.’ Katrina crossed her legs away from me, watched as a van from the SSPCA pulled up. Two workers got out and headed for the swans. It was business as usual whilst we delved into this woman’s hurt.

  ‘The man who killed Christine was a common criminal. How can you defend him?’ She put the emphasis on ‘common’. I didn’t like the way she used the word.

  ‘I’m not defending him. But if I was, I’d remind you murder is murder, Katrina… Your husband knows the law of this land better than me. Hasn’t he pointed that out to you?’

  She looked offended, eyes widening. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by that remark.’

  I put a foot on the bench, leaned over her. ‘Well, let me spell it out for you… I saw Mark at the murder scene and I wasn’t the only one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The police had a witness, an old derelict who was living on the hill, who saw Mark there too. I found him and he was ready to make a statement when he was run down in the street like a dog. Someone killed him, and I’ve good reason to believe that someone is connected to your son.’

  She turned on me; her eyes darkened. She spat, ‘That’s crap!’

  I let down my foot, flicked the ash from my tab, said, ‘I think you and I both know it isn’t, Katrina. I think you and your husband should think very carefully about how you are protecting Mark.’ I showed her my back, started off in the direction I’d come from. The SSPCA lot had been joined by a pumping lorry from Scottish Water.

  ‘Wait,’ called out Katrina.

  I halted.

  She came running. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  I looked down the road, then at my watch, said, ‘Time’s running out for your son… He’s up to his neck in the murder of two men and one way or another the truth is going to come out.’

  Katrina lost some colour from her face, dropped her gaze, fiddled with the rings on her fingers, said, ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘Well, let’s see.’

  As I walked to the edge of the road I was stopped by one of the SSPCA guys. ‘Got a light, pal?’

  I produced a box of matches, handed them over. ‘What’s with the loch?’

  ‘Some idiot’s dumped a load of car batteries in there. Killing off all the swans it is.’

  Over his shoulder I could see a colleague bagging up a dead swan. Said, ‘Another casualty?’

  ‘That’s the fifth one… They’d all be dead if it wasn’t for that.’ He pointed to the palace. ‘Can’t have Herself looking out on piles of dead swans. That would never do.’

  Chapter 33

  I know why my words with Katrina Crawford dredged all of this up, but I didn’t want to face it. Sometimes, though, there’s just no escaping the past. I guess there’s just no way I’m getting free of this stuff, ever…

  We can’t afford anything flash, so it’s a register office do. Hod’s helping out: hired the kilts, put Debs in a decent dress. Nothing fancy — she doesn’t need it. I can hardly stop staring at her as she appears, walking down the row of cheap plastic chairs they’re still laying out in a makeshift aisle. They play ‘Teenage Kicks’ by the Undertones, our wee joke; it’s a moment like no other.

  We’re too young for this. Everyone says so.

  ‘Should be playing the field, Gus,’ Hod tells me. He’s done this a million and one times already.

  ‘Debs is all I ever wanted,’ I tell him back. I see it doesn’t register. It’s my first inkling that this day isn’t exactly blessed.

  My heart’s beating so hard I wonder if it’ll burst out my chest and onto the floor. As Debs reaches my side she smiles. Not a big smile. Not even a natural smile. Nervous. She’s trembling. I don’t know if I’m allowed to look, never mind touch her, but I want to scoop her up in my arms and say, It’s okay. It’ll all be okay.

  I freeze as the registrar speaks. She’s an old woman, steel-grey hair and specs. Small round ones like John Lennon’s. I like them because the fashion right now is for great big ones in bright red or green. She looks — what’s the word? — schoolmarm
ish.

  It’s a joy to hear Debs say ‘I do’.

  I’m so choked I can hardly manage to get my own words out.

  When the ceremony’s over there’re calls for Debs to throw her little bouquet into the crowd. She doesn’t want to, says, ‘I’d like to hold on to it.’

  It’s only a?1.99 job from the garage at the supermarket.

  ‘Well, don’t do it then. Keep it,’ I say.

  ‘That wouldn’t be fair.’

  I know this is Debs all over — putting others first. She turns her back, throws the little bunch over her shoulder. I’m so glad to see the scramble for the flowers, the smiles and the heartfelt joy. I look at Debs and she’s smiling too. Maybe everything will work out okay, I think.

  Hod has a camera. We go into the street. We have sunshine, a rarity.

  An old woman wrapped in a blue scarf walks past and puts her hand on Deborah’s elbow, says, ‘My, you’re a beautiful bride, love.’

  Debs smiles, thanks her.

  I see cars slowing down to check us all in our best gear, happy. Rice and confetti go up and Hod hollers on us to get in a row in front of the register office.

  We line up; there’s joking and fun all about. Debs reveals her garter; people applaud.

  ‘Gus, what’s worn under that kilt?’

  That I don’t reveal. An old joke: ‘Nothing, it’s all in perfect working order!’

  Hod clicks away. I imagine we’ll have quite an album. I’m growing used to the idea that we’ve made the right decision. Even after all that’s happened, all the pain. The heartache. The tears. The bloodshed. I forget the days before, when Debs begged her parents to give her another chance, to come to the wedding, give their blessing. I forget what I know people will be saying about why we’re here. We want to show the ones who said we were just stupid kids. To show the ones who said I’d amount to nothing. To show the ones who called Debs a silly wee cow. A hing-oot who got what she deserved.

  We made a mistake. We know it. But this is putting it right, isn’t it? This is showing them.