Last Orders (a Gus Dury crime thriller)

by Black, Tony

  An original Gus Dury story by Tony Black

  Copyright © Tony Black 2013

  Tony Black has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be hired, resold, lent out, or in any way circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding, cover or electronic format other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on any subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Scotland in 2013 by Pusher Press.

  All similarities to actual characters — living or dead — is purely coincidental.

  Cover image & design: Jim Divine

  www.tonyblack.net

  LAST ORDERS

  When he receives a mysterious letter on expensively embossed paper, reluctant investigator Gus Dury decides to take the case, if for no other reason than he needs the cash. But there's something about his well-heeled client, Callum Urquhart, that doesn't sit right with Dury.

  Urquhart has travelled across the country to find his missing teenage daughter — who definitely doesn't want to be found. As Dury gets closer to locating Caroline, what he uncovers is a web of lies and deceit and some painful realisations that lead back to his own tangled past.

  Last Orders is a 14,000 word novella from the author of the Random House UK Gus Dury series: Paying for It, Gutted, Loss, and Long Time Dead.

  Praise for the Gus Dury series by Tony Black:

  'Tony Black is the latest of the seemingly unending stream of good Scottish crime writers who have in common the ability to portray vividly the underbelly of Scottish inner-city criminality ... The dialogue fizzes and the whole is suffused with black humour'

  -The Times

  'Tony Black's first novel hits the ground running, combining a sympathetic ear for the surreal dialogue of the dispossessed with a portrait of the belly of a city painted in the blackest of humour'

  -The Guardian

  'If you're a fan of the Ian Rankins, Denise Minas and Irvine Welshes of this world, this is most certainly one for you'

  -The Scotsman

  'The enigmatic Dury continues to be the punk rocker of the Scottish crime scene — anarchic, rebellious and never afraid to shove his Doc Martens where they're not wanted'

  -Daily Record

  'As washed-up private detectives go, Gus Dury is compelling — he's as hard as any criminal and twice as self-destructive'

  -London Evening Standard

  'Ripping, gutsy prose and a witty wreck of a protagonist makes this another exceptionally compelling, bright and even original thriller'

  -Daily Mirror

  'Tony Black is my favourite British crime writer and Gus Dury the genre's most interesting protagonist. Like his previous books, Loss has the power, style and street swagger that makes most of his contemporaries a little bland by comparison'

  -Irvine Welsh, author of Trainspotting

  'Tony Black has written two of the finest crime novels to come out of the UK in the past twenty years and I'm willing to bet that in twenty years, Paying for It and Gutted will be in the top ten of any crime list. But now comes Loss ... Phew-oh ... It's like having yer ass kicked and yer heart shrived simultaneously. What a privilege to watch a master writer achieve everything you'd hoped for and then some'

  -Ken Bruen, author of London Boulevard

  'Powerful, focused, and intense ... and then it gets better. Get your money down early on this young man — he's dead serious and deadly accurate'

  -Andrew Vachss, author of Hard Candy

  Last Orders

  a Gus Dury story

  by Tony Black

  'We spend our lives in flight from all that is painful and real.'

  -Paul Sayer, The God Child

  I thought I'd seen it all. Maybe that's why I couldn't bring myself to open my eyes. I was lying in bed at my Easter Road flat-cum-kip house when I heard the postie rattle the slot and drop some mail onto the mat below. I had a thought to test one eye on the clock but then routine, the old leveller, kicked in. The days of posties showing before 2 p.m. in this city were well over so the only question kicking me out of bed during daylight hours was who the fuck could be interested in writing to me?

  I shifted onto my side, provoked an ear-splitting cough that sent knives stabbing at my lower back. My first thought was to reach for a smoke, but I could see the soft-pack of Marlboros crumpled on the floor by the scuffed foot of the dresser. I was all out of luck again.

  It was cold. I felt the chill from the loose, condensation-wet windowpanes on my bare shoulders. A shiver passed through me — my mother would have said someone was walking over my grave and the way my chest felt I wouldn't have argued the toss; I could already be in it.

  I was rubbing the outside of my arms, trying to suggest some warmth into my pasty-white Scottish limbs as I caught sight of a mirror to mirror reflection. My heart started as I imagined the image was of someone else in the room with me. When sense returned I realised the door to the wardrobe had my back on display as I clocked myself in the dresser mirror. I was shocked by how prominent the gnarled length of my spine looked, sticking out at sharp angles, like a bust bike-chain lying twisted in the gutter. I turned and took in the toast-rack chest and the full hit of high-ribs exposed like tiger's stripes down my sides.

  'Jesus, Dury ...' I mouthed towards the gaunt, coughing cadaver in front of me. 'I've seen more fat on a chip.'

  I reached for the Wranglers hanging on the chair's back and slotted myself into them. They felt loose, the old leather belt settling on the last notch. I couldn't face the prospect of catching another glimpse of myself, so covered up fast with an old Nike hoodie and headed for the door.

  There had been a time, back in the day, when I had a dog that would have been wagging his tail at the sight of me. The thought of the rescue dog I'd christened Usual — a name he picked up at the pub — dug at my heart. My ex-wife had claimed him; said I wasn't fit to look after myself, never mind an animal. I couldn't argue with that.

  There were two letters on the mat. I opted first for the manila oblong that spelled business-post, or worse, a bill. I liked to get bad news out the way. I ripped into the top and tore out the white letter; an NHS logo was the first thing to grip me. It wasn't a demand for cash, I was relieved at that, but I could afford this demand less:

  'Blah, blah ...' I read, 'requests your attendance at the Hypertension Clinic.'

  My blood pressure was through the roof. The result of a damaged liver and a scarred heart. Apparently, the letter stated, I needed bi-monthly checks at the clinic to make sure I wasn't going to cark it.

  'Christ, no ...'

  I scrunched the paper in my hand. If there was one thing in the world I couldn't handle it was hospitals. I had too many bad memories of seeing the ones I had loved there; and they weren't out-weighed by the good memories of seeing the ones I definitely didn't love going there, usually at speed.

  I threw the ball of the letter at the wall, it bounced back and rolled its way down the carpet towards the bedroom.

  'Fucking Hypertension Clinic ...'

  The second missive was a mystery. It was the same shape as the first, but a long white envelope this time. I checked the franking over the stamp and recognised it came from East Ayrshire.

  'Burns Country ...' I was scoobied, knew not a soul there.

  I tore in. The letter inside was on cream paper, thick and water-marked, obviously expensive. The hand looked careful, not quite copperplate but in the ball-park.

  I felt my pulse quicken as I read
. Don't know why, maybe it was something about the tone. If I had to go for a tag, I'd say: reverential.

  The opener was a Dear Mr Dury — couldn't say I liked that. When I see the honorific in there, I start thinking someone's confused me with my father. The bold Cannis Dury was no man to be confused with.

  I read on:

  I hope you will forgive the impertinence of my enquiry but your name was forwarded to me as a man who may be able to assist in my most desperate hour ...

  I rolled eyes to the ceiling. It was the Help me Obi-Wan, you're my only hope line again. This was happening more and more now. My reputation going before me. I'd been a good hack, handled some big stories but that was behind me. How I got lumbered with the investigator for hire rep was something I couldn't work out. Life was funny that way, though. Man plans, God laughs.

  ... I will, of course, meet all necessary expenses and you will not find me ungenerous in this regard. I shall spare you the formality of details at this juncture and await your telephone call at my Edinburgh Hotel.

  He was staying at The Balmoral. The only place in town that stationed a fawning, kilted, Glengarry-wearing twat on the door. 24-7 this stereotypical shortbread-tin evacuee tugged forelock for the likes of Sean Connery and the dour millionairess who wrote about that bloody boy wizard.

  'Elegant slumming, it has to be said.'

  I looked at the cream-coloured paper once more, felt confused enough to scratch my head but resisted. I didn't know whether to be petrified by the haughty tone or flattered by the potential Wonka ticket in my mitt.

  I drew a still breath, exhaled. The interior of the flat was so cold I could see the white cloud escaping my lungs.

  The telephone number for The Balmoral was written beside the name — Urquhart. It didn't ring any bells, but there were a few strings of my curiosity being tugged. I trousered the letter and made my way back to the bedroom to get suited and booted. There couldn't be any harm in a call and it wasn't like I was flat-out, or even had something else to do.

  * * * *

  I'd flung my Crombie over the back of the couch the night before; as I retrieved it now I could see it was covered in all the dust and crap that the hoover didn't reach. I needed a coat-brush. Fuck it, I needed a hoover. The coat looked just the job, for a jakey; as I tied a scarf around my neck I could already sense the stares. Ones that said 'low-life'. There was a time I might have been rattled, cared even. Not now. I pointed my Docs in the direction of the door and got moving.

  We had some weather, the usual Edinburgh kind. If it wasn't rain, it was the threat thereof. I looked up to the grey skies and crossed Easter Road between the gridlocked traffic. I was headed for the Coopers Rest pub, couldn't say it held any special attraction for me. It was a Hibs bar through and through and, being painted green and white, didn't wear its credentials lightly. I'd been drawn to it lately because of the actions of a cheeky Jambo roadworker. He'd set the winning Scottish Cup scoreline — Hearts' 5-1 drubbing of Hibs — into the tarmac with a mosaic of chalk chips. I wasn't a Hearts supporter myself but I was a big fan of chutzpah in all its guises.

  A slow-blinking old bluenose was hocking up a dose of phlegm for the pavement, directing it carefully with a hanging drip from his drooping lower lip. I could see this taking off, like the Heart of Midlothian on the Royal Mile. We'd have Japanese tourists filming themselves here before long. I smiled at the irony on my way through the door.

  There were one or two old soaks propping up the bar, hardy enough old boys with tractor tracks cut in their brows. One of them had a nose you could open a bottle with, a heavy physique that had once been impressive but had now gone south. He was supping a pint of Tartan and tapping the top of a pack of Berkeley Superkings that made him a metronome for the smoking ban. I ordered up a pint.

  'Guinness, please ...' My eyes flicked onto auto-pilot and chased the line of optics all the way down to the low-flying birdie. 'And a double Grouse chaser.'

  The barman nodded, said, 'You're as well hung for a sheep as a lamb.'

  I didn't answer. The early moments upon entering a Scottish pub are a telling time. If you give away too much, you're liable to be engaged in chat. I was in no mood to pass the time of day about the state of the nation and the Tories' role in robbing us all blind or what seventies telly-star was going to be next on the sex-offenders register.

  I took my drinks and headed for the corner of the bar. The pint of dark settled a craving, greeting me like an old friend. I was eyeing the wee goldie when I heard the hinges of the front door sing out.

  A middle-aged man, tallish and heavy-set, stood in the lee of the door and looked unsure of himself. He was wearing a wax jacket, mustard-coloured corduroys and brogues. His type have a name for the colour: ox-blood. I was wearing Docs, same colour, but I call them cherry. Go figure.

  I put the bead on him, knew at once he was Urquhart. My hand went up, slowly.

  He nodded, then looked upward. I could tell he wanted to bolt, turn on his heels, throw up his hands. In the days of Empire, I'd be flogged for failing to look the part. That's when I noticed the tweed cap in his hands. He twisted it like he was wringing the neck of a pheasant on some country estate. Everything about him boiled my piss. I'm working class, c'mon, it's in the contract.

  He strolled over; his voice was high and full of affectation. 'Mr Dury, I have come a long way and ...'

  'Stop right there.'

  His eyes ducked into his head.

  'Call me Gus. I hear the mister in there, I think you're after money, or worse.'

  He looked to the ceiling again. Huffed. Was that a tut? I let it slide. I sensed his distaste at the way I talked, not my accent, though that was bad enough — heavy on the Leith — what got him was what riled teachers in school, made them say, 'The temerity!'

  I motioned him to sit; the barman brought over a bottle of mineral water that Urquhart had ordered and placed it on the table with a few coins of change beside it.

  I eyeballed him as he pocketed the money; could tell we weren't going to get along, we were too close to polar opposites. I said, 'Your letter didn't tell me much.'

  He checked himself; two yellow tombstones bit down on his lower lip. His pallor was grey as concrete. His reply came slowly, 'I believe you are a man of some ... reputation.'

  I allowed myself a blink. But no more. I feared if I gave in to temptation I'd be exposed as a man laughing himself up.

  He went on, 'You have, I understand, some background.'

  'Background?' I was scoobied.

  'I took the liberty of, oh what's the demotic? Checking you out.'

  The hand again. I blocked his words. I was acting out old habits. 'And how did you manage that?'

  He shifted in his seat, started to unzip the front of his wax jacket. As he became more settled, he removed his scarf, revealing a dog collar. Suddenly my previous question lost its relevance.

  'You're Church?'

  'I am, yes, Church of Scotland ... that makes a difference?'

  The short answer was, 'Yes', the easy one was, 'Should it?'

  He said: 'That would be an ecumenical matter.'

  I picked up my pint again, supped, said, 'I believe you're right. Perhaps we should skip it and get down to business.'

  'Indeed.'

  His full name was Callum Urquhart. A Church of Scotland minister from the East Ayrshire town of Cumnock. The place had once been a thriving mining town, I knew Keir Hardie had been a union organiser there once, but that was quite some time before Thatcher got her hooks into the miners and started to dismantle 'society'.

  Urquhart seemed agitated and eager to offer an explanation. 'I'm a little unsettled,' he said.

  'How come?'

  'I have what you might call, no good reason to be here.'

  'Should I get my coat?'

  'No. No. Please, if you'll indulge me, Mr Dury.'

  I raised brows. 'Gus.'

  'Of course ... Gus.'

  He played with the lid on his mineral water,
Highland Spring, still. Sparkling just too exciting an option. 'I have reason, but in no way can it be described as good.' He sighed, 'I have a daughter and she is no longer contactable through the proper channels.'

  The proper channels ... he spoke of his daughter like he was some ponytailed ad-man at a PowerPoint presentation.

  He went on. 'I'm afraid, she has, erm, well ... it's rather embarrassing, gone missing.'

  Embarrassing? Somehow, that didn't seem the right word. A daughter gone from home was a cause for sleepless nights, not a cause for losing face. I eyed him cautiously over my pint, gave him some more rope.

  'She got herself mixed up with the wrong crowd some time ago. My parish is a very poor community, we once had some settled prosperity but it's long gone and I'm afraid in its wake came some rather extreme views.'

  I knew pit communities had it tough, they lost their livelihood so an old bitch could prove a point. Some got paid off, a few grand to piss up the wall, they called them six-month millionaires. It didn't sound like a recipe for strong community.

  'Extreme?' I said.

  'Well, yes ... anarchists.'

  'Go on ...'

  He poured out his mineral water, drank deep, he had quite a thirst on him now. I knew the territory. 'My daughter, Caroline, she was a very wilful child and ...'

  'Whoa, back up ... was? What makes you think we're talking past-tense here, Minister?'

  He bridled, removed a handkerchief and wiped his palms. 'A figure of speech, I have no reason to believe ... I mean, I have nothing to go on, Gus, that is why I have come to you.'

  I'd say one thing for him, he had my attention. These days, my situation, wedded to a bottle of scoosh and forty, scrub that, sixty, smokes a day, that was no mean feat. I pressed him for some details and made a mental note.

  'I'll need five-hundred in advance and another five when I conclude.'

  'Conclude?'

  'That's right ... I don't have a crystal ball, Minister. If I go digging, what I find is what I find. What I get is a grand for my trouble. Do we understand each other?'