Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4)

by Tony Black

  Looked like a contract, same lettering as on the cards was on the headed notepaper. Gus Dury, Private Investigator.

  ‘Oh, Christ.’

  ‘Gus, we need to do this right. We need to let this Laird woman see we mean business.’

  I read the contract; it was a straightforward terms of engagement. He was hitting her for £400 a day, plus expenses.

  ‘Jesus, aiming high, are you not?’

  ‘She wants the best … The best charge.’

  ‘I thought there was a reward?’

  ‘There is, we have to show her we mean business, though.’ Hod spun on his heels, broke into a trot as he headed for the bedroom. He returned with a large Oxfam bag in his arms. He opened it up, fished out a tweed jacket.

  ‘Here, get this on.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  He shook his head. ‘Do I look like I’m fucking kidding? … I spent my last fifty sheets on this. Put it on, Gus, it’ll help you look the part.’

  ‘No way! I don’t do tweed!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘For the same reason I don’t buy Happy Meals – not my style.’

  Hod lifted up the jacket, showed me the arms. ‘Get it on, Gus … You’re not going to meet Gillian Laird looking like some washed-up fucking jakey.’

  ‘Hod, think it’ll take more than a new bit of Harris to pull that off.’

  His look of defeat said it all.

  Chapter 5

  THERE ARE SOME PARTS OF the city I feel more comfortable in than others. I like Leith – I’m working class, it’s in the contract. Drop me in the East End, up the Hibs park, even on match day, I can feel at home. But take me to the tourist-thronged Old Town, or the New Town with its wanky style centre, I feel ready to chuck.

  We have hills in Edinburgh like you wouldn’t believe. Climb any one of them and you can look down on the shambles of cobbles and spires with something close to wonder. The place looks the dog’s. Pretty, even. But appearances can be deceptive.

  ‘This it?’

  It was one of the Georgian crescents off Palmerston Place, serious-wedge territory. The estate agents needed special sales signs to fit all the Bobby De Niros on.

  Hod hoofed it to the front door, clocked the number, checked his little notebook, said, ‘We’ve landed.’

  ‘Thank Christ.’ The schlep from the bus stop had near ended me. ‘We need to get some wheels, Hod.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah … Mac has the van. I’ll call him later.’

  Mac too, another nutter on the job: could things get any worse? I shuddered to think. Wondered what I was getting myself into. Doorstepping high-profile Scottish acting royalty, a matter of days after the death of a child, didn’t seem any plan I wanted to be part of. Especially dressed in tweed, looking like the fucking Man from the Pru, and with Hod clutching a contract in his mitt. It wasn’t me. None of this gumshoe caper was me. What the fuck was I playing at? I’d been hoyed along on another one of Hod’s hare-brained ideas, buoyed by his enthusiasm, his unremitting optimism that I knew was founded on squat. Zilch. He was up for this because he could think of nothing else. He was mad for it because he was fucking mad. But someone needed to sort him out – someone needed to pull his arse out of the fire. Didn’t look like anyone else was stepping up to the job. Was gonna have to be me.

  ‘Hod … mate, look, are you sure this is wise?’

  ‘Wha’?’

  ‘I mean, she’s not gonna button up the back. She’ll see through us, man.’

  He dipped his head, rested his chin on his barrel chest. ‘Gus, trust me.’

  That was a laugh – I seemed to remember hearing that a few times before … usually preceding some kind of catastrophe: a door slammed in my face; good kicking; Debs packing a bag.

  ‘Hod, I just think—’

  He slayed that move by pressing the doorbell. Loud theatrical chimes sounded; three, maybe four little dogs yapped behind the glass.

  A dark figure loomed, rattling keys.

  Hod spoke: ‘Remember, Gus, I need this … we need this.’

  Did I need reminding?

  ‘Shut the fuck up, eh.’

  The door edged an inch, caught on a chain, closed again.

  ‘Seriously, Gus … screw the nut. Now.’

  As the door opened a ginger Pomeranian snapped at my ankles, then two other indeterminate bundles followed, barking and generally throwing a shit fit. Felt my ‘please, God’ face forming. Swept it aside. There was a bigger picture here: Shaky’s name had been put up – Hod’s card was marked.

  Hod fronted the man in black, grey-haired and stiff-collared. Did people still have butlers these days? Holyfuckingshitballs. I was appalled how the other half lived. A few soap operas, slot in the Big Brother house, all the usual piss and wind generated by Hello! and OK! and suddenly you’re living the Upstairs, Downstairs life. Not for the first time, I wanted to throw.

  Hod spoke, ‘Good morning. I’d like to speak with the lady of the house.’

  Couldn’t help it, had to laugh. Muttered, ‘Lady of the house …’

  Hod slit his eyes at me, put his hands behind his back and squared his stance. ‘Is Gillian Laird at home?’

  The suited gadgie turned up an eyebrow, was as close to incitement as I’d seen; screamed derision. I had this little arse-licker pegged as an adept in the art of greasy pole climbing. Would have been a shit-shoveller before ascending the stairs to the big hoose.

  He peered down his nose, chipped, ‘And you might be?’

  I’d be fucked if I was pandering to this prick.

  Easing past Hod, I fronted him. ‘Look, bonny lad, we’re here to speak to the organ grinder, not the monkey. Go and get herself, there’s a good chap.’

  That got his goat. His thin lips parted for a moment, revealing falsies that needed longer in the Steradent cup. He said, ‘If you don’t have an appointment, I can’t—’

  Enough was enough. I dipped into the pocket of the tweed, handed him one of Hod’s newly printed cards. It took all my strength to stop myself posting it in his mush. ‘You might want to tell her this can’t wait.’

  Jeeves took the card, made a face as if the poker in his arse had just twitched, then invited us to wait in the corridor.

  The dogs followed us in, barking and yapping all to fuck. It hurt my head so much I wanted to put fingers in my ears but they soon lost interest in us, started to calm. Hod was less relaxed. It unsettled me to see him so desperate, so unlike the Hod I knew. He’d always been so confident, so cocksure of himself. It was as though I was watching him dwindle before my eyes.

  ‘What’s up with you now?’ I said.

  ‘Did you have to noise him up?’

  ‘Hod, the guy’s a tool.’

  ‘I’m only saying … Can we be professionals here.’

  ‘Professionals … You think we’re playing Bodie and Doyle, fuck off.’

  ‘Gus, just cool yer jets, eh. At least till we’ve got her signature on that contract.’

  I shook my head, turned eyes to the corniced ceiling, said, ‘Whatever.’

  There’s a phrase, through you like a dose of salts, could tell from the off this chick was ready to put it into action. The heels came clacking on the tiled floor like sniper fire. She had a hard, drawn face that was softened only slightly by what looked like a Hermès scarf. You write the odd magazine feature in your time, you get to know the kip of the pricey gear.

  Gillian Laird stopped a couple of yards from us. She wore long black trousers and a black cashmere top. When she put her hands on her hips she looked like a very familiar work of art. Fuck me, was I a bit star-struck? Told myself to calm down – she’d done River City after all.

  She looked me in the eye, seemed to register disbelief, then her gaze quickly darted to Hod. She was weighing us up, no question. Said, ‘Gus Dury …’ then thrust out the card. Was I supposed to take it back? Leave?

  Stepped up to the plate, nodded, ‘That’s my name.’

  She took a deep breath, her
cheeks pinching as she looked me up and down. Got the distinct impression she thought I was taking the piss. Her expression yelled: There’s a pikey in my house. I inwardly cursed Hod for making me wear the tweed – felt like a Terence Stamp caught shoplifting.

  ‘Should it mean something to me?’

  Hod interrupted, ‘Mrs Laird, we believe we might be able to help you with—’

  She opened her mouth a little, lowered the card, then quickly folded her arms. It was a defensive stance. Her gaze flitted left to right as she barked, ‘Help me with what?’

  I could see Hod’s anxiety rising. If I let him start yakking he’d be like a dog eating chips. I took the reins: ‘I have some experience in dealing with the particular situation you find yourself in, Mrs Laird.’

  An improbably tall blonde appeared at her back. She had a rack Jordan would have been intimidated by and a pair of lips set in a permanent pout. She looked groomed to within an inch of her life as she sidled up to the actress and put an arm around her waist. When she placed her head on her shoulder she reminded me of the models I used to see coming into the paper to shoot fashion spreads. They all looked like unattainable goddesses, until they opened their gobs and you realised they were schemies.

  Gillian spoke: ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  She handed the card to the blonde. She stared at Gillian for a moment and then said to me, ‘I know you … Yer the reporter guy.’

  There it was, the schemie inside … Who says you can’t polish a turd?

  Hod blustered, ‘Mr Dury specialises in investigative work now.’

  I could have given him a slap. The woman was on the verge of kicking us out; could this have gone any worse? What had I been thinking, taking Hod’s word that this was a goer?

  ‘Does he now?’ said Gillian.

  I watched her weigh up what looked like several possibilities. One was obviously calling the filth, but there was a flicker of desperation in there – as though she couldn’t rule out anything, however weak. Or maybe she just thought I looked the part: rat catchers don’t dress in pinstripes. She turned her head, spun on her heels, a shrill tone in her voice as she commanded, ‘Follow me.’

  Hod winked as we set off behind her. The blonde bit turned once or twice, drew a few daggers at us, but I figured her approval we could live without.

  In an immaculate white drawing room, the black silhouette of Gillian Laird cut an incongruous figure. She looked bullet hard as she perched on the edge of a giant sofa, crossed her legs, patted the cushion beside her. ‘Sit down, Tina.’ Her friend did as she was told. I thought she was out of her league – what the Scots call all fur coat and nae knickers. But her face was her fortune; throw in the figure and she was commanding a tidy sum. Maybe Gillian thought she could knock off a few rough edges here and there, or maybe rough was a nice change.

  ‘Okay, what’s the story, Mr Dury?’ said Gillian.

  I felt as if I was put in the spotlight; an urge to rifle her shelves for a whisky bottle flashed. Calmed it, took hold again: ‘I believe there’s some case to doubt the official verdict on your son’s death.’

  ‘You do?’

  She was hardballing me. I didn’t buy that she was all granite, though. There was an artist lurking in there and that required some sliver of sensitivity.

  ‘I believe … you do.’

  She looked at Tina. I noticed their fingers had laced. ‘My son was killed, Mr Dury.’

  ‘The police said it was death by misadventure.’ I’d spat it out, came too harsh and I immediately regretted it.

  ‘They called it breath-control play! … Bullshit. I know my Ben, he would never … He was far too sensible, too smart to …’ Her resolve dropped, eyes misted; but she pulled it in. ‘Mr Dury, why are you here? I mean … what do you think you can do for me?’

  ‘It’s fir the money,’ said Tina. She had a heavy accent, sounded Leith. Christ, sounded Leith Links.

  Hod butted in: ‘We’re professionals, Mrs Laird. We have a track record that can be verified. We don’t enter into any undertaking of this nature without serious consideration to the known—’

  I stood up. ‘If your son was killed, I’ll find his killer.’

  Tina put a long pale arm around Gillian’s shoulder. I saw some bruising on her wrist; it was dark against the skin. She spoke loudly: ‘You sound right confident, so you do.’

  I held schtum. Wasn’t getting into a barney with this bint. Felt my chest cry for nicotine. A finger went up to my collar.

  ‘Gus is the best there is,’ said Hod.

  Gillian’s eyes darted to him. ‘The best?’

  I walked towards the couch, crouched down in front of them. I was close enough to see the red edges of the actress’s eyes, the tears welling. She needed help; I knew the territory. For the first time since I’d arrived my sympathies sparked. I knew I could bring some ease to that deep suffering. Made me feel useful – if not entirely capable. Hoped my health would hold out. I reached inside me for the right words. ‘If you like, I could look into this for you. I promise you this: things are never quite as they seem … If there’s an answer that can ease your pain, I’ll get it.’

  She turned to Tina, nodded to her.

  We all rose, stood in the middle of the floor facing each other like an AA meeting.

  ‘Perhaps we can discuss terms, Mr Dury.’

  Hod reached for the contract in his pocket.

  I spoke up: ‘There are one or two things I’ll need to know first, Mrs Laird.’

  The door to the drawing room opened. It was the butler again, showing in a young lad of about eighteen in a checked sportscoat. He had red hair that, despite a heavy application of gel, burned the eyes. He looked shocked to see Hod and I, but fought it. I looked him up and down – he turned away.

  ‘Hello, Paul … Do you mind hanging on a minute? I’m just seeing to something,’ said Gillian.

  The lad fumbled his words: ‘Oh, no … not at all.’ Some sheets of paper fell from a folder in his arms. I watched him collect them up. He bumped his shins on the coffee table as he went about it. ‘Sorry, I’ll just get this tidied up.’

  ‘Paul is a … was a friend of Ben’s.’

  The lad halted, a few more sheaves of paper fluttering to the floor. ‘Ben was my best friend,’ he said. ‘We were on the same course.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ I said. Thought about telling him he might want to change course in that case, but got the impression a wisecrack might snap him in two.

  Gillian took Paul by the arm, led him back out and asked her man to get him a drink in the kitchen; she closed the door behind him and sat back down. I made a mental note to have a word with young Ginge at some point in the future.

  Was a mother the best person to go to for the rundown on her only son? Seriously doubted it. Christ on a bike, my own mam would paint a rosy enough picture of me, and I was pretty far south of any kind of respectability. Gillian Laird had shifted into default gear to tell me about her deceased boy, Ben. I knew she was hurting. I’d lost loved ones, knew the manor, but I got the impression our actress was laying on the histrionics a bit too thick.

  ‘My boy was an angel.’ She rose from the sofa, crossed the immaculate carpet to raise a silver photo frame from the dresser. ‘He never had a bad word to say for anyone; never heard a cross word leave his lips.’

  I caught Hod creasing his brows, rolling eyes up to the ceiling. Was one of those moments calling out for an elbow to the ribs; let it slide. Went with, ‘Gillian … Do you mind if I call you Gillian?’

  ‘No, that’s fine.’

  ‘Was there anyone who might not have … shared your opinion of Ben?’ I said.

  She looked startled, flustered. A pale hand rose to her cheek, then was clasped tightly in the fingers of her other. She looked rattled by the thought, genuinely thrown at the notion.

  ‘No … no one … Ben was the most adored child.’

  Her son was nineteen; that made him a man in my books. I was still young enough to r
emember what I was up to at that age – none of it was something I’d be opening up to my mother about. Late teens carry more secrets than the Masons. Had she never watched The Inbetweeners?

  ‘Your son, Gillian … he was at the university?’

  ‘Yes,’ my words had hit her like arrows, ‘he was a good student,’ a laugh, feint one, ‘… when he put his mind to it.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Her eyes were wide, trailing some distant memory. They misted momentarily then dimmed. ‘Ben liked to be the centre of attention … always had, since he was a child. My husband … ex-husband, always said he inherited my dramatic tendencies.’

  I knew the type: show-offs. Class clowns. Needy kids. The boys and girls so lavishly danced attendance upon by Mammy and Daddy that the real world always fails to deliver a big enough audience. Edinburgh was crawling with them. Always had been. Throw in a leisured class, proliferation of public schools and the brats come ten a penny. Couldn’t say I was warming to our Ben.

  ‘He was popular?’ I chose my phrasing carefully.

  ‘Oh, yes … very popular.’

  ‘With whom?’

  That bit. She slit eyes, went hellcat on me: ‘With everyone, of course!’

  ‘Gillian, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you and I both know that’s seldom the case outside of maybe Gandhi and Elvis Presley.’

  She arked up; her eyes became needlepoints, the thin slit of a mouth widened to a cavity ready to spew forth enough bile to blow me into the middle of next week.

  ‘My boy was adored! … By everyone!’

  Okay. Registered that one.

  Was time to move on. I made a mental note to keep all emotive questions away from her; I couldn’t rely on getting any kind of truthful answer anyway. This was a downer for sure, but there were many other ways Gillian Laird could make herself useful.

  I pressed on. ‘He was at university … What year?’

  ‘Erm, second … he was in his second year.’

  ‘Studying?’

  ‘Media and arts.’

  A typical pisspot subject for a spoilt little rich kid. Still, was one up on windsurfing and Beatlemania, I suppose, although a BSc in either would be as much use as a nun’s tits in the current job market. I’m sure it worried neither of them.