by Tony Black
Picked up a bit of derision in her tone; this was good. I was happy to hand her the moral high ground if it got me what I wanted.
‘Yeah, y’know, there’s some stuff that I thought you might—’
She cut in, ‘You asking me out, Gus? … That it?’
Fuck. Quandary. If I said yes, I was letting myself in for a whole heap of bother. If I said no, I risked bollixing it all up.
Played safe: ‘Well, what’s that mean these days, y’know … I mean … I was thinking it would be good to see you … to have a chat and that.’ Could feel myself begin to wince. ‘You still out Tollcross way?’
Another gap on the line.
Silence.
Then, a guffaw.
‘Yeah, I’m still on Lothian Road,’ she said.
‘Grand … grand … How do you fancy me treating you to a coffee, then? … I’m in Costa.’
Amy sparked up, ‘You treating me to a coffee … like, out the fucking blue, what’s that all about, Dury? You after something?’
‘Shit no. Y’know me, I drop off the radar now and again. Just thought it would be good to catch up, Ames.’
Day-glo-markered sarcasm: ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah … I know you!’
I tried to batten down the conversation, went for broke. ‘So, you coming or what? My shout.’
‘Why not? Student life’s been boring as fuck lately. Could do with some excitement, suppose!’
I laughed. ‘Can’t promise that.’
‘You don’t need to … trouble follows you around like bad aftershave. Get you in half an hour, Gus. I’ll dress for a night in the cells, just in case!’
Knew she was only joking; well, hoped she was. My conscience was already starting to wonder about what I was getting this girl into.
Young lad with the eighties vibe hovered. Carried a whiff of Stray Cats about him now – had been at the hair with some product. I wondered about this generation, by Christ I did. Amy, though, was slightly higher on the clued-up scale; by comparison this muppet hadn’t discovered fire yet.
‘I got something you want, lad?’
Bristles; got that shoulder-straightening thing. ‘Do you want another coffee?’
Threw him, ‘That’d be just grand. Thanks so much.’
I drained my cup, making sure there was no scoosh left sticking to the base. This close to Morningside, they tend to get a bit picky about things like that. Still, I was tweeded up, like they’d fucking mess.
‘Would you like anything with it? … We have jumbo cookies on special.’
Guess my look said that would be a no. He trotted off.
I had calls to make: was on the case, c’mon. There was never going to be a simple route to a solution, saw that coming a country mile off. There was more going on with Gillian Laird than I could suss right now, but from the off, I had her pegged. She might be calling the shots but there’d be a bit of groundwork done there too; knew where to start as well.
Got the contacts up. Felt a slight apprehension as I hovered over the name. We’d some history … had we ever. I knew Fitz the Crime was not the man to go to for favours; they had a strange way of coming back with bigger price tags on them than I could afford. He was filth, there was no way around that. But even filth needed to come into the real world, at least once in a while.
Dialled.
Ringing.
Hard-ass on reception, ‘Lothian and Borders Police …’
‘I’d like Fitzsimmons, please.’ If I knew his rank, I’d use it. But Fitz was flying through those stripes so fast there was no knowing where he’d be these days. Gave me some room to manoeuvre. The full-leather interior on that Lexus of his had been paid for with so much of my graft that I was entitled to a few privileges.
‘Fitzsimmons.’ Bit gruff. Tipping the hard-core edge in; nothing new there.
‘The man himself. How’s the cop trade?’
‘Jaysus, Dury … by the cringe!’
Always the grand welcomer from this man. You’d think I wasn’t one of his favourites. ‘Nice to hear from you too.’
Phone shuffling, few steps taken towards seclusion, away from prying ears. ‘Gus, this will never do … You know better than to call me here. By the holy … Is it my backside in a sling ye want?’
‘Look, Fitz, cool the beans, eh. It’s a social call.’
A loud laugh.
Huff.
Tut.
‘Jaysus, Dury … you’re a freckin’ gas … Will be on the beg you are, as sure as there’s a hole in yer arse!’
He had my number. But this wasn’t going too badly; I’d seen the day when a call to Fitz was met with something closer to a curt ‘get to fuck’. Phone slamming, perhaps. Could it be he was getting comfortable? Settled, maybe? There couldn’t be that much competition for him at the top. He needed to watch that, though: the air up there’s pretty thin, I hear.
Said, ‘A man can climb to great heights but he cannot dwell there long.’
Bit of a stammer: ‘What’s that, a riddle? Always with the riddles ye are, Dury.’
I smiled into the phone. ‘Close. A quote.’
‘Y’wha’?’
‘Never mind. Look, I’m sure you’re not the type to forget old friends, Fitz, but in case you’re thinking of coming the Big I Am—’
He put the volume up a notch, blasted, ‘Hang on, Dury, we’re well and truly quits, boyo. Don’t start playing the old pals act with me, don’t even be considering that now.’
I let the line fizz. Few seconds of static stretched out.
‘Okay, Fitz … I hear you. Truth told, I’m messing with you.’
A laugh; forced one. ‘Christ, there’s a first.’
I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. I could feel the muscles tightening in my throat. ‘But …’
‘Hah … I knew it. Isn’t there always one of them with ye!’
I battened it down, went Zen. ‘Fitz, we need to talk.’
‘Oh we do, do we now?’
‘I’m not fucking about here.’
‘Well, that’s another first.’
‘I’m serious. It’s Gillian Laird’s son … I’m on the case.’
I could almost hear him hissing. ‘Oh, feckin’ hellfire, Dury, what in the name of Christ are ye doing there?’
‘Look, Fitz, there’s more to this than—’
‘I have absolutely nothing to say.’ He spoke through clenched teeth, I pictured him squeezing the receiver. ‘I am not about to discuss official police business with you … not now, not ever.’
His voice was pitched for an audience. I put in the hook. ‘I have something for you.’
Silence. Then, ‘Like I say, I cannot discuss—’
‘Meet me on the Walk … Thursday lunchtime in Robbie’s Bar.’
‘There will be no meeting. The case is an official police matter and will proceed as such, in the proper manner!’
He clicked off.
I watched the call time flash. Broke three minutes: think it was a record.
My coffee came, fired down with a free dose of derision and a roll of eyes behind thatched fringe. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledgement; took up the coffee, drained a good slug and waved him along with the back of my hand. Little shitkicker was working on my last nerve. He pushed his luck any further with me, he’d be sampling one of those jumbo cookies … as a suppository.
Was turning the cap on my half-bottle when the door swung.
‘Fucking typical!’ said Amy.
‘Wha’?’
‘Jesus Christ … is it not a bit early for that?’
The only other drink I had was the Black Heart; if it was too early for the scoosh, it was definitely too early for the rum, said, ‘Don’t think so.’
She shook her head, ordered up a mineral water, sparkling one.
‘So, you been missing me, Gus?’
She had a beam on her that wouldn’t look out of place on a Seacat’s searchlight. Her smile fair dazzled me. ‘Yeah, something like that.’ I
played up to her.
Amy sat, she wore black skinny jeans with a very high turn-up. As she crossed her legs her thigh made an arch beneath the denim. She was pretty toned. In case I doubted it she took off her jacket – top so tight I could count her ribs, and a couple of other protuberances. Jesus, she was looking fit. A warning light flashed behind my eyes; but I told myself there was no harm in looking. I could handle Amy. Sure I could.
‘Actually … I’m mixing business with pleasure,’ I said.
‘Pleasure …’ She rolled the word over her lips, pouted.
‘More business, really.’
She flung back her head, laughed, clapped her hands together. ‘Oh fuck, Gus, get over yourself. I’m only playing with you.’
I had a laugh at that myself. We’d broke the ice. Amy’s mineral water came. She twisted the cap, then tucked her dark hair behind her ear as she sipped.
‘You still at the uni?’ I asked.
She rolled her eyes, kept drinking. When she removed the bottle from her lips, she took a deep breath, said, ‘Uni … yeah, why?’
‘I’m on a case.’
Her expression hardened. ‘Oh, shit … not Bender Ben, is it?’
‘Come again?’
She put the cap on her water, leaned in. ‘Ben Laird … the actress’s son.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Knew of him … Total cock. Sorry to speak ill of the dead and all that but he was a fucking sleaze.’
I took a blast of whisky-laced coffee, said, ‘Sleaze?’
Amy rolled her eyes again and made a wanker gesture with her hand. ‘Y’know … spoiled little rich kid with a big fucking ego … thought himself the dog’s bollocks. He was one of those high-visibility twats, y’know the type.’
I sure did. ‘Flash arsehole?’
‘Got it in one.’
Amy looked out into the street, her eyes widening a little. ‘Still … couldn’t have been happy: hanged himself, didn’t he?’
I shook my head. ‘Official verdict was misadventure … erotic asphyxiation gone wrong.’
She didn’t bat a lid. ‘Yeah, right …’
‘What do you mean?’
She turned to face me. ‘You buying that? He was probably out his tits and nursing the realisation that everyone thought he was a complete prick.’
I could see I’d come to the right place. Amy was just the girl I needed to do a bit of digging around.
‘Ben’s friends and the like … you know them?’
‘Christ no … bunch of dicks. Posh twats with big ideas about themselves.’
‘But, you could get to know them … ?’
Amy slit her eyes, crossed her legs again, towards me now, and leaned in. ‘Is this going where I think it is, Gus?’
‘Where’s that?’
A smile, wide white teeth beneath red lipstick. Fair dos to the girl – she knew how to play up. ‘Hopefully all the way.’
I coughed into my fist, suppressed a laugh.
‘Let’s not get too carried away, eh, Amy.’
‘You’re right … There’s time enough for that, sure.’
Chapter 9
I WATCHED AMY TEETER UP the street on vertiginous heels. As she got to the corner, she turned, winked, then took off quick-style, shaking her hips and putting out that peach of an ass. All for show. But, hey, what a show. Somewhere along the track Amy had developed some sense of self-awareness. She’d matured into the kind of chick who was secure enough in herself to laugh at what she was, take the piss, even. I had to hand it to her: she was quite the package. In a lesser mortal there’d be nothing but ego and entitlement. The kind that get tagged ‘hard work’. Amy was above all that, she was all about the fun of it, laughing herself up. She had the right idea … But who was I to say? Christ, morose was my middle name. Lachrymose my last.
I put out for Holyrood, schlepped along by the Cameo and crossed Lothian Road. At the Art School a shower of jakies were supping on Cally Special tins. One of them had a head start, pissed himself and propped head on a lamp post. His buddies were rifling his pockets for coin and snout. Two baggy-jumper-wearing students shuffled past, eyes south, trying hard to ignore the scene. As they reached the steps they legged it, rapid-style, for the swing doors. Once safely inside they shook heads and giggled. The city streets were no more than a source of amusement for them; a wry tear welled in my eye. This would be our artists of the future then … the Tracey Emins and Damien Hirsts. Little middle-class careerists. What happened to conviction? I had heard the Scots genius John Byrne deriding the new wave once. He said art had always been about what was in the heart … but to the new crew it was all about what was in their heads. Were we all so corporate now, I wondered? Was there a vestige of soul left in this city, this world? I’d flunked college. Did it bother me? Did it fuck. This education racket was no loss to me. It was a conveyor belt, processing boardroom fodder. A nice little change of scene for the county set brats; bit of life skill polishing before the gap year in South East Asia, building up the alco-tolerance before hitting the Bundaberg rum. Jesus, wasn’t life sweet. Almost felt a sense of relief for Ben Laird’s passing. Lucky little fucker had managed to skip the entire Lego-bricked road that leads to full-on vacuity.
Was having real difficulty finding a note of sympathy for our Ben. Sure, he was a young lad, a life cut tragically short … but I couldn’t see it in me to feel for him. Going on Amy’s vague description, the boy was hardly one in a million; quite the opposite. He was the worst of a bad type. Yes, he was young, might have matured. But you live in Edinburgh, you watch the fuckwits dragging their knuckles to Murrayfield on match day, you start to question Darwin’s theory of evolution. I could see Ben at thirty, forty even, pissing it up and getting a belt out of Immacing some prop forward’s nads. I didn’t have it in me to feel a shred of loss. Perhaps that was to the good. I needed to keep a level head; past cases I’d let things bottle up, get the better of me. There was a chance I might actually keep the boat steady here. And Christ, didn’t I need that. Didn’t Hod. And Gillian.
The Black Heart was singing in my pocket; took it out, drained a good belt. The fire of it settled my insides. I was ready for more, ready to put the bottle to bed, duck in there beside it and let the world outside go to fuck, but whilst I had one shred of conscience left in me I knew I needed to screw the nut, get on with this.
I schlepped through the Grassmarket, left out the carnage of the Royal Mile at Festival time and headed for the Hootsman newspaper building. There had been a time when my face was known here. There had been a time when many faces were known here, but now the place had turned into a revolving door for school leavers and work experience looking for a first rung on the ladder. They didn’t realise that the first rung was also the last. The game had gone to shit. All those days I spent mourning my loss of career had been wasted; it was always coming down the pike, it seems. The game was bust.
At the chrome and glass frontage, I rocked up. Put on a bit of a swagger, not too much: spelled pisshead in here. Could remember the days when anyone who wasn’t off their face at the five o’clock news conference was treated with suspicion, verging on derision, but these were changed days. The green tea drinkers had taken over.
I hit the intercom, called out to my former boss, Mr Bacon – or as I still liked to call him, Rasher.
Got a blast: ‘Editorial …’
‘Not become a by-product of Advertising yet, then.’
‘Eh, what? That you, Gus?’
I played it cool – needed to get the gate buzzed for me, needed to get up to the newsroom and have a deck about in the files if poss. Gillian Laird’s public fall from grace had been one of those tragic celebrity moments played out in the full glare of the TV cameras and Sunday supplements. Kind of thing I switch off to without so much as a gob in the street; well, maybe a few of those.
‘Aye, aye … look, you got time for a catch-up?’ Holy Christ, ‘catch-up’ – where did I pick up these sayings? The world – and
me within it – was becoming way too metrosexual for my liking.
A bit of gruff: ‘Well, if it’s a quick one.’
Played the card: ‘I’d love a quick one.’
Gate buzzed.
I took the elevator; didn’t even think of calling it the lift any more. The language was mangled. Rasher waited at the top floor. He had the same sideburns, heavy on the mutton-chop, that he’d worn since the seventies, and a shirt and tie that looked about the same vintage. There was a gut pressing hard above the belt buckle of his Farah slacks; I’d read somewhere this was a sign of optimism. Apparently wearing the belt over the gut is the opposite, a sign of pessimism.
Hand extended: ‘Gus, good to see you.’
‘Likewise.’ I played it smooth; had some making up to do. I’d given Rasher a fair old blast at an alcoholic’s intervention he’d hosted for me; could tell he hadn’t forgotten either. But we had some mileage together. I’d handed Rasher more than a few scoops in my day. Washed up as I was, and as beyond help as he obviously saw me, I was still what they call in this game a ‘good operator’. I could bring in the news, and say what you like about the state of play in this outfit, news was still a commodity … among newsmen.
We went through to Rasher’s office, kicking up static from the heavy-duty carpet tiles. I took a seat as he opened the bottom drawer of a large metal filing cabinet – so old school – and brought out a bottle of Teacher’s. Not my favourite drop, but it was wet.
He poured out two styrofoam cups and nodded. I took the cue. Drained a fair whack. Felt my lips cracking as the whisky punched back some of the moisture that the air-con had taken.
‘So, to what do I owe the privilege?’ said Rasher.
I put down the cup, crossed my legs and made a steeple of my fingers above my knee. It was a practised look: canny. Rasher failed to raise an eyebrow. Instead he clocked me head on. I said, ‘I’m working a story.’
‘You are?’
‘Laird kid.’
He looked nonplussed, barely altered his breathing; if he did it was a sigh, ‘Oh, really.’
‘No interest there? You surprise me. I thought Gillian Laird was big news.’
Now an eyebrow went up. ‘Aye, you’re right … was.’
