Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4)

by Tony Black

  I was determined to make a go of things with Amy. Christ knows why she had stood by me, but she had; I’d be an idiot to question that. In a strange sort of way, now that I had seen Debs, it was like I was given a free run at some happiness. If I had that feeling in me, life couldn’t be all bad. Well, could it?

  I turned down Leith Walk. Some wanky arts events had kicked off in a couple of the bars, some Student Grant types were hanging about in rugby shirts and ripped jeans. A few of them had on chunky basketball boots, and to a man they had the customary three to four inches of undercrackers on display. Throw in the foppy hairstyles and they were an accident waiting to happen down this end of the town. Hardmen with Staffies go looking for this type of action. Finding it in their own manor was like all their Christmases come at once.

  I sloped passed the yaw-yawing mob, kept myself moving. Much as I despised their ilk – they got my goat, plain and simple – I’d come to feel for the parents of the brats. Ben Laird had been a piece of work, no question. He’d graduated from dabbling in drugs to dealing them, and more besides. Pimping out girls to his well-off buddies must have made him popular, but the boy had been out of control. Add that to the mix of teenage arrogance, and the hothousing of ego that went on in that moronic good old boys’ group of his, and the lad was knocking on trouble’s door. I had my suspicions that the very public coming out of his mother with Tina could have pushed him over the top. Dropping the ‘Bender’ Ben tag smacked of oversensitivity. One thing the lad needed to get straight from the off was, the world he was moving in had no place for sensitivity.

  I took a turn off the Walk at Robbie’s Bar, headed down to Easter Road. This part of the East End attracts some numbers on the weekend, match day, but the rest of the week it’s dead at the far end.

  The tenements are falling apart down here. In Edinburgh scaf-folding multiplies in the summer months as roofers and the council conspire to squeeze even more out of the hard-pressed townsfolk. But round here, the roof could be in before a stick of scaffold was seen. Some yuppie flats had been stuck up by a foreign firm that didn’t know the postcode was unattractive: I’d been watching the prices drop steadily on their adverts, wondering when they’d be giving them away.

  As I turned for the caff I caught sight of Fitz’s Lexus. I’d arranged to meet him to go over what we had turned up on the case so far. He was parking up over the road; I left him to get on with it, went in and ordered up some coffees. For the first time in months I felt like food: all my appetites seemed to be returning. I took that as a good sign – so long as the main one could be held in check.

  ‘Could you do me a bacon roll too?’ I asked.

  Got some nods. Waitress shouted the order through the serving hatch.

  I sat in the far corner, away from the window. It didn’t do to be seen with Fitz in public. We were both agreed on that. When he came in he was sweating hard, his face was flashed red and thin wisps of grey hair stuck to his brow. He looked aggravated, ready to blow off some steam, perhaps.

  ‘Fucking Festival … when’s it going to be over?’ he said.

  ‘Not soon enough.’

  ‘Annual fucking jamboree of midgets and poofs on our streets. ’Tis enough to make ye go postal.’

  I stifled a laugh; the PC brigade hadn’t reached this end of town yet.

  The coffees arrived. They were instant. I didn’t complain – meant a reprieve from the usual fifty-seven different varieties of coffee you get listed in most city caffs. You asked for a mocha in this joint, they were likely to think you were taking the piss, or ask what the fuck it was.

  I tucked into my roll. Fitz turned up his shirtsleeves; his arms were wet with sweat.

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘How’s Colin doing?’ Didn’t see any point in hanging about, or playing the slow build. We had business to do, and time was a major factor now.

  Fitz creased his brows. The mention of his nephew seemed to calm him a bit. He widened his eyes and let out a slow trail of breath as he spoke: ‘He’s holding up … The lad’s rattled, though.’

  I didn’t want to press him further. It was a sensitive issue. Fitz knew what the Craft was capable of – had seen it in action – but the young lad was new to the game, didn’t know what to expect next. I wondered if that was how it had been with Ben. ‘And what about you, Fitz,’ I changed tack, ‘did you get a look at those faces?’

  He leaned forward, acted conspiratorial. I could see beads of moisture sitting in his eyebrows. None of this came easy for him. At his stage of the game, his time of life, he was looking to take things easier, not going full pelt at the top brass … again. ‘I did, yeah.’ He held back, made a pensive sigh.

  I prompted, ‘And?’

  Another, longer sigh. ‘As we thought … there’s some faces in that picture that found their way onto the force. Fucking fast-tracks. Two of them, Henderson and Bowman, are top dogs in the Craft …’

  ‘Hang about – Charles Henderson?’

  ‘Aye, we call him Chick … or Chief Super to his face.’

  ‘We’ve met.’

  ‘Y’wha’?’

  I felt my mind drawn back. ‘At Calder’s hanging.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was by the book … firm. Never so much warned me off as advised me what might be good for my health.’

  Fitz wheezed an indrawn breath, his shoulders tensing, ‘I did some digging about, and yer man Calder was at the uni the same time as Chick Henderson and Bowman. The lad that got hanged back then, he was best mates with that group.’

  It figured – knew it would. The scene was a little less hazy. I could see how Calder was involved, where his compulsion to cover things up had come from – but had he got fed up being leaned on? Thirty-odd years to keep a secret like that under wraps was a long time. Maybe he grew tired of it all, got spooked … and it cost him his life. ‘Fitz, do you know about … the Seriatim?’

  He rolled eyes, was an almost dismissive gesture. ‘Bills itself as a debating chamber … More like posh twats’ buggery and business school. They do a sideline in recruiting for the Craft.’

  ‘How did you come by that information?’

  ‘Ah, feck, Gus … you know better than to ask. All I will say is this: according to Ben Laird’s file, every statement that was taken on the night of his death came from boyos in that feckin’ group … and none of them conflicted.’

  Seemed like the mob were well versed in police procedures. Of course they fucking were – they had experience of it to go on – and the filth were leading them by the hand. I felt myself drawing fists. I was surprised I had the energy to still be angered. But, by Christ, I was. ‘Okay. What else can you tell me?’

  ‘Bowman, he’s away down south, some big shot at the Met, but Henderson, his career’s running away with him here. Hasn’t he more fucking stars than the Man U squad!’

  ‘You think he’s the one pulling the strings?’

  Fitz laughed. ‘I’d bet my fucking bollocks on it!’

  It all fitted into place. Proving it would be another matter. But that wasn’t my concern. I was after Ben Laird’s murderer. What happened after I found that out wasn’t for me to think about. When I found the killer, I’d light the blue touchpaper and retire. In every way, this case had just about killed me and I was in no fit shape to take on any more. I wanted to crash the rig and walk away, hopefully in one piece … and with Amy.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ I said.

  Fitz eased back in his seat, took up his coffee. His face was a blank sheet, impossible to read. ‘I’ve no plan, Dury.’

  I amped it up: ‘You just want to see this swept under the carpet?’

  A tut, then a huff. ‘What would you like me to do, call in Internal Affairs?’ He started to laugh. ‘Christ on a fucking rubber cross, Dury, this mob run the force … we do things their way, or no way. What you can do is find yer boyo’s killer and, at best, get the other cases looked at. Don’t count on bringing any of this lot down – they’ve had too long to get
their fucking act together.’

  It didn’t sound like the right move. My face must have gave away what I was thinking.

  Fitz’s voice was higher now: ‘Look, if there’s one thing I do know … when these bastards fuck up, like Calder and the Laird lad … their own take care of them.’

  I was curious. ‘What do you mean?’

  He lowered his voice again. ‘What I mean is … the Craft doesn’t like having attention drawn to itself. They have ways and means of dealing with those that bring it down. They have their own kind of justice.’

  ‘What you’re saying to me is … if I blow this up, that’ll be enough? Those that protected the killer will be punished by their own?’

  Fitz nodded. ‘They’ll face harsher justice than any court … but let me give you a warning.’ He put down his cup, wet his lips with his tongue. ‘They will do everything they can to cover their tracks, Dury – including kill. If you push them too far, they won’t give a second thought to blotting you out.’

  I grinned. ‘Yeah, plenty have tried before them. I’m still here.’

  Fitz stopped me raising up my cup by placing a hand on my arm. ‘I mean it … be very careful. You don’t know who you’re messing with here, Dury. These people are the worst sort of dangerous … they’ve lots to hide, and more to lose.’

  Chapter 34

  I HAD A HANDFUL OF Harry Hills to take after my latest trip to the hospital. Took a scoop of them and half expected to see them again, but managed to keep the lot down. Thanked Christ for the let-off. The last twenty-four hours had been an eye-opener – in more ways than one. Couldn’t say I was having difficulty coming to terms with my new status coupled off with Amy, but it did make me think about the way I’d been battering myself to bits. There was a time for drinking and despair, for raging against the world; now didn’t seem like it. I kept replaying the old Lennon interview where he’d been asked if he’d found it harder to write now that he had fame, wealth and happiness. His reply had been a resounding no – that he’d found it much easier to write with cushions around him. I took his point; I’d been dining out on the wreckage of my career, marriage and life for so long that maybe it was time to let all that go. I was definitely on the mend, if not yet physically, then mentally – the clearest indicator perhaps being that I’d suddenly stopped listening to Joy Division.

  Hod and I had holed up back at his gaff in Porty. He wasn’t overly keen on the idea, but I gave him a guarantee that there would be no more visits from Shaky’s pugs. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, a promise I could keep. Well, not for certain, but I was working on it. After my chat with Fitz, I had a fair idea of what I needed to do to flush out Ben’s killer. It was risky, but then, doing nothing was risky too. If I left things to progress at the pace they had done, Danny Gemmill was going to get jumpy, and I couldn’t risk upsetting Shaky. Fitz too was raking up all kinds of shit with the Craft, driven by his maniacal ambition and an arrogant belief that he could protect his nephew. He wasn’t bulletproof. The time when I thought of Fitz as merely filth had passed through; I didn’t want to see him get any deeper in the shit than he already was.

  Everything hinged on my keeping the head, staying sober, together. I needed to find Ben Laird’s killer quickly. His mother had waited long enough. I got out my mobi, located Gillian’s number in the contacts.

  Ringing.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was Tina – know those rough tones anywhere.

  ‘Hello, it’s Gus Dury.’ I let that hang there. Had an idea it niggled her, maybe more than she could afford to let on.

  ‘Aye … and?’ She was rough all right: this was one Leith hingoot who had come a long way. Had to give her credit for that.

  ‘And … I’d like to speak to Gillian … if that’s okay with you, Tina.’

  A huff. She made the kind of tells a teenage girl did; she hadn’t progressed beyond that level in many ways. Thought about telling her to watch that – it would be her undoing – but let it slide. Like I gave a fuck if she bollixed up the good wicket that she was on.

  ‘And what if I dinnae want you to speak to her?’

  I riled, clamped it down. ‘Tina, I’m not looking for your approbation.’

  She was thrown, sparked up, ‘You think yer smart, don’t you? Well, let me tell you, Gillian might no’ be wise to you yet but I fucking well am.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Aye … it is.’

  She played to type, but I knew how to deal with her. ‘And where have you suddenly caught wisdom, Tina? Cop on, lass … go get your master.’

  She slammed down the phone. It sounded as though it fell off the table; heard it swinging on the cord and battering off the wall again and again. Made me smile – I’d got to her. Thought: Daft sow.

  A few seconds passed, then I heard high heels clacking on hard tiled flooring.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Gillian, hello … it’s Gus.’

  ‘What did you say to Tina?’

  I winced. The girl had some plays after all. ‘I, eh, you know how she is about me.’

  ‘Look, let’s get something straight, Mr Dury, I’m not paying you to upset my partner.’

  I took it on the chin, although where that dippit cow Tina was concerned, it was more like a crush of the nuts. ‘I think we understand each other.’

  A curt, clipped, RADA-esque reply: ‘Good.’

  I held my impatience in check, bit on my lip before I spoke again. ‘There have been some … developments.’

  A sombre tone returned to Gillian’s voice; maybe she remembered how much she needed me. ‘I see … What kind of developments?’

  I dropped in some dark tones: ‘I think I should speak to you in person. Can I pay you a visit?’

  Gillian inhaled sharply. ‘What’s happened?’ She was anxious now for news.

  ‘Nothing … yet.’ I drew the conversation back on course. ‘Can we meet today, say noon?’

  She seemed to be considering the question for a few moments, or maybe her mind was blinking. Suddenly: ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ I imagined her looking at Tina as she spoke, the tramp shaking her head.

  ‘And do you think you could invite young Paul along?’

  This changed her tone yet again. ‘Paul? … What for?’

  I played it cool but right down the middle. ‘Paul has some questions to answer.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Gillian … I’m investigating a murder, this is what I do. If I want to ask anyone questions, you can be sure they have answers I need.’ I turned it up: ‘Can you get Paul?’

  ‘Of course, yes … I’ll invite him round.’

  ‘Good, Gillian. I’ll see you about noon.’

  I clicked off.

  Hod had followed my side of the conversation from the kitchen doorway. Now he walked in, said, ‘We on the move?’

  I thought again of Tina eavesdropping. ‘Your mother never tell you what happens to people who listen at open doors?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They never hear any good of themselves.’

  The bin men were holding the city to ransom again. Could always be guaranteed they’d strike when the place needed them most. They were cunning bastards. But what a union they must have – fair fucks to that lot. At Festival time, Edinburgh is submerged in a sea of styrofoam kebab boxes, Maccy D’s wrappers and Starfucks cups. Add to this the greasy Home Counties crusties that can’t find any kip when they’re up to watch Tarquin in his first stand-up gig, and the place can look like a tip.

  We drove up the Mile. Bins were piled to overflowing on the tourist thoroughfare. The scaffies had refused to take on the extra work associated with this time of year and the waste was mounting up. Foxes and seagulls had well and truly got stuck in to the muck. The cobbles were strewn with the evidence.

  ‘This is some fucking shape to show the place off at Festival time,’ I said.

  Hod steered around a pile of black bags that had been kicked into the road. ‘Blo
ody bin men … lazy fuckers. Can be guaranteed: any big gig in this toon and they’re out on strike.’

  He was right. ‘Cos they get what they want. Wait till the big Hogmanay bash, world’s eyes on Edinburgh – that’ll be the next strike.’

  Much as I was loath to admit it, we needed more like the bin men. Maybe then the ruling classes and their offspring like Ben Laird might be held a bit more in check; shake off some of their more fanciful ideas about dominating the proles. It was all a sorry state of affairs.

  As we drove through the city, I scanned the Hootsman for any news about the case – nothing. Noticed an interesting article about foreign national brassers, mainly Brazilian and Thai, who had rocked up for the Festival and were doing a bustling trade from cheap bedsits at £35 a throw.

  ‘Christ above … globalisation’s got a lot to answer for.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘No never.’

  When we got to Palmerston Place, Hod started to watch his driving, easing the van into Gillian’s street as though he was carting nitro. When he parked up he smoothed out his shirt collar, tightened his tie in the rear-view mirror. Even managed to put a wet fingertip over his eyebrow. Would have thought he had a date.

  ‘Quite content?’ I said.

  He looked me over, said, ‘One of us has got to think about appearances.’

  I took that on the chin, got out and made for the front door. I brushed at the shoulder of my tweed as we went – didn’t seem to make much difference. I looked as crumpled as a paper bag.

  We were shown through to the front room with the usual icy familiarity. Tina was already positioned by the drinks cabinet, pouring herself a large J&B. She had a cigarette burning in an ashtray which was overflowing with dowps.

  ‘Hello, Tina,’ I said.