by Tony Black
I don’t know whether it was because Ayr was so far removed from city status that it shocked me to see junkies crashed out in shop doorways or whether it was because I’d seen nothing like it in all my years of association with the place. ‘I’ve called the police,’ a dislocated voice boomed in my general direction.
‘Y’what?’
‘The police …’ It was a woman in a Greggs’ pinafore, she pointed to the shop front where a pile of amorphous clothing and bony joints lay huddled in a pool of urine.
‘Wouldn’t you be better calling an ambulance?’ I said.
A tut. Loud one.
‘That’ll be right, I don’t want to be accused of prolonging another sorry existence like that.’ She stood over the ragged near-corpse of the junkie and pulled a girn that the late Les Dawson would have been proud of. As the flashing lights and sirens appeared I headed off down the High Street, assured in the knowledge I wasn’t the only one whose love affair with the Auld Toun had turned sour.
In Bridge’s pub I nodded to the regulars and scanned the length of the bar for Andy. The place was quiet, only a few dole moles and a crusty old bluenose clamped onto the sports pages of the Daily Record.
The barman appeared, polishing a glass with a white towel. ‘What can I get you?’
I wasn’t there for a drink, I was there to find my friend. ‘No sign of Andy?’
He removed the towel from the glass, stationed it with the other pint mugs on a shelf below the bar. ‘Just what you see here, mate.’
I didn’t know what to think; Bridge’s without Andy at this hour was like New York abandoning the Sinatra soundtrack.
I felt a tug on my coat sleeve. ‘He’s drinking in O’Brien’s now.’
I turned, clocked an old fella with sad drinker’s eyes, a road-map of burst blood vessels running the gamut of nose and cheeks. ‘O’Brien’s, that’s a bit of a schlep up there.’
The old boy shrugged. ‘Bumped into him at Fish Cross earlier, says he’s after a change.’
It didn’t sound like the Andy I knew. He wasn’t big on changes; was still wearing Adidas Samba for crying out loud.
I left Bridge’s and crossed the Sandgate, followed it all the way to Barns Street and then onto the top of the town. As I passed the Ayrshire & Galloway I thought O’Brien’s seemed like a strange choice of drinker for Andy to pick, unless he was trying to go under the radar – which was quite likely.
The bar was quiet, more staff than customers at this hour. Situated across from the train station it picked up the odd day-tripper and those waiting for a return to Glasgow, but had nothing that you’d call a regular crowd.
I spotted Andy huddled in the corner of the snug with a pint of heavy.
‘You’re a long way from Kansas …’
He looked up, frowned. Dropped his gloomy eyes back to the pint. That’s when I noticed the shiner – a brutal black gouge to the side of his left eye that looked to have been delivered with some precision.
‘Been in the wars?’
He looked away, ‘You should see the other guy.’
‘I bet he gave his knuckles a bad scrape.’
Andy picked up his pint, drained a good third in one pelt. When he released the glass from his lips, his demeanour seemed to have changed, like he was too tired to maintain the charade.
‘How did you find me?’
‘Your answering service in Bridge’s.’ I sat down in front of him. ‘What’s going on?’
‘His eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean the obvious … your eye, the change of second residence.’
His gaze fell gloomily into the dark pint. ‘Nothing …’
‘Do I look like I’m buying that?’ I reached out and pressed the underside of his chin. ‘That’s a serious working over.’
He winced, shot a hand to the side of his torso.
‘Ribs sore too?’
‘Look, you’re a bit late to the party, if that’s your plan.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, Doug, the damage is done and if you’re half the friend you claim to be then you’ll pull your neck in.’
He didn’t seem to be referring to the wind-up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, Doug, your little stint with Grantie the other day had some repercussions. The case is closed, you might say.’
My mind swam. I knew Grantie was a low-life, a tin-pot hard man, but I didn’t think he had it in him to mess with someone’s features. Certainly not over a bit of word jousting.
‘Grantie did this to you?’
‘No. Grantie doesn’t like getting out of breath. That’s why he has a payroll.’
The inference was clear, it was supposed to be some kind of message for me. My nerves shrieked when I thought of Lyn at home, alone.
‘God … Lyn.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s back at my folks’ house, on her own.’ I got out of my chair, ‘Come on, you’re coming with me.’
He pulled his arm from my grasp. ‘What? No chance.’
‘Listen, mate, you got me into this and unless you want to make that a pair of shiners, I’d get your backside moving pretty sharpish.’
Andy shuffled around the table; briefly clasping his pint as he went, he managed a couple of slugs before placing the glass on the shelf by the door.
Chapter 35
In the harsh daylight I saw that Andy’s face had been battered worse than I first thought, the dim lighting of O’Brien’s obviously hiding the worst of his injuries. He coughed and wheezed as he went, clamping a hand on his ribcage and grimacing widely. He looked like a man near the end of the road; he didn’t know how close he was, but if anything had happened to Lyn I’d make sure he found out.
‘I can’t believe what you’ve got me into, Andy.’
He struggled for breath, words fell between gasps. ‘Look, don’t go pointing the finger at me … it was you that rattled Grantie’s cage. I told you not to noise him up.’
I put hard eyes on Andy. He had done all but beg me to take this case and now that it had turned nasty he was backtracking. ‘A favour, you said … please Doug, for me, you said.’
He halted in the street outside Rabbie’s. ‘You were supposed just take a look, put his mind at rest … you weren’t supposed to go this far.’
I grabbed Andy’s collar. ‘I’ll go a lot further now.’
He pushed me away. ‘No. It’s over … the case is closed as far as Grantie’s concerned.’ He dug in his pocket and produced a white envelope. ‘Here’s your wages in full. Now let it be.’
I had an urge to laugh in his face but the brief feeling passed quickly. ‘Over? Not a chance. This case is closed when I say so.’ I stepped up to Andy’s chest and tipped some steel in my voice. ‘And you’re going to see it through with me.’
I marched towards the car, tugging Andy behind me as I went. He kept his mouth shut, but I could tell he was rattled. It wasn’t so much the threat of my continuing the investigation, but the real and present threat that Grantie had obviously put on him.
I wanted to know just what it was that Davie Grant held over my friend, but the time wasn’t right to ask that. There had to be some hook that he had in him, but I didn’t know what it might be. I saw now that Andy had changed, his behaviour had altered dramatically from when I last knew him. I had put it down to time, the passing of the years and the fact that we’d both went off in opposite directions for so long. But I saw now that he had turned into something I didn’t like. There was a desperation in him; perhaps it had always been there and I’d translated it as a need, an ambition to get on, get ahead, but when that went it had been supplanted with a different urge altogether.
On the road out to Alloway I kept checking the rear-view for signs of us being followed, or prowling police cars. The steering wheel grew hot in my palms but it was nothing compared to the heat building inside my head and the fears I had for Lyn, alone in that house with no one to protect her. If any hurt b
efell her I’d never forgive myself, or Andy.
‘Tell me what it is he has over you, Andy.’ I let the words fall like incendiary devices, I wasn’t taking any more double-talk from him.
‘What are you on about?’
‘Grantie … you didn’t just bump into him on some piping job at the Lodge.’ The idea seemed ridiculous in light of recent events. ‘I’m on about your face, or more particularly the cuts and bruises. He didn’t serve those up as a thank you.’
‘That was a disagreement.’
I spat at him, ‘Disagreement, pull the other one!’
Andy sank into the seat, fiddled with the window and tried to inveigle some breeze to cool himself down.
‘I told you, you overstepped the mark with him. He doesn’t like that sort of thing.’
I threw the car into the hairpin bend at the top of Laughlanglen, ‘Am I missing something? Like, when did you start taking a good slapping as a matter of course?’
‘There’s one of me and hundreds of them, I’m hardly in a position to fight back.’
‘Why’s he hard-arming you, Andy? What does he have on you?’
‘Nothing …’
‘I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t have got me, and now Lyn, mixed up in all of this if he didn’t have a pretty big stick to beat you with.’
Andy fell quiet as we pulled into the driveway, it was as if I’d timed his escape clause perfectly. I flung open the car door and ran to the house.
Inside, I yelled out, ‘Lyn … Lyn …’
I heard Andy running from the car. ‘No sign of her?’
I stamped through to the kitchen, it was empty. ‘Lyn …’
Andy followed, yelling. We paced the house, upstairs and down.
‘Where is she?’ I said, my voice rasping now with all the shouting.
‘Lyn … can you hear us?’ yelled Andy.
There was no sign of her. I felt an almighty hurt unfolding in my chest, it spread to my shoulders and froze in my neck. I felt tense, sick. I drew fists and fought the urge to vomit where I stood. ‘Oh, God, no …’
Andy laid a hand on my arm. ‘Doug, I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry.’
‘I only …’
‘You only what? Thought of yourself.’
‘No, Doug.’
I yelled at him. ‘Just shut up, would you. Can’t you see you’ve done enough damage. Who knows where she is now, or what that nut-job’s done to her.’
‘I don’t know what to say. I’m in your hands, Doug. I’m sorry.’
‘Start with the truth … what does he have on you, Andy?’
His head fell to his chest, a few stumbled words came on the back of a sigh. ‘Money. I owe him … not much, well, it wasn’t much.’
‘Money for what? You live like a pauper.’
‘I had some troubles with the drink and I got reckless, gambling and … look, does it matter?’
‘Does it matter?’ I pushed him aside. ‘God, does anything, Andy? Does it matter to you that Lyn’s missing?’
I walked downstairs, Andy trailed behind me. As I picked up the telephone receiver he spoke.
‘Who are you calling?’
‘Who do you think? The police.’
‘Doug, now come on, think about what you’re doing.’ He moved in front of me, tried to take the phone from my hand.
‘Leave it, Andy … you’ve done quite enough.’
Chapter 36
The ringing phone was answered quickly.
‘Hello, DI Scott.’
‘It’s Doug Michie.’
I watched Andy walk to the front of the room and grab a fistful of hair. He had no true concept of the trouble he’d caused.
I spoke into the receiver. ‘I’d like to meet up with you, soon as possible.’
His tone changed. ‘I thought we’d said all we had to say to each other.’
‘Not by far …’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Do you want to take the risk of discussing this on the phone or do you want to meet me?’
There was a pause on the line. If he was thinking, DI Scott was taking his time about it. ‘I’m not sure I like being at your beck and call, Mr Michie.’
‘It’s more a matter of quid pro quo … If you help me out, I’m pretty sure I can help you out.’
The pause was shorter this time. ‘Meet me at the Auld Kirk.’
‘Half an hour.’
I hung up.
Andy was still staring through the window at the garden, the back of his head a looming invitation for me to rabbit-punch. I resisted, turned for the door, and then heard the sound of water rushing through the pipes upstairs. The next sound was a lock turning. As the bathroom door slid open, Lyn appeared with a towel wrapped around her. Long dark tendrils whipped at her shoulders as she stepped back in shock.
‘When did you get back?’ she yelled.
I looked up, speechless. Andy appeared behind me. We watched together as Lyn removed the tiny ear-phones of her iPod Shuffle from beneath her damp hair. ‘What are you pair up to? Standing there, ogling me …’
Andy’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘Don’t ask … we’re just very glad to see you!’
She tightened the towel round herself, ‘Perverts!’
The steps seemed steeper than usual as I pounded up them to grab Lyn. She looked at me like I’d lost my marbles. It was on my lips to tell her how I thought we’d lost her, how things had taken a dramatic turn for the worse, but I let it slide as I watched her trail off to the bedroom.
‘I’m going out, Lyn. I’ll leave Andy to keep you company.’
Andy trudged through to the front room. I headed for the door but stuck my head in the living room as I went. ‘You keep an eye on her, do you hear me?’
‘I don’t think she’s the one I need to keep an eye on … Sure you don’t want me to come with you?’
The idea that Andy, with his bruised ribs and shiner, was going to be any help was laughable. ‘I think I’ll manage … don’t let Lyn out of your sight, though.’
I headed for the car.
The pot-holed and scarred roads of Alloway tested the suspension, even on the sports model. If this was supposed to be the premier part of Ayr, I dreaded to think how places like Jabba had fared lately.
I passed the white-washed stone of Burns’ Cottage, made it through a hubcap-sized roundabout onto Monument Road and headed for the auld haunted kirk.
‘Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.’
DI John Scott was already in place, his car parked on the opposite side of the wide street, his burly frame standing sentry at the kirk gates. As I pulled up I saw him start to head for the kirkyard. He was standing over a flat headstone as I arrived on the scene.
‘So, why are we here, Mr Michie?’
It was undoubtedly a question I had no simple answer to. The truthful answer was close to an admission that I was on a fishing expedition, of sorts. The optimistic answer, however, was that with some blurring of the lines of official police procedure, we could help each other out. I opted for a strategy of laying all my cards on the table at once.
I told DI Scott what I’d uncovered about the death of Steven Nichols. I made the details about the drugs trade sound greater than they were, to gauge his reaction, but he did little more than shift his gaze from the middle distance. The definite connections I’d found between Davie Grant and Stevie had more of an impact, but my overall impression was that the DI was unimpressed.
‘I don’t know how far back the animosity between Bert and Grantie runs, but there’s definite conflict there,’ I said.
‘It goes way back, trust me,’ said the DI. ‘Some of it’s vintage, too.’
‘Stevie had some very divided loyalties to contend with … the entire scene’s a cesspit of warped ideas. It’s no wonder the boy took a knife, I’d say they’ve been flying about for a good while.’
DI Scott took out a cigarette, sparked up. He looked contemplativ
e as he turned the conversation back on itself. ‘Look, this is all very interesting, Doug … but it’s conjecture. There’s no facts, what do you expect me to do?’
I wanted him to add to my theories, one in particular. ‘There’s a power play in the Order. I think Bert and Grantie were split over the drugs scene – there’s no way Bert would be for that – when he found out his son was up to his neck in it, heads had to roll. Stevie just got caught in the crossfire.’
DI Scott drew deep on his cig. ‘Prove it.’
‘I can’t.’
The face behind the dark beard sat granite firm. ‘I know you can’t.’
It was time to drop the hammer. If Scott was as good a detective as I thought he was, then he had the missing pieces of the puzzle that I needed. I just had to convince him to share them.
‘You know, it’s Ulster that pulls the Order’s strings. I built my career there, I know the place. I know there’s a fear, a downright nervousness, of Scottish independence in some quarters. Tempers are fraught at the idea of the rest of the union falling like dominos.’
The more I spoke about Ulster, the greater attention I seemed to glean from Scott. ‘What are you saying, Michie?’
‘The power struggle between Bert and Grantie’s just window dressing – the bigger picture’s about the Order augmenting, going up the gears – if you tell me who’s pulling the levers in Ulster, then we can find out who killed Stevie Nichols.’
DI Scott dropped his cigarette on the paving flags, stamped it out. ‘What makes you think I’m interested?’
‘You don’t care about the death of one little Orange boyo, but you have bigger sharks to fry – like the one turning your patch into Zombieland.’
The idea of collaring a bigger player in the drugs trade appealed to the DI. ‘Supposing you’re right, what guarantee do I have that there’s anything in it for me?’
He started to walk out of the kirkyard.
I called him back. ‘John, you underestimate how deep my roots are spread in Ulster. You give me the name of the Order’s contact and I’ll deliver you the drugs source – there’s not a scrote I can’t dig out there, all I need’s a name.’
