Gutted (2 page)

‘This is fucking madness.’

I poked some more with the twig. It was the body of a man, what they call
skelky
in Scotland, or sometimes
eight stone dripping wet
. His hands were cut to ribbons on the palms. Looked like he’d fended off some fierce swipes from a sharp knife. I turned them over. The knuckles were smooth.

‘You didn’t put up much of a fight, mate.’

He hadn’t been here long, I’d say it was a matter of hours more
than
days. He had, however, been soundly slit from – as the saying goes – neck to nuts. Deep wounds had shredded his shirt and jacket to nothing; he was to all intents naked save his sleeves and trousers. How he’d got here, and who’d put him here, I’d no desire to find out. But old habits die hard. I lifted up the flap of his jacket with the twig. There was a wallet in the inside pocket; I pulled my shirtsleeve over my fingertips, fished it out.

Two tenners and a twenty. A flyer for a sauna in Leith. An RBS bank card. A driving licence that read: Thomas Fulton.

The name meant nothing to me, it was too common. But the face in the photograph sparked some dim recollection; of whom, though, I’d no idea. I put the wallet back.

That I’d been rolling around in Tam Fulton’s claret was something I could have done without. From my experience plod tends to take a dim view of such occurrences around a murder scene. Something like self-preservation kicked in, told me to play it by the book. A stretch for me, but the only option.

I replaced the branches, pulled out my mobi and dialled 999.

Got ‘Emergency. Which service?’

‘Police.’

I took a last glance down at the corpse, caught an eyeful of dark viscera and spilled entrails. Felt another heave. Figured this image was staying with me for a while.

As the operator connected me I stamped out my misgivings, my urge to run, told myself I was doing the right thing.

A firm voice: ‘Police, emergency.’

‘Yes, hello . . . I, eh, seem to have stumbled across a . . .’ – it was clearly murder, but I chose my words carefully – ‘dead body.’

A gap on the line, then, ‘Are you sure the person is dead, sir? Do you require an ambulance?’

‘I’m pretty sure he’s dead . . . The blood’s everywhere and there’s a lot of stuff that should be inside him lying about on the ground.’

Another silence.

‘Sir, can I take your details?’

I felt my pulse quicken. What was I getting myself into?
Said
, ‘My name’s Gus Dury.’ My address and the location on Corstorphine Hill followed.

‘There are officers on their way to the locus now, Mr Dury . . . Can you keep an eye out for them?’

Trembling: ‘Erm, yes.’

‘The officers will take your statement when they arrive.’

‘Fine, yes.’

I hung up.

As I clicked the mobi off there was a rustle in the distance. It put the shits up me. I froze. I’d definite company. Sure as shooting, I wouldn’t be too charmed to meet our man’s acquaintances.

Another rustle. Same spot. I felt sweat form on the back of my neck.

My head buzzed, thoughts going round faster than a mixer. None gave me a get-out.

My jaw clenched, fists followed, both on auto.

Fight or flight?

This scenario: I’d take the latter.

Since the yobs had legged it in the Corrado visibility was blacker than my thoughts. The moon had escaped the cloud, though, and the clearing caught more light now. Could I risk being spotted if I made a dash for it? What would plod have to say about that?

I felt another bucket of adrenaline tipped in my veins. I got ready to mush, then: a whimper. It came from the same spot as the rustle.

‘The dog . . . Fuck, the dog.’

I can’t say the wee fella was glad to see me. He cowered, back against the tree, and put his big black eyes on me.

‘It’s okay, boy . . . it’s okay.’

He looked like a Staffie. I wasn’t sure, but he ticked all the boxes: stocky, deep-chested, your average tinpot hard man’s hound. I’d have expected more of a put-up, snarling. Some teeth-baring maybe. Biting. But got none of it.

‘That’s it, that’s it . . . the good guys are here, boy.’

As I untied him from the tree he trembled. He’d been traumatised.
I
lifted him and he yelped, as near to the noise a baby makes as I’d reckon a dog could manage.

‘Sorry, fella, that hurts, huh?’

I tucked him under my coat and he curled into a ball, laid his chops on my shoulder. I swear he was docile. Me, I’d have been ready to kill the first bastard who came my way after what he’d been through.

‘Think we’ll have to get you to a vet,’ I said.

I made for the clearing.

The sky’s edges started to bleed blue. A violet glow began on the horizon. I could hear the sirens of the police cars bombing it up Corstorphine Road already. In no time this place would be swarming with filth.

The hack in me – or was it the bad bastard? – forced out another call: I dialled my sometime employers, hoped there was still money in the budget for a late shift.

The number rang three times.

An eager voice: ‘Newsdesk.’

‘If I remember what nights are like in there, I’m dragging you away from a crossword.’

‘Sudoku, actually.’

Well, it
was
2009.

‘Gotcha. You’d like a tip-off for tomorrow’s page-one splash, then.’

I heard the reporter’s chair creak as he sat upright. ‘Tell me more.’

I SAT TIGHT
. Wished I could say the same for the dog. He squirmed under my coat and whined and whimpered with every movement.

‘Come on now, you’re not doing yourself any favours,’ I told him.

He looked at me with wide eyes, his fat tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. He did not look a well beast; if I didn’t get him some veterinary attention soon, he wasn’t long for this world.

I felt my heart blacken at the sight of him. ‘Those little fuckers.’

The police cars had stopped and a trail of searchlights made their way up the hill to the clearing.

I had, I guessed, time to make one last call. If this dog was to have any hope I needed to get moving soon.

I dialled Mac. He still owed me after all I’d done for him of late.

‘Mac, it’s Gus.’

‘How goes it? You done with the badgers?’

Oh yeah, that was the job: stake-out on the hill, to catch badger-baiters. These days, I was big time. My late friend Col had left me his pub, but it wasn’t doing too well. We had more debts than punters. I’d been picking up what extra work I could, in any line. Going back to hack work was looking like a more tempting offer than ever.

‘Fuck the badgers, Mac.’

‘Gus, what are you saying? Are you off the job?’

‘I don’t have time for this . . .’

‘Gus, those Badger Protection boyos are paying top whack . . . Are you pissed?’

‘Mac, just listen the fuck up!’ Where I found the balls to speak to Mac the Knife, with all his form, like that, I’d no idea. ‘Give them back their fucking deposit.’

A pause, then, ‘I’m listening, Dury.’

‘Good. Now get in your car and drive to the foot of Corstorphine Hill . . . Right now.’

‘Gus, I’ve got the pub to look after.’

‘Fuck the pub . . . Shut the pub.’

A moment of silence, the radgeness of the idea registered, then: ‘Okay. I’m on my way.’

‘And bring towels, lots of them. And some water if you can manage it.’

‘What the . . . are you delivering a baby?’

‘No, I’ve just had a fucking cow. Now shift your arse, Mac.’

I hit ‘end call’. My phone smelled of Regal – made me want to spark up. As I fished in my pocket for my smokes the dog yelped.

‘Sorry, boy . . . we’ll get you to a vet soon. Mac’s on the way.’

I just got my Marlboro lit when a torch was shone in my face.

I raised my hand, said, ‘You’re blinding me.’

A uniform stomped over. As he approached, the dog let out a bark – bravely, I thought, given his injuries. Had we bonded already?

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ said the uniform.

‘I called you. I’m the one that found the body.’

He shone the torch on me again, ran the light up and down. For the first time since my fall I copped an eyeful of my new Leatherface get-up.

Uniform’s jaw drooped; his eyes didn’t blink. ‘You’re fucking covered in blood.’

‘I know . . . I, eh . . .’

‘You’re dripping in it.’

‘I fell and, well . . .’

He turned away, gave a groan, chucked up. I figured he hadn’t been on the job long.

More uniforms arrived; I pointed them to the corpse. There was suddenly a lot of movement about the place. Radios buzzing, people running back and forth. I pointed the way, retold my story twice, three times to uniforms. Then the big guns got rolled out.

I’d seen a suit like it before, in the window of Jenners, but I never dared to check the price. Like they say, if you need to ask, you can’t afford it. I remembered the make though, Hugo Boss – mob that made the SS uniforms.

Boss Suit strutted past me, shot me the kind of look I guessed he normally kept for
Big Issue
sellers on the Mile. He took some directions from uniform then followed the by now well-trodden path to the corpse. He kept his hands in his pockets, except for when he wanted to wave away his underlings, or point them in a new direction. He was big on himself, no question.

I followed to the edge of the clearing. There was yellow crimescene tape being rolled around the trees and a white tent being unfurled, but I could see everything clearly in the breaking light.

It seemed all straightforward: Boss Suit was leaving it to the shitkickers. Then someone handed him a plastic tray with the corpse’s wallet. I was close enough to see the change of expression from cocksure to shit-scared when he registered the victim’s details.

He wiped his mouth. It was only a few seconds, but telling. Immediately he dropped the wallet back in the tray, ordered the uniform away and strolled to the side of the clearing to make a call.

I tried to get closer. Caught the words ‘It’s fucking Moosey!’ Then he turned, caught me in his gaze. He lowered the phone. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘I found the body.’

‘Dury!’ It seemed my reputation preceded me. ‘Well, well, well . . . the mighty Gus Dury. I don’t know whether to shake your hand or bow.’

I tried a smile. Nah, wasn’t happening.

He walked over to me, checked me up and down. I got the impression he’d been rehearsing this bit. ‘Well indeed . . . I had you down as quite different.’

‘You did?’

‘Oh, yes . . . I didn’t have you down as a total fucking jakey.’

The dog squirmed. I did too.

‘Look, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.’ I held out my hand. It was covered in blood. Dark, almost black blood.

Boss Suit looked down, laughed. ‘I don’t fucking think so . . . Though, given I wouldn’t be standing here now if it wasn’t for you, maybe I
should
be shaking your hand, Dury.’

I saw where this was going: my last case had made some waves with Lothian and Borders plod. ‘I don’t think that’s true.’

‘No, you’re right. I was fucking fast-track; that wee shit storm you caused with the people-smugglers just sped things up. But if the force hadn’t shed a dozen-plus of the top brass, who’s to say I might not be poking about in the grass with those uniform retards?’

I looked away, tried to appear bored. Truth was, I’d heard it all before. I’d blown the lid on an Eastern European people-smuggling racket that was bringing young girls into the city, forcing them into prostitution. My discovery led to some big boys in the force being shown the door. The papers ran with it for weeks. I was the man pointing the finger but I sure as fuck didn’t get anything out of it. This prick, though, seemed to have done all right.

I fronted him: ‘Look, this is all very interesting, going over old times and all that, but if you don’t mind—’

‘What, the case in hand?’

‘Well . . .’

He smiled. Teeth dazzled me more than the torches going about the place. ‘I’m happy to take your statement . . . In fact, it would be my pleasure.’

He produced a Moleskine notebook, black with an elastic strap. He twanged the band, licked the tip of his pen. ‘Go on, Dury . . .
I
’m Johnstone by the way, Jonny Johnstone. You might be hearing more of me.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, I’d say so . . . But to your statement.’

He had me rattled and knew it; he was enjoying winding me up. I tried to calm it, but my nerves were shot. ‘I was just going down the hill after these yobs—’

A hand went up. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . back up. What were you doing here?’