Gutted (21 page)

Outside the pugs tried some roughhouse on me. Grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, pushed me in the back, said, ‘Get in that fucking car now.’

I turned, said, ‘Look, I’m coming quietly. Last thing I want is you telling Rab I was any bother. Okay? Good, now lose the fucking tone.’

The backhander came from nowhere, opened up my nose instantly, poured blood down my mouth and chin.

The pugs laughed themselves stupid. If that was possible.

I climbed in the car, put my hand to my nose, pinched, and tipped back my head.

They played the Backstreet Boys, turned up high, all the way to the prison. Their bald heads nodded to the beat, fingers tapped on the open windowsills. I’d always wondered who listened to this shite, thought it was only little girls at the school; now I knew different. Something told me today was going to be full of eye-openers.

In the car park at Saughton Prison the pugs dragged me from the vehicle and marched me to the front door. The smaller of the two – a look of the Joe Bugner about him – fished a visiting card from the zip pocket in his trackie top and shoved it at me.

‘Now, go and see Mr Hart and be a good boy. We might be waiting when you get out so don’t be fucking lippy would be my advice or Barney there will be fitting your head to a railway sleeper.’

‘I get the message. Lovely visual image – quite a way with words you have.’

I braced myself for another swipe. None came.

‘Thank you very much,’ he said. As he stonked away he looked genuinely delighted.

The prison smelled like a hospital that had gone bad. Lots of disinfectant, but something told me there wasn’t enough disinfectant in the world to mask the true smell of the place. The guards looked as if they were working security at B&Q – couldn’t have given a toss. I thought: If Rab decides he’s tearing my head off, who’s going to stop him?

I took a seat in the visitors’ area. It was a large room with lots of tabletops and chairs set out. I hadn’t seen old chairs like these since my schooldays, metal tubing with wooden seats. There were names carved in the tables just to complete the retro look. Everywhere tearful women, battered by life, took up the seats and waited for the prisoners to come in. I felt sorry for them, to a one they had been sold a pup.

As the prisoners arrived I felt my nose start to twitch. A thin trickle of blood made its way down the inside of my left nostril and pooled on my top lip. I wiped it away with my finger, squeezed my nostrils together and began the head-tipping again.

‘You’ve been a bastard to get hold ay!’ I looked up and saw a squat forty-something with broad shoulders. ‘Sit the fuck up. I’ve no’ got all day to be fucking aboot with you, Dury.’

I turned to face him. Rab had his black hair cut short on top and at the sides but had a Billy Ray Cyrus mullet at the back. He had a star tattoo on his left earlobe and more to match on his neck going into a baggy grey T-shirt. When he spoke his dark eyes shot from left to right, making sure he wasn’t missing anything going on in the room. ‘I see my boys gave you a wee reminder of who you’re fucking dealing with . . . Good – saves me the fucking bother.’

I tried to speak.

‘Shut it!’ He pointed a finger at me. Rab’s hands were like something out of a Peter Howson painting. Long fat fingers, heavily veined and continually being drawn into fists. His knuckles were scratched and reddened and had obviously been put to some use during his jolt.

‘Right, Dury, here’s how it’s gonna be.’ He was pointing again.
‘You
work for me. I’ve seen this fucking thing –’ he pulled the paper with my article from his back pocket and slammed it on the table – ‘and that’s all by the fucking by. You’re my man now and you’ll do what I fucking tell you.’

I had a few questions but kept my trap shut. I hoped, at some point, Rab might calm down and I’d get a few words in.

He folded the paper away, seemed even more agitated, eyes darting again. ‘I don’t give a fuck who killed Moosey—’

‘So it wasn’t you, then?’ I’d said it before I realised the gravity of my words.

Rab smiled; he actually opened his mouth, showed teeth. ‘If I’d killed the cunt, I wouldnae be fifty grand out of pocket. And you wouldnae be sitting here, Dury.’ He took a deep breath. I could see he was trying to get himself back on track, something approaching composure. I imagined Rab Hart was far more used to roaring orders at people to get what he wanted done. He wasn’t happy having to explain what was on his mind. ‘Like I say, I don’t give two fucks who killed Moosey, but you’re gonna find out, Dury, because whoever did it, likely as not, has my fucking money. And I’m not very happy about that.’

‘I’m doing that anyway.’

Rab drew fists again. ‘Difference is, Dury, now you’re working for me. When you go out that door you tell folk Rab Hart wants to know, you got me?’

I nodded. Was now the time to tell him his tinpot empire was in disarray? I didn’t think there would ever be a good time for that. ‘You know there’s some manoeuvring going on . . . I hate to break it to you but your name doesn’t carry the same weight from in here.’

Rab’s hand came down on the table. The thud set the four legs jumping into the air. He was on his feet, pointing that finger at me again. ‘Rab Hart’s no’ a fucking spent force, no’ by a fucking long stroke!’ Two of the guards came over. They had their hands on little holsters clipped to their belts. It was enough: Rab settled, returned to his seat. The guards walked away.

Rab started to smooth down his hair with the palm of his hand. His lower lip was jutting. ‘Listen tae me, Dury, if folk think I’m played oot then they’re fucking wrong, and I’m gonna prove them wrong. This appeal’s in the bag. I’m telling you, it’s taken care of.’ He looked up at me to emphasise the point with his eyes. ‘Now, Dury, I want you to tell folk Rab’s getting oot and he wants his money back . . . Have you got that?’

A buzzer signalled the end of visiting time. The guards started to usher people out the door.

I stood up. ‘I’ve got it.’

Rab faced me. ‘Remember, you’re working for me now, Dury . . . Anyone gives you any grief, I want to fucking know. They’ll no’ give you it a fucking second time, I’ll make sure of that.’

I turned away. Could feel my nose starting to twitch again.

‘And Dury . . . that money – if you don’t find it, it’s coming out your fucking arse.’ He started to laugh, a strangled, arrogant sound. ‘Fucking sure it is, Dury. Mind of that when you’re on the job.’

COULD THINGS GET
any worse? I doubted it.

As I left the prison and headed into the car park I noticed Rab’s boys had left. I took this as a good sign: only one person would have called them off. The short burst of elation was drowned out, however, by the fact that I was now being followed. And it was definitely plod. The Markies overcoats, collars turned up, gave it away. It was like suddenly catching a waft of bacon cooking. They’d been tipped off to my visit, that was a given; made me wonder about Rab some more.

I took a slower schlep than I would normally, did the old shop window reflection thing. Yep, they clocked me and stopped in their tracks, fiddled with their collars, coughed into fists. How do they train these numpties? Old
Sweeney
videos? All that was lacking was the Cortina hugging the kerb.

I was coming to the end of the road with them, in every way; decided I’d had enough. I wasn’t having my every move monitored for some knuckle-dragger to take back to the nick and give yet more ammunition to Jonny Boy. My feeling was he didn’t need any help on that front and I sure wasn’t going to offer myself up for him.

Things had definitely taken on a more serious tint of late. I knew I’d be lucky to get ahead of the game any time soon, but I still
held
one or two aces. I’d like to see what Hod had turned up after following Sid the Snake’s movements over the last few days – something told me Sid was going to be key to cracking this. More than ever, though, I wanted to up the heat on Mark Crawford. The fact that I had his name from Usual’s microchip was something I was ready to shove in his face. Now that would be a reaction worth watching.

There was a nice-looking little drinker over the road, gas lamps hanging alongside the Younger’s Tartan Special gadgie. I did the old left-to-right bit at the pavement and crossed over, went inside. The exterior had fooled me, it was about as far from traditional as you could get, even had miniature plastic furniture and colouring-in books out for the kids.

‘Fucksake,’ I said to the barman, ‘why don’t you put a seesaw in and be done with it?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Gimme a pint.’ I pointed to some piss-weak-looking Belgian brand on the pump. It took him all of thirty seconds to deliver me a dayglo yellow glass of the fizziest-looking beer I’d ever seen.

‘Anything else?’ He stepped back, waved a hand to the optics, like I didn’t know where they kept these things in bars.

‘Go for broke, let’s see you mess up a low-flying birdie.’

He poured out a Grouse, said, ‘Coke or something with it?’

I involuntarily shuddered at the thought. ‘What do you think? Here’s a clue – fuck no.’

The guy took my money, stood behind a young lass at the till. I could see him tapping the side of his head and pointing down the bar to me as he rang up. I looked around at the yuppies and day-trippers and got the impression this joint was a bit short of real customers, real people. No wonder I got this geezer’s goat.

I took my change and fired into my wee goldie. I could see plod emerging through the door, ordering up two orange juices in long glasses. At close quarters I realised I’d never seen plod looking so young. Christ, had I hit that age already? I let them settle themselves at a table by the puggie. There was a pair of teenagers in
skinny
jeans, at least seventy per cent of their arses hanging out over the top, standing next to them, firing change into the slot machine. I could tell plod was pissed at having to watch these muppets’ cracks at such close quarters; still, gave me a giggle.

I took as much of the pint as I could manage without gagging – it tasted like a bad alcopop, Hooch or something – and then I summoned back the barman of the year.

Raised my voice: ‘Where do you keep your cludgie?’

He pointed to the stairs, said, ‘Up there, first door on the right.’

I kept the volume up: ‘Do you have a newspaper I can take?’ Yeah, was the long haul – got that point in loud and clear.

He brought me a copy of the
Daily Ranger
. I thanked him, rolled it up and tucked it under my arm. I ignored plod on my way up, but could feel them watching me, hot little pig eyes burning into me on every step.

There was a bloke in the cludgie with a toddler of about three or four. Christ, I thought, pubs are no places for children. We need to reclaim the streets.

I let the place empty then dragged the wastepaper basket to the door, wedged it between the sink and the handle; figured it might hold for a few minutes.

There was a small frosted-glass opening window. In my more agile days I might have got through it; these days, forget it. I don’t do agile. I rolled up my coat and thumped out the larger of the other glass panes. It cracked on the corner; a second thud and it shattered. I knocked out the jagged shards and peered into the street below. I’d disturbed some gulls that were picking at scraps around a massive wheelie bin – what I believe they call a dumpster in the States – directly below. Could I lower myself onto it? If I could reach it then the wall skirting the yard was within easy reach and I’d be home free.

As I folded my coat over the ledge, I heard banging on the cludgie door. I’d been rumbled. I looked back and saw a mass of blue paper towels spilling from the wire basket. The sink was coming away from the wall.

I hoisted myself onto the window ledge. As the palms of my hands took my weight a few stray shards of glass spiked into me. I winced at the pain but dragged myself over the edge. I made the dumpster. The gulls screeched at me. I had just enough height to reach up and pull down my coat. I grabbed it and stepped onto the wall. The dumpster was almost empty and had wheels. I got myself between the wall and the edge of the bin and started to push it away. As I did so, plod appeared at the window.

I clocked him face-on as his buddy reached his side. ‘Nice day for it, chaps,’ I said.

‘Stay where you are, Dury.’

I pushed again at the dumpster. It wobbled.

Plod was climbing through the window. ‘I’m warning you, stay right there.’

My palms were bleeding heavily now, little grains of broken glass pressed into the skin as I leveraged myself between the wall and the bin. I gave one last thump on the dumpster and its wheels screeched louder than the gulls hovering above. The bin overturned just as plod stuck his arse out the window. His legs kicked at the side of the building, the toes of his shoes scraping on the brickwork as he searched for the top of the dumpster.

His partner leaned out, grabbed at his buddy’s coat, yelled, ‘Dury, stay where you fucking are!’

‘Not likely.’ I was laughing my arse off at plod scrabbling up the wall. The gulls were getting fired into a selection of tomato tops and cold chips.

‘Dury, you fucker, I’ll swing for you.’