Gutted (33 page)

‘Oh, fucking hell . . .
Debs
.’ I was calling her like a boy calls his mother.

I felt a slap.

I opened my eyes. It was Fitz.

‘Jeez, ye were far gone there, boyo,’ he said.

I sat up. ‘When did you come in?’

‘Just now. I thought, well, here’s what I thought . . .’ He handed me a bottle – said ‘VB’ on the front.

‘What’s this?’

‘Beer, lager I think. I got it over the road. ’Tis all they had, ’tis a deli really . . . I think it’s Australian.’

I looked at the label: V
ICTORIA
B
ITTER
.

‘It tastes all right, but have you not got something stronger?’

‘Get that down you first.’

I drained the bottle, wiped my mouth. Passed it back, said, ‘Done.’

Fitz delved in his pocket, brought out a half-bottle of Grouse, some tabs – Regal, and a lighter. ‘Fill yer boots, boyo.’

I ripped into the low-flying birdie, drenched my throat. Tasted like paradise. I kept two-fingers in the bottle; sparked up a tab. ‘Fuck, these are the proper lung-bleeders, Fitz.’

He shrugged. ‘How they treating you?’

I couldn’t help but laugh – like I was staying at the Hilton. ‘Oh fine, thanks for asking . . . Jacuzzi’s a bit cold, though.’

Fitz pulled over a chair, sat by the bunk. He took a tab from the pack, lit himself up from my tip. ‘It’s the end of the road now.’

I took back my cigarette. ‘Y’think?’

Fitz drew deep on the tab, looked at the ash forming, blew on it. ‘You know they’ll throw the book at ye.’

I’d expect any less? ‘You sound confident.’

Fitz fidgeted, tapped at his watch. ‘Well, there’s something you ought to know, Gus.’

I was reclined on my elbow but pushed myself up. He never called me by my first name. ‘And what would that be?’

He drew on the Regal. Deep lines formed in the edges of his eyes. ‘Jonny Johnstone and McAvoy are taking salary from Rab Hart.’

I knew about J. J. but McAvoy was only a suspicion. I played him, ‘You’re a bit late coming to me with this.’

The tab again, a deeper drag. ‘What did you expect? You want me to grass on my own? I’m a fucking Irishman, I can’t do that.’

I didn’t buy the patriotic bullshit. Fitz was filth, if he was shitting on Jonny Johnstone and McAvoy then he was working an angle. ‘Then why are you now?’

He threw down the cigarette, stamped it underfoot. ‘Fuck off, Dury. You think I have some grand play lined up? . . . Do me a favour.’

‘That’s exactly what I have been doing all along, isn’t it? . . . Stirring up shit for that pair was like a fucking godsend to you, wasn’t it? What the fuck’s your angle here, Fitz? You better spill it now or it’s blood I’ll be spilling and you know I’m good for it.’

It was all stage pacing, improv. Fitz had information to lay on me; he just didn’t want to make me think he was giving it out for free. I’d worked him enough. ‘Okay, well, you listen up here and remember I never told you any of this.’ He moved towards me, pulled the whisky bottle from my hand and took the last belt. Said, ‘McAvoy is in deep with Rab.’

‘How deep?’

‘As deep as it gets, but that’s not the issue here.’

‘Then what is?’

‘Judge Crawford.’

The name wasn’t one I expected to hear spoken in the same
breath
as Rab Hart and McAvoy. This stalled my thought process; I went onto auto. ‘The judge?’

Fitz turned to face me. I was close enough to see the cracked veins in his red cheeks. ‘Look, Crawford is hearing Rab Hart’s appeal, don’t you get it? Fuck me, Dury, don’t you fucking get it?’

I rose, walked to the other end of the cell. My head hurt with the possibilities. I couldn’t fathom what Fitz was telling me. Somehow my thought processes had seized up.

‘Don’t you fucking get it yet?’ said Fitz.

I flagged him quiet. ‘I get it. I get it.’

‘Johnstone and McAvoy have been taking Rab’s cash for months, years even, but this is a whole other payday for them.’

My cigarette had burnt down to the filter. A long grey slew of ash fell to the floor. I dropped the filter after it. ‘They’re working me to get Mark Crawford off the hook.’

Fitz slapped his palms on his heavy thighs, stood up to face me in the narrow cell. As I looked at him I didn’t know where my mind was. I felt lost in some rage, some bitterness, some misdirected hatred . . . He was nearest to hand, so copping for all of it.

Fitz spoke, ‘I did my best for you, Dury.’

Still he played me. ‘Anything you did for me, Fitz, was either to put the boot into McAvoy and Jonny Boy or to keep me from blowing the whistle on how you came by some of your previous collars, so don’t come acting the big benevolent with me. You’re filth, like the fucking rest of them.’

He straightened himself, pulled at the belt loops on his trousers and fastened his coat. His face flushed red, the whites of his eyes glowing with rage. He held out a hand for the cigarette packet. ‘Come on, then, get that over. I’ll be on my way.’

As he walked to the cell door, Fitz turned briskly. ‘One more thing, Dury . . .’

‘What?’

‘That’s us even.’

‘Fuck off, Fitz.’

‘No way, laddie. I want to hear you say it.’

I walked over to him, said, ‘We will never be
even
, Fitz . . . but if it makes you feel better, we’ll call it quits.’

As he walked out of the cell, he spoke in a near whisper: ‘And you are well and truly on your own now, boyo.’

MCAVOY FAVOURED AN
early start.

Lights flashed on; must have been all of six in the a.m.

He came in battering a steel tray with the heel of his hand. ‘Rise and shine, cocksucker,’ he yelled. Leaned in close to my ear, added, ‘Today’s judgement day.’ A laugh. Uproarious. The full demoniac head-tilt to follow.

Was I rattled? Past caring? I couldn’t judge.

Flung my legs over the side of the bunk. Too slow for some: a pug in uniform grabbed my shirt, led me to the interview room.

McAvoy sat, crossed his legs. His socks caught my eye – black with red and green argyle diamonds down the sides. His hair seemed to be carefully gelled into place, but no amount of combing was going to disguise the bald patch.

As I took my chair, McAvoy pulled the cuffs of his shirt beyond the limits of his jacket. The cuffs, white like the collar, were fastened by black onyx links; gold arrows pointed at me from each of them. I’d seen them somewhere before, those arrows . . . Oh yeah – on the old prison uniforms.

McAvoy twiddled with the cufflinks, smiled like a car salesman. ‘Here we all are again,’ he said.

‘The gang’s all here.’ A pack of smokes, John Player Specials, sat between us. I reached out for them. From nowhere the pug
slammed
down his hand, crushed the smokes underneath his giant mitt. I looked at him, said, ‘Little jumpy, are we?’

McAvoy laughed. ‘Oh, Dury, you kill me. You really do.’

Wanted to say,
I’d fucking like to
. Somehow thought it wouldn’t quite fit the situation; went with, ‘You know, you crack me up too.’

The pug retreated. McAvoy took the packet of tabs, removed the cellophane, smoothed out the crushed edges. He opened the top on the cigarettes, pinged the base until two or three tabs popped up, offered me one.

I accepted. Put it in my mouth. ‘How about a light?’

‘Sure, sure.’ He leaned back, ferreted in his jacket pocket, produced a silver, soft-touch lighter. Flame shot up about an inch high.

This was going too well. I felt unsettled. That was the aim, right? I tried to focus. Remembered I had right on my side. Of course I’d done wrong, many times, but not this time. This time I was in the right. It would take a hell of a lot more than placing me at the scene of the crime with a dodgy motive to get me put away for a man’s murder . . . wouldn’t it?

McAvoy watched me, curiously. Let me get halfway down the tab, then spoke: ‘You get about, Dury.’

‘You mean the Gibby thing . . . Not gonna try hanging that on me too, are you?’

A smile. Wry one, maybe. ‘No, definitely not. We have that little,
ahem
, incident tidied up already.’

‘Clean-cut, was it?’

A laugh. ‘Let’s say we got an early lead on it.’

‘Wonders never cease.’

McAvoy sighed, weary of me already. He leaned in. ‘Your involvement is still something of a mystery, but I’ve bigger plans for you, Dury.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Have ye now.’

Didn’t register a hit. He reached below the desk, took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. He shuffled them a while. Hummed,
hawed
. Pointed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, then, ‘Ah, here we are. Now to other matters.’

He placed two sheets of paper before me. Both held graphs: identical red lines highlighted on each of the two pages. McAvoy peered at them, twiddled with his cufflinks again, made sure they were on show. Said, ‘Why don’t you take a look at those, Dury? A close look.’

I picked up the pages. They were fingerprint analyses; seemed to indicate a match for the two. ‘Okay, you have two charts, matching prints for something,’ I said.

McAvoy looked pleased. Too pleased. He smiled, almost giggled, leaned forward. He removed a silver pen from his top pocket, pointed, said, ‘Now, see here . . . where the two red lines peak?’

I nodded.

‘That’s a definite match – one hundred per cent – that can’t be faked.’

I drew on my tab.

He pointed with the pen again. ‘And here . . . and here . . . and here . . . and here.’ He kept pointing to similar peaks and troughs on the two charts.

I cut him off, ‘You’ve made your point.’

‘Have I? Have I really?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

He looked at the pug, smiled. The pug smirked back like an inbred farmer’s son who’d just received a pat on the back for fucking his first sheep. ‘Are you sure you understand, Dury? I mean really understand?’

I stubbed my tab. Leaned across my side of the desk, blew out the last of my smoky breath in his face as I spoke. ‘You have my fingerprint from the murder scene.’

McAvoy’s face changed shape, and colour. His brows drooped. He said nothing, sat back and waited for me to speak.

I said, ‘I’m guessing you found this on Moosey’s wallet.’

McAvoy was speechless. I wanted to plug his mouth. He checked to see the tape was running as I spoke. I wondered what his pulse
rate
was sitting at. He was as psyched as a Formula One driver in the pits, raring to go.

I played it cool – what had I to lose now? ‘Yeah, I guess I must have left my prints when I took out his wallet.’

McAvoy couldn’t hold back, ‘You removed the victim’s wallet?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘So, you admit you were on the scene at the moment of death?’ He grabbed his notes. ‘You are telling us you were at the murder scene on Corstorphine Hill on May fifteenth, and removed Thomas Fulton’s wallet . . .’

‘I called you in, if you remember.’

McAvoy nodded rapidly, said, ‘Yes . . . you admit being on the scene of the murder, we can place you there. We have your dabs on the corpse. What were you after in his wallet – money?’

I felt my mouth narrow to a small aperture. ‘Fuck no.’

‘You weren’t looking for more money . . . like you knew Fulton was carrying?’

‘What money? First I heard he was carrying money was in here.’

McAvoy swept a hand over his hair. ‘How did you know him?’ he said.

‘I didn’t.’

He looked up, flashed eyes on me, then returned to his notes and produced a set of photographs. They were pictures of me talking to Moosey’s wife, with Sid at his house, and with Rab Hart in Saughton Prison. ‘You are one of Fulton’s known associates. Why else would you be seen with this lot?’

I tapped the table. ‘McAvoy, my next answer might confuse you . . . I was doing something known as
detective
work.’

That put the needle in him. He placed down his pen. Suddenly he seemed to remember he was here to hitch my arse to the flagpole. He lost it. ‘Right, Dury, why did you kill him?’

I laughed in his face. ‘You think I killed him . . .? You’re dumber than you look.’

He stuck a finger in his collar, undid his top button. ‘Stop messing
me
about. We have you on the scene, the victim was fifty thousand pounds lighter after you left and you are roughly that amount in hock for the pub. I think that’s enough of a reason for me to say we have you bang to rights.’

I took the cigarettes up. His lighter was still resting on the pack.

‘What you have, McAvoy, is no fucking clue.’

‘
What
?’

‘I didn’t kill Moosey – I stumbled across his corpse. He was gutted before I got to him.’