Gutted (5 page)

I came up blank. ‘The what?’

‘The kid that got attacked by a pit bull. They reckoned it was Moosey’s dog . . . Never managed to pin it on him, though.’

I twisted round to face him. He’d dropped his pitch, found a reverent tone, was enough to capture my interest. ‘Why not?’

Rasher sat back down. He exhaled slowly as he placed his glass down in front of him, ‘Moosey was one of Rab Hart’s crew.’

‘Shit.’ Much as I tried to keep my nose clean, stay away from the city’s knuckle-breakers and pugs, there was one name everybody knew. Of a bad lot, Rab Hart was the worst.

‘Aye, shit’s about the strength of it.’ Rasher took a deep swig on his whisky. ‘Things are very lively in that outfit right now.’

‘Lively?’

‘Well, I say lively – chaos would be more like it. You know Rab’s inside . . .’

I didn’t.

‘Facing a ten stretch for counterfeiting.’ He paused. ‘Ralph Lauren shirts. He was yanked with a warehouse full of them. There was a raid; some polis got battered.’

‘So who’s running Rab’s firm?’

‘He is, from Saughton Prison. Only, from what I hear there’s been some jostling to take over in his absence.’

‘Not folk I’d want to be jostling with – could get nasty.’

Rasher nodded. ‘Aye, oh aye, especially if Rab wins his appeal . . . be a few heads cracked then.’

The words made me tense in my seat – did I want my head to be one of them?

‘When’s his appeal?’ I said.

Rasher put down his glass, rubbed hands together. ‘Any day now.’

SPENT A COUPLE
of hours on Rasher’s article. Can’t say it was my best work – was a bit ring-rusty. But still, it felt good to be back doing the do. I even allowed myself to entertain the idea that I might be resurrecting my career, and all that might entail. Had even fooled myself with a notion of justice – not for Moosey, who looked like the worst kind of criminal trash, but because I could see something wasn’t right here.

The way plod had behaved was off for sure. I was convinced Jonny Johnstone was all needle; those boys have my card marked, but I didn’t like the kip of him. I wanted to have all my ducks in a row if he decided to take an interest in me.

Rasher said he’d get one of his office juniors to pull some files off the system for me, old newspaper cuttings detailing the Crawford child’s killing, and some stuff on Edinburgh’s answer to Al Capone – Rab Hart. He saw a series of articles, with a big photo byline; I was a name again. Nearly.

I looked out of the cafe window: an endless trail of backpacks, all shapes and sizes, traipsing up and down the streets. They’d stop, stare up at buildings on the sniff for a plaque or anything that would give resonance to their visit. A close. A pend. A wynd. All endless opportunities for photographs. I swear, I’ve seen these people on their knees photographing the cobbles.

I was waiting for my mate Hod. Since his property business had taken off, he’d decided there was more to life than sitting behind a desk. He’d appointed managers, become an adrenaline junkie for a while. Now he was bored again, thought I was a route to some action. Truth told, I was glad of the help. He’d jumped at the chance to track down the Crawfords for me, do some snooping.

There was a CD being pumped out in the cafe, Lennon covers by contemporary artists. I caught the first one on the way in – Lenny Kravitz doing ‘Cold Turkey’ . . . Not for the first time, I thought. U2 had grabbed ‘Instant Karma!’ by the bollocks; sounded painful. Now the Black Eyed Peas were murdering ‘Power to the People’.

I’d had enough. Muttered, ‘Is nothing sacred any more?’

‘Dream the fuck on.’ It was Hod.

‘What’s that on your face?’

‘Trying for a beard. I hear it looks distinguished.’

‘Dishevelled more like.’

He took that where it was intended, on the chin; changed subject. ‘I’ve checked out the Crawfords. They’ve got a place on Ann Street.’

I knew it well – on the edge of Stockbridge; the pretentious called it New Town.

‘Good for them.’

‘Did you know they had another kid?’

I didn’t. But it interested me no end when he spilled the details before me. The Crawfords had a lad about the same age as the yobs on the hill. Hod had pictures on his camera phone. Showed me a skelf of a youth. They were poor quality.

‘I can’t place him. They all look alike these days,’ I said.

‘Yeah, fucking Bay City Rollers rejects. Look at that hair: it’s in a side-sweep.’

He wasn’t wrong. ‘It’s the fashion.’

‘Y’what? The fashion’s to look like Archie
fucking
Macpherson?’

‘Would you prefer Arthur Montford and those jackets?’

We laughed it up.

Hod said, ‘You don’t think our boyo there could be one of those yobs off the hill.’

I looked closer. ‘Well, he’s in the right gear.’

‘It doesn’t make sense, though, y’know . . .’ Hod brushed at the stubble on his chin, turned away to look out the window. ‘Him coming from a good family.’

There were more tourists passing by.

‘Does anything make sense, ever?’

He didn’t answer me. I knew where he was coming from. This kid was up to no fucking good.

Hod spoke, got agitated, brought down his finger on the tabletop. The salt-shaker trembled. ‘The guy who we’re told was responsible for killing this kid’s sister turns up gutted like a fish and he’s maybe yards away on the night in question . . . Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

I looked at him, shook my head. ‘I’m thinking the beard’s not gonna work, Hod.’

He stood up. ‘Fuck off. Ready to rumble?’

I took out my mobi. ‘Can you put those pictures on my phone? They might be useful.’

‘Sure – I’ll Bluetooth it.’

‘Yeah, whatever . . . Here it is. Do your stuff.’

Hod fiddled with the settings, sent the pictures, then we got moving. At the door he turned. ‘One more thing . . . Joseph Crawford, the kid’s father, he was a lawyer.’

‘
Was
a lawyer?’

‘He’s a judge now.’

‘You mean we’re about to doorstep a judge?’

‘Thought it worth mentioning.’

They say Ann Street was the Queen Mum’s favourite street in Edinburgh. When she was on her way to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, so the story goes, she would always ask her chauffeur to make a detour down Ann Street. She loved the Georgian splendour of the architecture; reminded her of a bygone era. I could do without
it
myself. Reminded me of what had always been wrong with this city and the country in general – the haves having far too fucking much at the expense of the have-nots.

I checked out the Crawfords’ place – a carefully manicured lawn and, what was that, topiary? I shuddered at the thought. Their one concession to conspicuous parading of their wealth, however, was a silver-grey 5 Series Beemer, just pulling in. A 5 Series says one thing: ‘still on the up’. Not quite a 7 Series; that says ‘I’ve arrived’. A car like this, you have a ways to go. Gave me some room to negotiate.

‘That him?’ I asked, pointing to the bloke getting out the driver’s door.

Small, thin, a black suit and brown shoes – eccentric, or another new fashion I’d missed? Either way, I didn’t like the look.

‘He’s our man,’ said Hod.

We walked over, there’s a phrase –
calm as you like
. Hod firmed his features, had his patter all planned out. ‘Mr Crawford?’

‘Yes?’

‘Mr Joseph Crawford?’

‘Yes, what is this?’ He flustered real easy; the distance between his brows and his rapidly receding hairline shrank fast.

Hod worked him, took out a little notebook, opened up, tested the spine, said, ‘You are the father of one Mark Crawford, an employee of the Royal Bank on Nicolson Street . . . Both of you reside here at number—’

The judge butted in, set his briefcase down on the road. ‘Look, what the hell is this? I demand to know.’

I intervened, crossed the distance between Hod and the man, said, ‘I don’t think we want to set any curtains twitching. We should go inside.’

He looked over my shoulder, checked all the curtains were still in place, raised his briefcase. ‘What? Who are you?’

‘You lost a child some years ago, didn’t you?’ His complexion changed. I went on, ‘I believe a man called Fulton was in the frame. He’s been killed.’

The judge’s brow glistened. ‘I don’t see how that concerns me.’

I had the words ready but Hod jumped in first. ‘Look, your son was spotted at the murder scene.’

Subtle as fucking ever; Hod could give Alf Garnett lessons. I took over. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but I think that it might be best if we go inside, Mr Crawford.’

The front door was immaculately painted in cornflower blue, the window showing a Charles Rennie Mackintosh-style scene in stained glass. The judge turned the key in the lock, prised open the door. Inside I heard loud, repetitive dance music. Christ, have kids today no ear for a tune?

The carpet covered only three-quarters of the hallway; at the edges were polished boards. There was a time when this look spelled poverty – fitted carpets were a luxury – now it reeked of trendiness and ersatz nostalgia. The judge put his briefcase on the hallstand, dropped the keys of the Beemer in a little brass tray.

‘Shall we?’ He motioned to a door.

In the living room our yoof sat sprawled on a green chesterfield, feet up on the arm, reading a copy of
Viz
. The judge ran in and slapped down his feet, yelled, ‘Get that bloody garbage turned off!’

I recognised him at once as one of the yobs from the hill. Every fibre of me wailed ‘Boot his balls into his neck’. I fought an urge to drag him from the couch and set about his head with fists. I looked at Hod, expected an acknowledgement, but he was too busy eyeing the cornicing, running calculations in his head. Old habits die hard: once a property speculator . . .

The wee prick tried to speak: ‘I was listening to that—’

‘Shut up,’ said his father.

As the lad turned he saw myself and Hod in his home and firmed his jaw as if he was ready for a fight.

‘Hello, Mark,’ I said. I gave him a couple of nods in quick succession, as if to confirm the thoughts running through his head. ‘. . . We meet again.’

‘You know these men?’ said his father.

Mark Crawford was frozen to the spot, trapped by the instinct
to
have a pop at me and the need to stay calm in front of his father. The power of speech deserted him. Where he held on to his comic his knuckles turned white. I thought he might lose it any minute.

‘Should we wait for the lady of the house?’ said Hod. He returned to the notebook. ‘. . . That would be Mrs Katrina Crawford, née Fairbanks.’

The judge took his hands from his pockets, a white handkerchief in one. ‘Look, no, we don’t need my wife. What is this all about?’ He mopped his large brow, returned the handkerchief to his pocket. He had no sooner completed the movement when his wife appeared through the doorway.

She was what the Scots call
thrawn
. A tall woman with pale skin and paler eyes, she haunted the room like a ghost. As she walked in, her mouth parted ever so slightly. Words, suspended on her lips, never appeared. She wore an apron, which she hastily tried to unfasten as she moved towards us. She faced me, managed some sangfroid. ‘What is going on here?’

I motioned Hod to put away the notebook, walked into the centre of the room. ‘Nice place you have here.’

Mrs Crawford turned to her husband. ‘Joe, what is this?’

The judge looked lost. ‘Look, if this is some kind of—’

‘Some kind of
what
, Mr Crawford?’ I said.

‘Well, I don’t know . . .’

I walked over to the yob, stared right into his eyes. ‘What were you doing on Corstorphine Hill the other night, Mark?’

He said nothing. He had a strong gaze for his years. Most would have turned away; I raised my volume a notch. ‘With the dog and the gang and the guns, Mark.’

The woman approached. Hod stepped in, raised a palm – it was enough.

I grabbed the yob’s shoulders. He spun them away, drew fists. It made me smile. ‘A man’s dead, Mark . . . His name was Thomas Fulton.’

His mother lurched for me, grabbed my arm. ‘Please, please, he’s just a boy.’

I turned. Her grip was strong – I could feel her anguish. I didn’t want to bring any more hurt to her but what else could I do? ‘Look, I appreciate how painful this must be, but you must see how this looks.’

The judge moved towards his wife, put an arm round her shoulder, led her away from me.

Mark was still staring at me. His eyes were slits, his fists still balled up in anticipation.

The judge spoke: ‘If this is about money . . .’

I was incredulous. ‘How much money do you think it would take to cover up a murder?’

Mrs Crawford’s eyes widened; her mouth fell open. ‘What . . .
what
?’