Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) (28 page)

‘I’ll be fine … And you?’

She smiled. ‘I’ll be fine too.’

As Debs left the room it was like a part of me left with her; I no longer felt the need to go over the old times. The ground was covered. We’d parted, and we’d parted on good terms. I was happy about that. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I was happy about something.

When the door opened again, Hod, Mac and Amy came in. Amy rushed to my side and put her arms around me. Her long hair fell on my face, then she jerked back her head and stared at me. Her eyes were red and swollen but she seemed to have collected herself now. I was glad to see her.

‘Oh, Gus … you daft prick.’

I smiled. ‘Stop that … it only hurts when I laugh, y’know.’

‘What the fuck happened to you?’ said Mac. He took his hands out of his jacket pockets, weighed them in the air.

‘Take a wild guess,’ I said.

Hod answered: ‘He got rubber and ended up in a ruck … Was on the pish again, after all his warnings of late.’

I sliced the air with my arm. ‘Only half right, smart-arse!’ I motioned Amy to sit on the bed. ‘This was Shaky’s doing.’

‘You saw Shaky?’ said Mac. ‘And you’re in one piece?’

‘Aye, impressive, eh.’

‘What’s going on, Gus?’ asked Hod.

I filled them in on the deal I’d struck with Shaky, on the mental pug in the trackie who was desperate to take a shot at me, and on one or two other things that I’d learned recently from Stevo and Fitz. Things were hotting up. If we didn’t find Ben’s killer soon, I seriously feared there would be another death. Maybe mine.

‘It’s fucking madness,’ said Hod. ‘I can hardly get my head around it.’

Amy placed a hand on her hip, butted in. ‘It’s this city all over. Jesus, you should see some of the brats on my course: they think they’re entitled to lord it over the rest of us … probably always have done. It’s just utter fantasy.’

Hod wasn’t impressed. ‘You’re saying it’s just deluded kids? Those wee bastards are feral.’

‘Those arseholes like Ben Laird got carried away with it all,’ I said. ‘It’s a boys’ gang, silly wee boys playing silly wee games … but they took it too far.’

Mac was listening with his chin in his fingers. ‘You’re forgetting the drugs … they were tanning all kinds of shit. And the Laird boy was dealing … See, when a fair whack of poppy starts coming in, and yer off yer heid on something or other, it’s easy to lose it.’

We had them sussed. But this was a group that was protected, in high places. The Craft was watching over them; and not one of them wanted to see old wounds reopened.

‘There’s a way forward from here,’ I said. ‘But we need to get moving.’

Hod laughed. ‘We … moving. You’re not including yerself in that, are you?’

‘Oh aye.’

Amy slapped her hips. ‘Gus, you’re going nowhere. You nearly died, or have you forgotten that?’

I started to take my clothes out of the cabinet by the bed.

‘Gus, did you hear the lassie?’ said Mac. ‘Yer no’ going anywhere.’

I grabbed the bundle of neatly folded clothes. They were caked in dried claret. ‘Well, I’m gonna need some new gear before I go, that’s for sure.’

I WAS DOING OKAY ON the wobbly pins; my knees felt loose, but then so did my ankles. Between them they seemed to work at keeping me upright. My main concern was the craving for alcohol. The hair of the dog that bit me. I needed to down some sauce soon or the shakes would be back. The hallucinations had stayed away; it would take a good few days of no intake before they kicked in. But I knew they were in the post.

I was determined to make a go of things with Amy. Christ knows why she had stood by me, but she had; I’d be an idiot to question that. In a strange sort of way, now that I had seen Debs, it was like I was given a free run at some happiness. If I had that feeling in me, life couldn’t be all bad. Well, could it?

I turned down Leith Walk. Some wanky arts events had kicked off in a couple of the bars, some Student Grant types were hanging about in rugby shirts and ripped jeans. A few of them had on chunky basketball boots, and to a man they had the customary three to four inches of undercrackers on display. Throw in the foppy hairstyles and they were an accident waiting to happen down this end of the town. Hardmen with Staffies go looking for this type of action. Finding it in their own manor was like all their Christmases come at once.

I sloped passed the yaw-yawing mob, kept myself moving. Much
as I despised their ilk – they got my goat, plain and simple – I’d come to feel for the parents of the brats. Ben Laird had been a piece of work, no question. He’d graduated from dabbling in drugs to dealing them, and more besides. Pimping out girls to his well-off buddies must have made him popular, but the boy had been out of control. Add that to the mix of teenage arrogance, and the hothousing of ego that went on in that moronic good old boys’ group of his, and the lad was knocking on trouble’s door. I had my suspicions that the very public coming out of his mother with Tina could have pushed him over the top. Dropping the ‘Bender’ Ben tag smacked of oversensitivity. One thing the lad needed to get straight from the off was, the world he was moving in had no place for sensitivity.

I took a turn off the Walk at Robbie’s Bar, headed down to Easter Road. This part of the East End attracts some numbers on the weekend, match day, but the rest of the week it’s dead at the far end.

The tenements are falling apart down here. In Edinburgh scaf-folding multiplies in the summer months as roofers and the council conspire to squeeze even more out of the hard-pressed townsfolk. But round here, the roof could be in before a stick of scaffold was seen. Some yuppie flats had been stuck up by a foreign firm that didn’t know the postcode was unattractive: I’d been watching the prices drop steadily on their adverts, wondering when they’d be giving them away.

As I turned for the caff I caught sight of Fitz’s Lexus. I’d arranged to meet him to go over what we had turned up on the case so far. He was parking up over the road; I left him to get on with it, went in and ordered up some coffees. For the first time in months I felt like food: all my appetites seemed to be returning. I took that as a good sign – so long as the main one could be held in check.

‘Could you do me a bacon roll too?’ I asked.

Got some nods. Waitress shouted the order through the serving hatch.

I sat in the far corner, away from the window. It didn’t do to be
seen with Fitz in public. We were both agreed on that. When he came in he was sweating hard, his face was flashed red and thin wisps of grey hair stuck to his brow. He looked aggravated, ready to blow off some steam, perhaps.

‘Fucking Festival … when’s it going to be over?’ he said.

‘Not soon enough.’

‘Annual fucking jamboree of midgets and poofs on our streets. ’Tis enough to make ye go postal.’

I stifled a laugh; the PC brigade hadn’t reached this end of town yet.

The coffees arrived. They were instant. I didn’t complain – meant a reprieve from the usual fifty-seven different varieties of coffee you get listed in most city caffs. You asked for a mocha in this joint, they were likely to think you were taking the piss, or ask what the fuck it was.

I tucked into my roll. Fitz turned up his shirtsleeves; his arms were wet with sweat.

‘So,’ I said. ‘How’s Colin doing?’ Didn’t see any point in hanging about, or playing the slow build. We had business to do, and time was a major factor now.

Fitz creased his brows. The mention of his nephew seemed to calm him a bit. He widened his eyes and let out a slow trail of breath as he spoke: ‘He’s holding up … The lad’s rattled, though.’

I didn’t want to press him further. It was a sensitive issue. Fitz knew what the Craft was capable of – had seen it in action – but the young lad was new to the game, didn’t know what to expect next. I wondered if that was how it had been with Ben. ‘And what about you, Fitz,’ I changed tack, ‘did you get a look at those faces?’

He leaned forward, acted conspiratorial. I could see beads of moisture sitting in his eyebrows. None of this came easy for him. At his stage of the game, his time of life, he was looking to take things easier, not going full pelt at the top brass … again. ‘I did, yeah.’ He held back, made a pensive sigh.

I prompted, ‘
And
?’

Another, longer sigh. ‘As we thought … there’s some faces in
that picture that found their way onto the force. Fucking fast-tracks. Two of them, Henderson and Bowman, are top dogs in the Craft …’

‘Hang about – Charles Henderson?’

‘Aye, we call him Chick … or Chief Super to his face.’

‘We’ve met.’

‘Y’wha’?’

I felt my mind drawn back. ‘At Calder’s hanging.’

‘
And
?’

‘He was by the book … firm. Never so much warned me off as advised me what might be good for my health.’

Fitz wheezed an indrawn breath, his shoulders tensing, ‘I did some digging about, and yer man Calder was at the uni the same time as Chick Henderson and Bowman. The lad that got hanged back then, he was best mates with that group.’

It figured – knew it would. The scene was a little less hazy. I could see how Calder was involved, where his compulsion to cover things up had come from – but had he got fed up being leaned on? Thirty-odd years to keep a secret like that under wraps was a long time. Maybe he grew tired of it all, got spooked … and it cost him his life. ‘Fitz, do you know about … the Seriatim?’

He rolled eyes, was an almost dismissive gesture. ‘Bills itself as a debating chamber … More like posh twats’ buggery and business school. They do a sideline in recruiting for the Craft.’

‘How did you come by that information?’

‘Ah, feck, Gus … you know better than to ask. All I will say is this: according to Ben Laird’s file, every statement that was taken on the night of his death came from boyos in that feckin’ group … and none of them conflicted.’

Seemed like the mob were well versed in police procedures. Of course they fucking were – they had experience of it to go on – and the filth were leading them by the hand. I felt myself drawing fists. I was surprised I had the energy to still be angered. But, by Christ, I was. ‘Okay. What else can you tell me?’

‘Bowman, he’s away down south, some big shot at the Met, but
Henderson, his career’s running away with him here. Hasn’t he more fucking stars than the Man U squad!’

‘You think he’s the one pulling the strings?’

Fitz laughed. ‘I’d bet my fucking bollocks on it!’

It all fitted into place. Proving it would be another matter. But that wasn’t my concern. I was after Ben Laird’s murderer. What happened after I found that out wasn’t for me to think about. When I found the killer, I’d light the blue touchpaper and retire. In every way, this case had just about killed me and I was in no fit shape to take on any more. I wanted to crash the rig and walk away, hopefully in one piece … and with Amy.

‘So, what’s the plan?’ I said.

Fitz eased back in his seat, took up his coffee. His face was a blank sheet, impossible to read. ‘I’ve no plan, Dury.’

I amped it up: ‘You just want to see this swept under the carpet?’

A tut, then a huff. ‘What would you like me to do, call in Internal Affairs?’ He started to laugh. ‘Christ on a fucking rubber cross, Dury, this mob run the force … we do things their way, or no way. What you
can
do is find yer boyo’s killer and, at best, get the other cases looked at. Don’t count on bringing any of this lot down – they’ve had too long to get their fucking act together.’

It didn’t sound like the right move. My face must have gave away what I was thinking.

Fitz’s voice was higher now: ‘Look, if there’s one thing I do know … when these bastards fuck up, like Calder and the Laird lad … their own take care of them.’

I was curious. ‘What do you mean?’

He lowered his voice again. ‘What I mean is … the Craft doesn’t like having attention drawn to itself. They have ways and means of dealing with those that bring it down. They have their own kind of justice.’

‘What you’re saying to me is … if I blow this up, that’ll be enough? Those that protected the killer will be punished by their own?’

Fitz nodded. ‘They’ll face harsher justice than any court … but
let me give you a warning.’ He put down his cup, wet his lips with his tongue. ‘They will do everything they can to cover their tracks, Dury – including kill. If you push them too far, they won’t give a second thought to blotting you out.’

I grinned. ‘Yeah, plenty have tried before them. I’m still here.’

Fitz stopped me raising up my cup by placing a hand on my arm. ‘I mean it … be very careful. You don’t know who you’re messing with here, Dury. These people are the worst sort of dangerous … they’ve lots to hide, and more to lose.’

I HAD A HANDFUL OF Harry Hills to take after my latest trip to the hospital. Took a scoop of them and half expected to see them again, but managed to keep the lot down. Thanked Christ for the let-off. The last twenty-four hours had been an eye-opener – in more ways than one. Couldn’t say I was having difficulty coming to terms with my new status coupled off with Amy, but it did make me think about the way I’d been battering myself to bits. There was a time for drinking and despair, for raging against the world; now didn’t seem like it. I kept replaying the old Lennon interview where he’d been asked if he’d found it harder to write now that he had fame, wealth and happiness. His reply had been a resounding no – that he’d found it much easier to write with cushions around him. I took his point; I’d been dining out on the wreckage of my career, marriage and life for so long that maybe it was time to let all that go. I was definitely on the mend, if not yet physically, then mentally – the clearest indicator perhaps being that I’d suddenly stopped listening to Joy Division.