Paying For It (21 page)

A bashed leather couch was opposite me. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

Mac waved up a hand, said mockingly, ‘By all means.’

‘Suppose a cuppa’s out the question.’

‘Don’t push it.’

As he went to put on the kettle, I delved into some Thomas H. Cook.

People were lost and helpless, even the smart ones … especially the smart ones. Everything was vain and everything was fleeting. The strongest emotions quickly waned. A few things mattered, but only because we made them matter by insisting that they should. If we needed evidence of this, we made it up. As far as I could tell, there were basically three kinds of people, the ones who deceived others, the ones who deceived themselves and the ones who understood that the people in the first two categories were the only ones they were ever likely to meet
.

Heady stuff.

Mac appeared with two cups, a packet of caramel wafers held in his teeth.

I took my cup from him, tasted it. ‘That’s good coffee.’

We supped in silence for a minute or two, then Mac stood up, said, ‘Och for fucksake.’ He was on edge as he went to his desk, took out a bottle of Grant’s. ‘Here … get fired into that.’

I topped up our coffees with the whisky.

‘Where have you been?’ said Mac.

‘Hod’s place.’

‘Portobello – I thought you might have went a bit further than that. Porty,
Jesus
, Gus.’

‘Mac, I’m still working the case.’

‘Och … I dinnae want to hear any more.’

‘I’m close.’

‘Close to a hiding, one you won’t forget.’

I showed him my new teeth, said, ‘I’ve already had one of those.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m on about a proper one – the kind of hiding they put the full stop on. Do you hear me?’

‘I hear you. Look, what’s new? You told me all this the last time. You must have picked up some more details.’

Mac reached for the Grant’s, filled his cup to overflowing. ‘It’s been pandemonium since the trial kicked off.’

‘I saw him on the telly.’

‘Pissing show trial.’

‘Come again?’

He raised the cup to his mouth, gulped deep, and winced. ‘Did you not think he looked a little bit too cool?’

‘Does he ever look otherwise?’

He filled his cup again, offered me more. ‘From what I hear they’ve enough to put Zalinskas away for good, only he’s covered his back.’

‘He’s protected?’

Mac nodded. ‘Friends at the very top, so high nobody saying who.’

This wasn’t a town to keep secrets in. ‘Nobody? Come on …’

‘Gus, if I knew, I’d spill it. I’m already up shit creek. Have you seen the nick of my shop? The business is on its arse. I’ve nothing to lose.’

I wondered if Mac connected our friendship with his loss of trade. ‘You don’t think …?’

‘God no, Gus … it’s this city. Trends change so fast I can’t keep the pace any more.’

I drained my cup. Poured in a power of whisky. Drank deep.

‘About the murder – any ideas?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘I’d heard Billy had something on Zalinskas.’

‘Like what?’

‘That’s it, I’m as much in the dark as you, although …’ I had my doubts about putting this out but knew Mac to be a good enough friend; if I couldn’t trust him, who could I trust? Said, ‘The night before his death, there was a fight between them.’

‘No shit.’

‘Pretty full-on apparently. Spooked the girls in the club – goons running around ripping out security cameras. Then a few days ago, I heard Billy was supplying brassers to a Cabinet Minister.’

‘Are you saying what I think, Gus?’

‘If that’s Zalinskas’ armour suppose Billy got a bit too greedy?’

‘The old story.’

‘Dipping his nib in the company ink.’

‘Benny wouldn’t like it. I can tell you that for nothing; the Bullfrog would not like that.’

I took a final swig from my coffee cup, said, ‘I’m gonna need one last favour from you, Mac.’

‘I don’t know. I’m already hurting here.’

‘I plan to do something about that real soon.’

I HAD ONLY one way to get some answers. And it wasn’t going to be pretty.

I took a long walk, tried to figure things out. At Holyrood Park the sky turned grey, shot through with red. The queen’s wee bit hoosie provided just the dark overtones my mood needed. The royals used to hold court up the road at the castle. Legend has it they moved down to Holyroodhouse because it was less draughty. In the gardens is Mary Queen of Scot’s bathhouse, where she used to bathe in goat’s milk and white wine. Every time I pass I see it as a nice reminder that the upper classes of this city have always been first with their snouts in the trough.

As I crossed the road to Arthur’s Seat, a swan sat on the tarmac.

‘Off … come on, move yourself,’ I told it. I waved my arms about, but it wouldn’t take me seriously. Stamped my foot at it, jumped in the air. It took the hint, waddled off.

‘Nice work, Gus,’ I thought. And not a broken arm in sight.

I followed the tourist trail, even on a day like today with the wind sharp enough to cut glass, they were out in force. You want to practise your French, or German, Italian – Japanese even, this is the place. All nationalities brave the elements to get a view of the city from on high. It didn’t seem much of a way to spend your vacation, but then this place did have some undertones for me.

At the top, I lit up. Straightforward Benson and Hedges this time.

I scanned the skyline. Picked out Calton Hill, the parliament, the schemie eyesore of Dumbiedykes. I knew, from where I stood, any one of these sights could have been Billy’s last.

I was close to the spot where he’d met his end.

I felt no ghosts here. Maybe my own demons held them at bay. Maybe there’s just too many fighting for attention. It is, after all, where they found the Murder Dolls.

Seventeen minute figures in their own coffins. Eerie artefacts. Two schoolboys out rabbiting found them in 1836. At first the authorities thought they belonged to some sick practitioner of the black arts. Then someone pointed out that the grave robbers, Burke and Hare, murdered exactly seventeen people.

To this day, the Murder Dolls remain one of the city’s mysteries. One of the many. To take a stroll down the Mile and see the ghost tour guides grabbing punters, you’d think the streets perpetually ran with blood.

‘And some of that blood would have been Billy’s,’ I whispered to the hills.

The wind picked up, threatened rain. I looked at the tourist trail, they still streamed all the way up to the summit.

‘Come on, Billy, give me a hand here. Do right by Milo and those girls.’

I put up my collar, stuck my hands in my pockets. Inside I felt the Glock I’d taken from Mac. A 10mm auto, it felt unusually light.

I’d seen Bruce Willis with a Glock in
Die Hard 2
, he called it a porcelain gun made in Germany, said: ‘It doesn’t show up on your airport X-ray machines, and it costs more than you make in a month.’

I’d asked Mac if this was true. He’d said, ‘No. It shows up on X-ray and it costs more than you make in a year.’

I told him I’d give him it back in one piece, hopefully unfired. But I couldn’t promise anything.

THE ROBOTICS DANCER on Princes Street began to pack up his Gary Numan tapes as I passed. A Goth with black lipstick and platform trainers put a camera-phone on him, asked, ‘How about a few moves for the camera?’

A single-digit salute, then another. ‘How’s that?’ said the robotics guy.

‘No need to get aggressive.’

‘No offence, your get-up just brings out the worst in me.’

The Goth put the camera away, slunk off. I thought, ‘When a guy who wouldn’t look out of place in Woody Allen’s
Sleeper
slams your dress sense, it’s time to pick another look.’

I needed courage to put my plan into action, stepped into a new superpub that had opened on George Street.

‘Today’s special, sir, Strawberry Blonde,’ said a Geordie girl in a two-sizes too small T-shirt. She handed me a piece of card, smiled like she had my night all planned out.

‘Sorry?’

That smile again.

‘Strawberry Blonde!’

I’d got this bit, but something seemed to be missing, she was blonde all right, but looked like she’d been dying her roots black, said, ‘I like the collars to match the cuffs.’

Inside the barman tried to take the card. ‘Strawberry Blonde, sir?’

‘Christ, not you too.’

‘Is it a pint, sir?’

‘Yeah, Guinness. No Strawberry Blonde. Got me?’

He nodded, backed off to the pumps.

I shouted out, ‘And a Dewar’s to chase it. Double.’

When the drinks came, the barman knew better than to try and sell me anything else. I took my pint and chaser and sat in the corner. Speakers above my head blasted out KT Tunstall. It seemed to fit the place. I’d tanned my pint before KT had got through telling us about her ‘Black Horse and the Cherry Tree’.

The Dewar’s I sipped slower.

Thought some things through, wondered if I’d been asleep at the wheel.

It all began to look so straightforward. Sure, I needed Nadja to fill in the blanks, but could that be so hard?

I knew it could. She was smart, wily. Cocking the Glock in her phiz wasn’t going to cut it.

The words of Vyvyan Basterd, of
The Young Ones
, didn’t seem out of place here: ‘Now this is going to require a subtle blend of psychology and extreme violence …’

I’d tried the violence bit already. It was time to play Nadja at her own game.

‘Yeah, good luck with that, Gus,’ I heard myself thinking, ‘like you’re such a great success at second-guessing women.’

The example of Debs sprang to mind again. Could I even make a comparison?

Scottish women, it must be said, are unlike any others. Impossible to impress, for starters. There’s a bullshit detector built into every one of them. In my youth they had a phrase, ‘Do you think I came up the Clyde on a banana boat?’ Subsequent generations refined this to a look. If it comes with a nod, you’ve crossed the line and should expect to be told so.

The other thing is they’re all plain speakers. You find yourself on the end of one of their tongue lashings you might expect to learn more about yourself than perhaps you’d ever really wanted to.

I’ve a past littered with blastings from Scottish women. Usually delivered in a nightclub after the last dance. Any later, say in the taxi rank, we’re talking hell cat. Guaranteed, an experience not to be repeated.

I returned to the bar.

‘Same again.’

Barman thought a moment. ‘Right away.’

For some reason, all this introspection began to latch on to my conscience. Thoughts of Debs and the impending threat to my mortality made me reach for my phone. Always a bad move when a drink’s been taken.

Debs’s number went straight to voicemail.

‘Aw, shite!’

I toyed with hanging up, then the beep.

‘Hi, Debs … me again. Look, I just wanted to say, sorry, you know, I’ve been a bit on edge lately.’

I struggled to pad out the message.

‘Oh, and I, er, got your letter … but I had a bit of an accident with it. Was it important? Sorry about that too. If it’s important you could maybe get your lawyer to send it again. Oh, and, I’ll be at Hod’s place in Portobello, all his details should still be in the address book. Bye, Debs, and sorry again.’

I didn’t feel good lying to her about the letter, but what was I to do? I told myself it was only a white lie.

‘Christ, you’ve told worse than that, Gus.’

Would the call cut any ice with her? I doubted it.

I LAID MY phone on the bar. Inside a second it started to ring.

Picked up, said, ‘Debs?’

‘Eh, no, it’s not Deborah, son.’

Was my mother, I’d never had a call from her on my mobi before, I felt a bit shocked. ‘What is it, Mam?’

I heard her snivelling on the other end of the line.

‘Mam, what is it?’

The snivelling gave way to full-on tears, then I heard the phone taken from her.

‘Hello, hello,’ I said.

‘Hi, Gus, Mam’s gone to sit down in the kitchen.’ It was my sister, Catherine.

‘What’s up? Why’s she calling?’

A pause, then: ‘It’s … Dad.’

I felt my lungs empty with a loud sigh, ‘Oh yeah? What’s it this time? Broke his hand on her again has he?’

‘Gus … he’s not well.’

‘Yeah, I heard.’

‘He’s sick, Gus.’

‘Oh, I know that. Should have heard him roaring at her when I was there a while ago … really, really sick he is.’

Cathy’s tone changed. ‘No, Angus he’s … dying.’

I searched for sympathy, found none in me.

‘Did you hear me?’

‘I heard.’

‘Well?’

‘Well what? I don’t perform miracles, you know.’

I heard her snap her teeth together. ‘The doctor says he won’t see out the night. Mam – your mother, remember her? – thought you’d want to see him.’

‘One last time, eh?’

‘Yes, before he goes.’

She made it sound like he was getting ready for a holiday. Like he’d be back, sunburned and gagging for a proper pint and chips with broon sauce. I couldn’t take her seriously. I’d blocked him out of my life for so long that the news he was finally dying made no impact on me.

‘Oh, but goes where?’ I said.

A long pause filled the line, I thought she’d hung up, but she’d only given me time to think about what I’d said. Families can do this, they know the buttons to push.

I said, ‘Who else is there with you?’

‘Everyone – the whole family. Look, I know you might not like the idea but it would mean a lot to Mam.’

‘Is that why you’re there?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Why should I, Cath?’

‘You know she wants you here, it would give her peace of mind.’

‘Peace of mind? She should be singing from the rooftops.
Christ
, she’ll be free of the bastard.’

Cathy let out a gasp. I’d been venting, but it was too soon for a remark like that.

She stormed me: ‘You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to do.’

Clunk
.

I’D STAYED IN the pub longer than I should have. The place filled up, got into party mode. Stretch limos dropped off loads of hen-night scrubbers. The choicest Scousers and Cockneys – munters that had seen more action than Chuck Norris.