Gutted gd-2

by Tony Black

  It took for ever to check me out of the station. A mob of teenagers, wankered on cheap cider and alcopops, were being booked in. They were all trussed up with cable ties. The girls among them were crying their eyes out, black mascara running down their cheeks. The boys were silent enough, save for the times when they started hacking their guts up. It was a scene I knew was being repeated up and down the country on an almost nightly basis. It had been this way for as long as I’d known. Scots and drink… O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious.

  Said, ‘It’ll be the good weather, brings out the party spirit.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said the desk sergeant, ‘it’s like this the year through.’

  I resisted another comment — like I could judge.

  I was handed my belt and laces and two plastic bags, one containing my wallet and some loose change, the other with my mobile phone, tabs and matches.

  ‘That you?’ said the sergeant.

  I nodded. ‘We’re good.’ It could have been two bags of air; I wouldn’t have complained if it meant getting free of the place.

  ‘I’m so dead,’ said one of the teenage girls. ‘My dad’s gonna kill me.’ She burst into tears, set off her friend. I couldn’t stand any more. Strangely, the scene made me even more desperate for a drink.

  Outside the nick I breathed deep, though not so easy.

  A kid on Heelys sped past me, nearly put me in the gutter — as if I needed help. There was a throbbing in my head, an ache in my chest. Both called for attention, the type that comes in quarter-bottles. I looked about, tried to catch my bearings, and then a horn sounded.

  A Smart car across the street looked nearest; driver crouched up looked like an Easter Island statue behind the wheel. I didn’t recognise him. The horn blasted again and this time I caught where it came from: black E-class Merc parked further away. I recognised this face.

  As I walked over, Fitz the Crime drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. More filth was the last thing I needed, but this one might be some use. The fact remained: he owed me. Big time. Fitz and I went way back. We’d both been known to help each other out from time to time. By the kip of him he’d done very well out of the last favour I put his way — blowing the lid on that Eastern European people-smuggling racket. Fitz had taken all the collars, whilst some of his colleagues had taken their jotters.

  ‘Could ye make any more of a feckin’ show of it, Dury?’ said Fitz as I reached the door of his new motor.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Feck me, ’tis yerself in the frame for murder and you walk the road like a brass… Get in, would ye!’

  I opened the door, tried to make myself invisible as I sat down. Fitz gunned the engine, burnt up the road.

  We drove in silence for a few minutes then I asked, ‘Any smokes?’

  Pack of Lambert amp; Butler tossed in my direction. Sparked up.

  ‘There’s a heart-warmer in the glovebox,’ said Fitz.

  I dived in. It was Dalwhinnie; seriously expensive malt. ‘My, Fitz, you’re moving up in the world.’

  He fingered his collar. ‘Well, the work’s its own reward.’

  I gave a loud tut.

  ‘And that would be supposed to mean something, I suppose.’

  I unscrewed the bottle, quaffed more than I should, felt a heavy burn, said, ‘Is anything?’

  ‘Oh, the feckin’ riddles already, is it? Always the riddles with ye, Dury.’

  He asked for it, so I let him have it. Both barrels. ‘What is it now? Detective sergeant? Chief fucking super? You were padding Leith Walk in uniform before I handed you that… white arrest.’

  A screech of tyres. The car halted and a hail of angry horns belted out behind us.

  Fitz jumped from the car. I watched him walk over to the multi-storey. He flashed his badge at the attendant and up went the barrier. A row of traffic immediately cleared as he headed back.

  ‘ Noblesse oblige,’ I muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rank has its privileges, I see.’

  He laid a glass eye on me as he put the Merc in gear again, screeched off. The multi-storey was dark; it took headlights to get around the bays. When he parked, Fitz killed the engine.

  We were in almost total darkness, silence too. Was this the effect he was going for? He turned, uneasy, with his vast gut pressing on the wheel.

  As Fitz spoke he spat through his tiny teeth: ‘Now I want feckin’ answers, Dury. No bullshit. No riddles. And nothing else that’ll put me closer to cracking yer feckin’ head this minute… You got me?’

  I nodded. What was I going to do — walk home?

  Fitz grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the cap and tanked it.

  He said, ‘This Moosey fella, did ye kill him?’

  I grabbed the whisky back, roared, ‘Are you fucking serious?’

  Fitz put his bulb-nose in my face, spat at me. There was madness on him. ‘I will do for ye, Dury, I swear it! Feckin’ tell me. Is it you?’

  ‘No! For Chrissake, no… Of course it’s not me.’

  ‘Well, it could look that way.’

  ‘If you’re following the fantasy of that dumb fuck you have on the case, maybe.’

  It felt like waiting for traffic lights to change hanging on Fitz’s response.

  ‘Johnstone’s that… I’ll grant ye.’

  ‘You’re not one of his fans, then?’

  ‘He’s fast-track, been blazing a trail through the ranks. Nobody likes a big shot… I’m no different, but there’s nothing personal in it, I just think the cocky wee prick needs taking down a peg or two.’

  I ran my hand over the walnut dash of the Merc. ‘Frightened he’s got an eye on your new car, Fitz?’

  ‘Feck off! I’m rock. After the people-smuggling bust I’m… well, I’m solid, that’s all.’

  The Eastern European gang I handed to Fitz a while back held precisely zero weight here. We both knew this. However, were it to become public knowledge that a murder suspect had, in any way, been linked to a senior member of the force — that gave Fitz something to think about.

  I trod carefully. This was filth we were dealing with, I wouldn’t have put it past him to be on a fishing expedition for Johnstone. I said, ‘You know who to thank for that.’

  ‘Dury, don’t play that tune with me. Don’t feckin’ even try it.’

  ‘I’m not playing any tune, all I’m saying is, there is a tune.. and if it gets played, you’ll be paying the piper.’

  Fitz’s face changed colour; his skin took on the texture of corned beef. He pulled at his shirt cuff, mopped his brow. As he carefully wiped the sweat on the white cotton his voice dropped: ‘We have a garden now, Gus… Missus is overjoyed to have it, spends all the hours God sends picking out the weeds and tending the little flowerbeds. I’ve never seen her so happy… She never had a garden before, never in her life, y’know, not even in the old country.’

  I drew on my tab, kept schtum.

  ‘If you want my help, Dury, you better be cleaner than a cat’s arse.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘More than that, boyo, you better be onto the real murderer, because laughing boy has no hope other than to hang it on you… and he’s a boner for ye.’

  I threw my dowp out the window, said, ‘And for my ex-wife.’

  Fitz wiped his lips. ‘You what? He’s balling your ex?’

  ‘I think the term’s “cohabiting”.’

  ‘The mad bastard…’

  ‘Come on, Fitz, she’s not a bad-looking bird.’

  ‘Dury, I’m not on about that. He’s only throwing due process out the window. How’s that going to look to the courts if he gets you to trial?’

  My pulse jumped a notch. ‘Can you get him hauled off?’

  ‘No. No. No. These chickens need to roost.’

  ‘Now it’s you with the riddles.’

  Fitz held out a hand for the bottle, took it, slugged slow, said, ‘Getting him hauled off the case, sure, that’s only showing our hand.’

&n
bsp; ‘Fitz, we have no hand.’

  ‘Neither has he. Didn’t the line-up come down on your side? Now, he gets booted off the job, we’re in a much better position… unless anything else turns up.’

  I didn’t like his reasoning, sounded dodgy, said, ‘This is all making me more than a bit uneasy, Fitz.’

  He turned over the engine, made to pull out. ‘Leave it with me, Dury… Sure, your wee revelation might just prove to be for the best. Keep your hopes up our wide boy likes playing it close to the knuckle. That ambition of his might be his undoing.’

  I watched Fitz settle into the heated leather seat and drive smoothly. One of his little crises might be over but I knew my major one wasn’t. I mean, what did it matter to me who took the case at the end of the day? I was still being put in the frame for murder.

  ‘Fitz, if Jonny gets his arse canned, that’s got to be bad.’

  ‘No, it’s good.’

  ‘For who?’

  Fitz frowned, reached for a tab and pushed in the cigarette lighter button. ‘Me and you, sure.’

  ‘How does it help me to know the man who wants to bust my balls, for a murder I didn’t commit, is rousted off the case? It’s only gonna make him madder.’

  Fitz held the fag in his mush, pursed his lips, made little kisses on the filter as he got it going. ‘Dury, chill the feck out… You’re not seeing the bigger picture.’

  ‘Then fill me in, Fitz… what is the bigger picture?’

  ‘Way I see it, Jonny gets canned, you get more time to find Fulton’s killer. Harsh, but them’s the facts.’

  ‘That’s your considered opinion?’

  ‘Yes… call it my professional assessment of all the, er, known factors.’

  ‘I know what I’d call it.’

  ‘ What?’

  ‘A ticket to jam with Bubba in the showers.’

  Chapter 16

  Fitz dropped me in the New Town, middle of Queen Street. An African drum quartet, kitted out in lion manes and warpaint, competed with a lone piper. Tourists shunned the homegrown gig and he upped the volume. I thought I wouldn’t like to see this scene get messy: lions are one thing, but the Scots know how to fight dirty. The city had been making it tough for our national musicians, banning them from the main thoroughfare, the Royal Mile. In their wisdom, the city fathers had even decided to dish out antisocial-behaviour contracts to those pipers who flouted the new regulations. Antisocial behaviour? What the hell was that? In my day antisocial meant staying in to watch the footy on Scotsport instead of going down the drinker. They were mangling the language to mangle with our heads… as if mine needed any more of that.

  I lolled along in a daze. Don’t know how many times I got asked for directions to Rosslyn Chapel. Fucking Da Vinci Code. Had ceased to be an amusement long ago; man, was this ever letting up? One of these days, someone is going to end up wearing that book like a butt-plug.

  I knew I was moping. My feet slid along the pavement. Could hear the words ‘You’ve a face like a constipated greyhound’ coming my way soon. I didn’t care. Like I could feel worse.

  At the junction with St Andrew Street, the Portrait Gallery halted me. Always does. The red sandstone’s a show-stopper among the grey squares, circuses, parks and terraces of this aristocratic ghetto. Add Italian Gothic architecture to the mix, you’re in serious eye-catcher territory. None of that does it for me, though: they have my father’s portrait in there.

  C ANNIS D URY, W ORLD C UP S QUAD, S PAIN ’82 it says on the brass plaque beneath. Must stand about six feet high. He never stood that tall in real life. He never needed to. A finer example of the wee man complex would be hard to find. With this type the mantra is fight for the respect your size denies you.

  And he did. Not just on the park either. My mother, God bless her battered heart and soul, bore the brunt of it. Just the thought reminded me how much I’d neglected her since my father’s funeral. I knew I must call her soon; what was stopping me?

  The sight of the gallery, every time, reminds me that my father’s in there. Larger than life. Living on. As if I ever needed a reminder. On his deathbed he begged my forgiveness, but it made no difference.

  An old woman caught me staring at the spires and turrets. ‘Are you going in?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I think it’s a disgrace!’ She shook her head. A baby-blue bobble on her tam-o’-shanter rolled from side to side. ‘An absolute disgrace.’

  I had no idea what she was on about, said, ‘You’re right… disgraceful.’

  ‘When I think of the paintings they have in there… kings and queens, done by masters, too.’

  I tried to get an inkling of where she was going with this, spotted a banner, a sculpted six-pack and a tranche of female thigh on it. The current exhibition was on naked celebrities.

  ‘This is just typical,’ I said. ‘We’re celebrity obsessed… It’s like Hello! magazine in oils.’

  The oldie smiled. ‘You’re a man of some sense.’

  ‘Some would say… a cynic.’

  A heart-stopping smile. ‘They’d be wrong, so they would.’

  I took the compliment, smiled back. ‘Well, I don’t know about the price of everything but I do know the value of nothing.’

  And did I ever. Nothing was my current score in the game of life.

  I traipsed on, passed the Sherlock Holmes statue outside Arthur Conan Doyle’s birthplace, crossed over to Greenside Place and onto London Road, then schlepped down all the way to the Holy Wall.

  I realised I’d forgotten my key.

  Rapped on the door.

  Nothing.

  Another rap, louder.

  Heard movement, bit of shuffling, then a ‘Shit’ and a ‘Fucksake’.

  When the lock turned in the door I saw one bleary eye pushed into the gap. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Me, the one with his name above the door.’

  ‘Gus… bloody hellfire, get in!’

  Mac opened up. He stood in the daylight wearing a pair of budgie-smugglers, bright yellow ones. A ‘Makin’ Bacon’ T-shirt maintained his modesty from the waist up.

  I shielded my eyes. ‘Get some clothes on. Your skanky arse is the last thing I want to see.’

  He slapped his butt cheeks, called out, ‘What you on about? I’m a fine figure of a man.’

  ‘Aye, if the figure’s zero… a big round one.’

  ‘Och, get yerself hunted.’

  As he shut the door I saw plod had been at work. The pub had been turned over, drawers lying out, cupboard doors open, smashed glass everywhere. I was surprised they hadn’t had the floorboards up.

  ‘Holy shit,’ I blurted, ‘we’ve had company, then…’

  Mac frowned, pulled a checked dressing gown over himself, said, ‘You could say that. Not any company I’d like to see, though… Bastards left the place in some kip, haven’t they? It’s like Steptoe’s yard now.’

  As we moved into the bar area I stopped in my tracks. Loud barking greeted us. It lasted all of a few seconds until the dog came running through from the next room, started to jump at me, clawing and pawing.

  Mac said, ‘Better give him a hello, Gus.’

  I walked around the love-fest. ‘What, and encourage him? Uh-uh.’

  ‘But he doesn’t carry on like that with anyone else. Fair puts the shits up the punters, let me tell you.’

  ‘Are you going soft, Mac? Why’s he still here?’

  ‘Can’t just chuck him on the scrapheap, Gus… Where’s your heart?’

  I knew exactly where it was. ‘Pretty fucking well buried.’

  Mac knelt, started to ruffle the dog’s ears, clapped his back. ‘Bollocks! I know you, you’ll come round to this wee one. Be bezzie mates, so you will.’

  I saw the dog had kept his bandage on. ‘When did you say his stitches come out?’

  ‘At least a week. Vet said it’s a deep wound. Might take longer.’

  ‘Well, in the meantime, who do you have to kill to get a drink around here?�
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  ‘ Och… bad word choice, pal. No’ the subject for humour right now.’

  I let that slide. Stating the obvious wasn’t my thing.

  As I sat at the bar, the dog settled at my feet.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Usual.’

  The dog looked up, put his chops on my foot.

  Mac spoke: ‘So, the nick… what happened?’

  ‘Can I get a pint down me first?’

  Mac thinned his eyes. It was enough. ‘Better we get it sorted right off, Gus. You know they had me in as well.’

  I shuffled on my bar stool. The dog jumped up as I lurched across to grab a fresh pack of Bensons. Said, ‘Yeah, they mentioned it.’

  ‘Aye, yon Jonny ponce has your card marked… Fuck knows what he thought he was gonna get out of me.’

  ‘There’s fifty Gs missing of Rab Hart’s and he thinks I took it.’

  ‘Shitballs.’ Mac laid down a pint of Guinness. It looked just like I’d imagined it in the cell, moist jewels glistening on the glass. I picked it up, quaffed through to the halfway line in a oner.

  I nodded, said, ‘Man, that tastes good.’

  ‘Gus.’ He didn’t need to say any more than that. It was a prompt: his tone told me there was a pressing need to crack on and solve this case, to get my knackers out the vice.

  ‘I know. Believe me, Mac, I’m on to it… soon as I get this down me.’

  I took the wrapping off my smokes, sparked up. Said, ‘What about you? When they hoicked you in.’

  He laid an ashtray in front of me, said, ‘Was a heavy session.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’ His tone changed. ‘What you asking me?’

  I flicked ash off my cigarette, said, ‘Did they ask about my state of mind? I know that’s been a big concern of yours lately.’

  ‘If you think I would shit on you with the filth then we can’t be the friends I thought we were.’

  ‘Mac,’ I shut him down, ‘I’m not saying that. Get that straight. Okay?’

  A nod. Shoulders pulled back. Hard man on the defensive. ‘It just sounded like, y’know…’

  ‘Cool the beans… I just need to know what they asked you.’

  He turned, hit the optics for a hefty tequila, put a glaze of water on it, said, ‘I told them… well, er, I did mention we were in some financial strife here at the pub.’