Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4)

by Tony Black

  Gillian was waiting in the hall, hands on hips.

  The woman was ready to rumble.

  I’d seen that look before. You get to my stage of life, my state of a life, with an ex-wife on the dial, you’ve seen just about every look of disappointment a woman’s face can muster. Trust me on this, I know the territory. But that doesn’t mean I know a way out of it.

  Gillian removed her hands from her hips. For a second her fingers lay limply at her sides, then were quickly drawn into fists. Debs had never raised a hand to me, had known I’d had enough of that as a kid from my father, but if she had I was guessing she’d have been wearing this stance in the seconds before. I let Gillian see me looking her up and down, real slow; let her know if she was contemplating going hellcat I was well able for her.

  I parted my feet on the heavy rug, squared shoulders. Gillian came for me. She had a powerful stride, good solid steps making contact with the hardwood flooring. There was no mistaking the sense of purpose in her movements. Had I been one of her movie directors, I’d have been smirking at the sheer power of her performance. This was award-winning stuff – had to admire her artistry, though I was guessing the whole bit was drawn from a deep well of personal hurt; there wasn’t much acting going on here.

  She stopped a pace or two from me, parted her mouth … words hung on her lips. I waited for the pay-off. None came. She closed her mouth, scrunched her brow. She actually looked confused – deeply rattled. A hand swept back a stray curl, tucked it behind her ear. The motion seemed to help her gather herself. She ran the backs of her fingers over her cheek and mouth, then quickly folded her arms. I’d always believed this was a defensive posture. It looked no such thing: Gillian was on the attack.

  Her voice came slow and controlled, calm even: ‘Mr Dury, if I was the type of woman to take offence, how do you think I’d be greeting you now?’

  She had some moves – it was quite a gambit. I let her hang a moment, held back my desire to say Shut the fuck up went with: ‘I believe I told you from the start, Gillian … if you want answers, I’m the man you need.’

  Her eyes flared, went through the spectrum from warm intensity to fire in the hold, said, ‘I never gave you licence, Mr Dury, to use my name to open doors like some handy credit card. And nor did I ask you to put my colleagues in such a state of fear that … Look, I have a reputation that extends further than this town.’

  I turned away, rolled eyes. ‘What you have is a dead son.’

  That stung. Her lower lip trembled. It was almost imperceptible and the second it appeared she hauled it in. I waited for her reply but none came.

  I continued, ‘Gillian, we both know this was never going to be pretty.’ I caught sight of Hod out of the corner of my eye. He looked nervous. I played it cool, dropped it down a notch or two. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk? … There’s a lot you need to know, a lot I’ve uncovered.’

  Gillian’s eyes flashed back to life. She nodded quickly, waving a palm towards the sitting room. Hod and I followed her. The leggy Tina eased herself from the shadows where she had been leaning on the jamb of a door. She wore an expression I’d seen a few times before: contempt. I had half a mind to say Got a fucking problem, hen? Went with, ‘Hello again.’ She sneered at me, shook her head as she followed her partner to the sitting room. As she went I spotted a tattoo sitting above the band of her tight black mini – what is referred to colloquially as a tramp-stamp. I looked at Hod, whispered, ‘What’s her bloody problem?’

  ‘You don’t know? Seems obvious to me – it’s you!’

  Gillian walked over to the drinks cabinet, poured herself out a large brandy, swirled it about in the base of the glass. Tina gently rubbed her back, put an arm around her shoulder. I saw that the bruising I’d noticed earlier had subsided. I made a mental note of that. Seemed worthwhile keeping tabs on this girl – and she was just a girl.

  Gillian broke away from her young partner, said, ‘Drink?’

  I looked at the silver tray with crystal decanters on top – seemed to be all spirits. I wasn’t about to risk it in my current condition … no matter how loud the wail. ‘Have you anything with a bit less of a kick?’

  She turned from me, reached for the handle of the cabinet below her. There was a mini-fridge tucked away. ‘Wine? Beer?’

  I eyed the contents: Polish lager would have to do. ‘A beer would be grand.’ I could feel my nerves shrieking for a taste of alcohol, any taste. I needed an hour inside that fridge, maybe with a few decanters of scoosh to help me out, but I fought hard. The consequences didn’t bear thinking about, no matter how much my veins screamed for it.

  Gillian handed over the beer, then turned to Hod and repeated the process.

  We moved to the seating area, parked ourselves. Gillian looked sheepish, as though she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear what I had to say. I watched her cross and uncross her legs, then she took Tina’s hand and clasped it tightly.

  With the first tug on my beer, I was gantin’ to get out my face. Tried to hold it off, pushed the beer back again and let my insides think it was just a matter of time before there was more to follow. I needed to stay calm, said, ‘There’s been some … developments.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Gillian.

  How did I tell her Calder was most likely killed? That her only son was about as popular as a fart in a spacesuit? How did I tell her he was dealing drugs on campus, and supplying call girls? How did I tell her Ben was mixed up with the likes of Danny Gemmill? How did I tell her the Craft was engaged in a cover-up of his death with the very university she was now heading up? None of it sat easy with me, but she’d hired me to know this, so I told her.

  When I was finished Gillian looked as if she’d fallen to earth without a parachute. I thought she must be too shocked to cross-examine me, or ask for the proof; or maybe she believed it all along and was just too tired to fight her conscience any more. Tina placed an arm around her again, stroked her hair with her other hand. Gillian was devastated. I had expected anger, denials, accusations, deflection, but the sight before me was of a mother bereft. Something in the telling had struck a chord; she knew her son, and it made sense. But she was his mother and forgave him all his sins; what she wanted more than anything was peace of mind. I knew the feeling.

  ‘Gillian, I can see much of this is of little help to you … I told you it wouldn’t be pretty.’

  She shot eyes at Hod and me. ‘Yes, yes of course …’ She rose, walked to the other side of the room, pulled open a drawer and removed Hod’s contract. She signed it before us, then handed it over to Hod. ‘You’ll need expenses, I suppose …’ She returned to the drawer, took out a chequebook and started to scratch away with a pen. Hod looked satisfied when she handed over the cheque.

  As Gillian came back to face me, Tina got up from the couch, walked towards the door, turned, put icy blue eyes on Gillian for a moment, then walked out. Her heels sounded like hammer blows as she stomped down the hall. I figured this was a move she’d perfected storming out of some chippy or other on Leith Walk after a row with a schemie boyfriend, or maybe even a pimp. It was all street trash theatrics; she was showing her true worth – in all its glory.

  ‘I’m sorry … she doesn’t approve of … this,’ said Gillian.

  ‘Oh, no?’

  She shook her head. ‘Thinks sleeping dogs are best left to lie. Thinks I don’t have my troubles to seek.’

  ‘And you, what do you think?’

  She pressed the sides of her mouth back. It was a weak attempt at a smile of sorts, said, ‘I need to know … I need to know the truth about what happened to Ben.’

  I felt her grief; I’d lost loved ones myself, knew that nothing prepares you. Knew the need to know eclipses everything at times of pain. Gillian wouldn’t rest till she had all the answers. I admired her strength, her resolve … I just hoped Tina wasn’t right. Though something told me her motives were entirely different from what she was letting on.

  I thanked Gillian, said, ‘I’l
l be in touch.’ We headed for the door.

  Tina was sulking by the window in the front room. She had a cigarette in her hand; I couldn’t see an ashtray. I nodded to her. She turned away, leaned against the wall, one high-heeled shoe supporting her, just like a proper brasser.

  As the door closed on us, Hod pulled out the contract and kissed it. ‘Oh, Gus … fucking nice one, mate.’

  I couldn’t share his enthusiasm. I was glad for him, but I knew the shit was shaping up to hit the fan. There were so many interests lining up to stick the knife in me that I felt like yon Pop-up Pirate.

  Chapter 20

  I WAS WOKEN BY THE MOBI going off next to my ear – bit of Chemical Brothers was normally a good get, but not this time of the day. Knocked over a few empty stout tins as I reached for the phone, said, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Gus, that you?’

  I recognised the hardy voice at once. ‘Mr Bacon … yeah, it’s me.’

  ‘Good, good … How you keeping?’

  Was this a fucking social call … this early? ‘What?’

  ‘Aye, small chat, eh, screw that. Just calling to let you know I looked out that stuff you were after.’

  ‘The files?’

  ‘Oh, aye … quite a few. Some good reading in there as well.’

  ‘There is?’

  ‘Bastardin’ sure there is. That laddie was up to his neck in some muck!’

  ‘Oh, really …’

  Rasher’s voice arked up: ‘Fucking wee scumbag, so he was … Looking at this load on my desk, I’d say he wasn’t far off a stretch at Her Majesty’s displeasure. Total wee toley so he was.’

  ‘Sounds like interesting stuff.’

  ‘You’re no’ kidding, but that’s not the half of it.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  ‘Not by a long stretch. Turned up something that I think you might be interested in having a wee look at.’

  ‘From the files?’

  A spark of enthusiasm: ‘Aye, from the files … and let me tell you, Dury, you get a link to this wee beauty and there’s a page-one splash with your name on it!’

  He had my interest. ‘Go on then, spill the beans.’

  ‘Uh-uh … Better we meet up for this.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll come into the office later.’

  He pitched his tone lower: ‘Oh fuck no. Got the top brass in today. Heid bummers from down south, got to get the red carpet out.’

  I didn’t want to hang about on this. ‘Tomorrow, then?’

  A pause, rustle of papers, opening of a desk diary. ‘Friday … can you make the afternoon?’

  Would have to do. ‘Aye, okay.’

  I hung up.

  Spent the rest of the morning on the verge of banging seven shades of shite out of my mobile phone. Had stopped sending texts for some reason – would be close to the built-in obsolescence period, no doubt. Toyed with the idea of complaining to the shop, the service provider … thought better of it. Had long since given up on taking on the capitalist behemoth, better chucking the phone in the bin and buying a new one: that’s what they want after all; resistance is useless. The days where I saw myself wasting precious energy on the phone to Mumbai call centres and filling in customer complaints were long over, life was too short. Mine sure as hell was.

  Had holed up in a spit-and-sawdust B&B in the Southside, one of those joints where they house dole moles and immigrants. An Indian bloke was running the shop. Seemed a nice enough sort, but cringing Christ, I wouldn’t like his paper round. I’d been here one night only and had already started counting fights to get myself to sleep. Rough wasn’t the word.

  I cracked the seal on a tin of Murphy’s. I’d tanned a score of those bad boys already. Was about to spark up when my mobi rang: wasn’t fully on the way out, then.

  Recognised the caller ID straight off. ‘Amy … was trying to text you but—’

  ‘Spare me, eh.’

  There was a note of derision in her voice; she had the tone down cold. Had to admire that, Amy did a nice line in no-messing attitude. I said, ‘No, seriously, got some techno trouble … Mobi isn’t texting out.’

  ‘Fucksake, Gus … have you checked it’s not full?’

  ‘Y’wha’?’

  ‘Look at the screen. Is there a red icon or something?’

  I took a deck, spotted a little red square with an ‘x’ in it. Hadn’t seen that before. ‘Yeah, there is … what’s that about, then?’

  Amy laughed. ‘Christ, Gus, get with the programme! Your phone is so shite it only stores a pissy amount of texts … You’ll have to delete some.’

  Felt a total dope. Tried to snigger around it; wasn’t happening. ‘Yeah, right … I knew that. Look, to what do I owe the pleasure, Ames?’

  Her voice changed, dropped an octave or two. ‘Pleasure … I’m all about the pleasure, Gus.’

  ‘Yeah, keep it up, see where it gets you.’ Shit, I was flirting now. Where was my head?

  ‘That a promise?’

  Clawed it back: ‘Yeah, whatever … So, you rang.’

  A stall, some deep breaths taken. I could hear her juggling the phone with the cupboard doors, cups, kettle. ‘I thought you might like to know that I’ve got a date.’

  Felt a twinge in my gut – didn’t know why. If I did, I wouldn’t let on. ‘You have?’

  ‘Big time.’ She sounded pleased.

  ‘Amy, I’m very happy for you … but did you think you needed to call and let me know or is there more to this?’

  A laugh, sharp exhalation followed. ‘In your fucking dreams, sunshine! I’m calling to let you know I have a date with Danny Gemmill.’

  My heart stilled. I let a long silence stretch out on the line. My mind seemed to reboot: was she serious? Couldn’t be for real. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gemmill … you’re cracking on to him? … Sure.’

  Amy slipped into shit-stopping seriousness. ‘I am as well. Think I’d make that up? Like, why?’

  Now my heart kicked up a notch, felt ready to blow. This was Amy I was dealing with after all: there was no telling what the fuck she would pull next. She was off-the-scale scripto at the best of times. ‘Amy, are you off yer fucking dial? Do you even know who you’re messing with here? … Jesus Christ, he’s beyond the borderline psycho range. Gemmill’s a full-on mentaller!’

  ‘I can handle myself.’

  I had to laugh. She didn’t like it – I heard a tut. ‘Look, girl, this guy’s a fucking nut-job – get me? He’s already put me in the hospital. Think he’ll treat you any differently when he finds out what you’re up to?’

  ‘I said I can handle myself, Gus.’ She was deadly serious.

  I lost it: ‘Handle your fucking self! You’re a silly wee lassie! Bloody hell, Amy, there’s no way you’re seeing Gemmill … no fucking way! It’s just not on, not on … you hear me?’ I was ranting so strong, so loud and long, that I’d missed the fact that she’d hung up.

  ‘Fuck!’ I hit my contacts, dialled her number. Went to voicemail. ‘Amy, look, call me back, eh. We need to talk. I’m not kidding about Danny Gemmill, he’s bad news … Don’t do this, seriously, just don’t do it. I know you’re not a silly wee lassie, you’ll see sense, so just leave this to me now. Please, huh? … I’ll call you later, we’ll go for a bite to eat or something, grab a movie, eh. Okay, Ames, we’ll speak soon, eh. Right, catch you later.’ What was I saying? It was all too much too late. I’d fucked right up.

  I hoped she’d see sense, that she’d hear the message and see beyond my sparking up when she’d called. I knew Amy wasn’t the headstrong young girl of just a few years ago – she’d matured. Surely there was no way she’d go through with this. She’d see sense. She’d realise she’d gone too far … least, I hoped she would. I hoped I was right with a lot of my assumptions about Amy. Felt my stomach flutter, muttered, ‘Get a grip, boy.’ Where was my head? What the fuck was I thinking? Amy? Never. There was way too much baggage there.

  I took the tin of Murphy’
s up to my mouth, slugged deep, stopped for air. Not for long, though. I started to pace. I was all over the fucking shop. Needed to sort myself out. Being holed up in a tenner-a-night kip house with woodchip on the walls and baked-in barf on the carpet had a strangely hypnotic effect on me – or maybe it was the booze – made me think I’d hit my true level.

  My mind spiralled, I was seriously worried. Played out the scenario where I called Hod, listened to him blasting me on the trip out to Amy’s. I knew she was a big girl now. But Danny Gemmill, Holy Christ … he was a nut-job. He could seriously hurt her.

  I grabbed my coat, headed for the stairs.

  The way Amy operated, I knew Gemmill’d have to be fucking superhuman not to spill his guts to her, and more besides. When he found out who she was he’d string her up. What he did to her after that would be prolonged, and painful. I couldn’t bear to think of it.

  My mobi went.

  Answered: ‘Amy.’

  ‘You chilled any yet?’

  ‘Look, I’m only thinking about … y’know, you.’

  I heard a sigh. ‘You’re pissed. I can hear it in your voice.’

  ‘I’m not fucking pissed. Amy, I’m serious … I don’t want you to get hurt.’

  ‘Hurt?’

  ‘Aye, Gemmill’s a crazy … you know that.’

  A pause on the line, then soft tones. ‘Gus, I’ve been hurt before …’ she let that hang, went, ‘I’m not worried about anything that loser throws at me. I can take care of myself.’

  There was no holding her back – she was a force of nature. She really thought she had the guts to go through with this, to handle Gemmill. ‘Amy, this is Danny Gemmill—’

  She livened. ‘So what? He’ll be putty in my hands.’

  ‘Somehow I doubt that!’

  A laugh. ‘You perv.’

  I clawed it in: ‘I’m not joking. How in hell did this come about?’