by Tony Black
Mac grabbed the front of my coat, pulled me towards him. ‘Right, get this straight … we’re not here for a session.’
Hod stood at his shoulder. The pair of them looked ready to pound me into the ground when the doors of a blue Bedford sprung open and four or five pugs poured out. A burgundy Daimler that had been parked opposite pulled up. In the front passenger seat I could see Shaky waving arms and pointing at the three of us. In the next second my arms were put up my back and my face was spun towards the side of the Bedford.
Hod and Mac followed me as we were thrown into the back of the van. As we righted ourselves, the lumps parted to let Shaky through. Gemmill and Amy came close behind him; she’d been crying, black mascara running down her cheeks. I tried to go to her but got held back.
‘Gus!’ Amy yelled out.
‘All right … you’ve got us, you can let the lassie go, Shaky,’ I yelled.
Shaky came forward, put a shoe on the edge of the van, leaned in, ‘Where’d you get the balls tae tell me to do anything, ye cunt? You’ve got right up my fucking nose, d’ye know that?’ He pointed a tanned finger at me. ‘You’ll be fucking lucky no’ to be wearing your arse as a hat by the time I’m finished with ye, Dury!’
Chapter 24
IT WAS A FAIR OLD drive. Could have guessed somewhere in the wilds of Midlothian from the time it took us, but with the windows blacked out it was a near impossibility. Hod and Mac sat in silence. Every now and again they’d make casual glances at each other, frowning. I knew my shakes were the cause of this. I tried to put my hands in the pockets of my tweed jacket but it made little difference. The tremors merely passed up my arms into my neck, made my head bob about as if I suffered St Vitus’s dance. I was a sad case and I knew it. The craving in my gut for alcohol was all-consuming. I could hardly bear a thought to our fate, though that scared me enough.
Tried a conversation starter: ‘Where do you think they’re taking us?’
Hod barked, ‘Oh, dunno … maybe Ikea for one of those all-day breakfasts, eh.’
Mac looked at me and curled the corner of his mouth into a cruel sneer. ‘Maybe better you just shut the fuck up, Gus.’
I wasn’t having that. ‘Look, it’s not my fault.’
‘Oh, stop pissing and whining. You sound like a ten-year-old lassie.’
I took out a hand, tried to point a finger. It fluttered like a leaf on the breeze. ‘Okay, I got Amy involved. I didn’t ask her to go after Gemmill like that, though, you can’t be putting that on me.’
The pair of them looked away, stayed quiet. I wanted to have another go, try defending myself further, but there didn’t seem to be any point. Told myself, if I got out of this in one piece, I’d be happy enough.
The Bedford’s wheels rattled over what felt like a cattle grid, then we were on a rough dirt track. The three of us were thrown about in the back as the road got bumpy.
‘This isn’t a good sign,’ said Hod.
‘We’re out in the fucking wilds … be blowing the kneecaps off us,’ said Mac.
I tried to rein in some sanity. ‘Christ on a cross, what have we done? Followed Gemmill … since when was that a kneecapping offence?’
‘You forget about the money I owe Shaky!’ said Hod.
‘Yeah … and he’s getting that – you still have time in hand.’
Mac arked up, lobbed an arm at me, grabbed my collar. ‘Are you away wi’ it? Do you remember who we’re dealing with here? … Shaky doesn’t need an excuse – he’ll fucking top the lot ay us for looking at Gemmill the wrong way, just to teach us a lesson!’ He threw me back down.
I knew he was right.
The brakes were applied, a loud screech as the tyres dug into dry-packed earth. I felt my stomach turning over; my mouth dried as I drew deep breath.
In a moment the door was flung open. A pug with a shaved head and bad prison tats on his face motioned us out. He had a look on him that screamed, Give me an excuse, and you’re in the ground.
The sunshine hurt my eyes as I left the van. I raised a hand to shield the rays. Caught sight of Mac and Hod squinting in the full glare. Wherever we were, running wasn’t an option. Forget my current condition – there was nothing but trees and fields for miles around. The only concession to human settlement was an abandoned bothy. Shaky and Gemmill were walking towards it, Amy was being dragged behind them, teetering on high heels, by a heavy biffer in a black leather jacket.
‘Get fucking moving,’ Prison Tats roared at us, pointing after Shaky. We got moving. The ground was dry and hard, baked under the sunshine. My legs were weak at the knees. They buckled once or twice and I was prodded in the back by the pug. Hod and Mac kept eyes front, staring at the door of the bothy. As we got inside a storm lantern was being lit above our heads. The biffer had taken off his leather and was rolling up his shirtsleeves. I got a good look at the size of his arms: like Popeye on steroids. He had hands like clubs; probably been used for just that. I didn’t want to think about what was coming next.
Gemmill pulled out a chair. It reminded me of that scene in Reservoir Dogs, one where Michael Madsen cuts the cop’s ear off … I couldn’t stop a hand going up to my ear in panic.
Shaky spoke: ‘Get in here, y’bunch ay pricks.’ I watched him walk around the chair, wondered which of us he was going to put in there, who would be first to lose an ear. And then he sat down. He unbuttoned his overcoat; underneath he wore a purple silk shirt. With the white shoes and the quiff I got the impression he was trying to emulate his namesake’s appearance. Had to suppress a nervous laugh as I visualised him balancing on his toes and belting out ‘Green Door’ …
Gemmill stood at Shaky’s shoulder. He held on to Amy but she struggled to free herself and eventually won out; she ran over to my side and put her arms around me.
‘Oh, touching wee picture … eh, Danny,’ said Shaky.
Gemmill looked sheepish, let out a nervous laugh. I could see he knew exactly who Shaky blamed for this turn of events.
‘What the fuck you after, Shaky?’ I said. The tone of my voice got the pug’s goat – he loped over and planted a fist in my eye socket. I fell like a sack of spuds. Amy screamed and dropped down beside me on the floor.
‘You fucking bastards,’ she yelled.
I sat up, gathered myself just enough to see Shaky laughing and Gemmill attempting to join in. ‘Listen tae me, Dury. I’ll be asking the fucking questions, eh.’ He nodded to the pug, who came and dragged me to my feet. ‘Now for starters, you can tell me why you’ve got yer wee tart keeping tabs on Danny Boy here.’
I felt my head spinning. I touched my eye – there was no blood but I could sense a shiner forming. ‘You think I’d be that fucking daft?’
Shaky looked to Gemmill, frowned. ‘You saying this is news tae you?’
Mac cut in: ‘Of course it was news tae us … why else would we be sniffing around Gemmill’s drinking buddies trying to find him?’
The pug made a move for Mac, thought better of it for a moment and the pair of them stood eyeballing each other as Amy jumped in: ‘Nobody told me to go chasing after him … I did it myself!’
‘Shut it, Amy!’ I said.
She flagged me down, went over to Shaky. ‘You know he’s been up to all kinds of shit …’ She pointed at Gemmill. He looked ready to bolt. ‘He was supplying Ben Laird with drugs behind your back!’
Shaky started to laugh. ‘Nobody does fuck all in this toon behind my back, darlin’.’ He stood up, walked over to Gemmill, said, ‘Danny here’s on my payroll and he knows a good thing when he sees it … unlike some.’ He turned back to Amy. ‘You’re a braw-looking lassie, hen. Ever think ay coming to work for the likes ay me? … Set you up in one ay my saunas no trouble.’
Amy spat at the ground. Shaky laughed. Danny followed suit.
‘Okay … okay … I’ll take that as a no.’
Amy started to speak again: ‘That’s not all—’ but I grabbed her arm, pulled her to me and clamped a hand over her mouth.
> ‘Wise move,’ said Shaky, ‘that lassie’s gonna get you lot into trouble … more trouble, that is.’ He looked at Hod. ‘Where’s my money, y’cunt?’
Hod stepped forward, went into his pocket and withdrew a manila envelope stuffed with notes – I knew at once it was the money we’d taken from Gillian Laird, to find her son’s killer. Shaky grabbed the cash. ‘What’s this, best part ay a grand? … That’s no’ gonna buy you much time.’
‘You’ll get the rest,’ Hod told him.
I could sense the wheels turning in Shaky’s head. He looked at Gemmill and then he looked back to us. ‘I want the rest ay this, mind …’
‘You’ll get it,’ said Hod.
Shaky pocketed the cash, started to button up his overcoat. ‘Oh, I know I will …’ he walked over to Amy, eyed her up and down, ‘one way or another.’
My fists clenched. I was ready to lay into him, but the part of the brain that deals with self-preservation was holding me in check. The pug pushed us aside as Shaky headed for the door.
‘One last thing,’ he said, ‘this Laird laddie … I don’t want to hear you’ve been poking about in his death again, got me?’
I looked at Gemmill; he was staring at his shoes.
‘Why, what’s it got to do with you?’ I asked.
Gemmill suddenly came to life for the first time: ‘You’ll just do what yer fucking told, Dury!’
Shaky laughed, ‘Don’t mind him. He means well, just a wee bit sparky. He’s right about one thing, though: I hear you’ve been poking about in the Laird boy’s death again, Dury, and your girl-friend’ll be walking Leith Links … in black.’
Chapter 25
A LIFT BACK TO THE city was way too much to expect. Shaky and his crew bailed on us without so much as a backwards glance. We all watched as the Bedford pumped blue-grey smoke into the countryside and rattled up the dirt track.
‘Where the fuck are we?’ said Mac.
He was looking at Hod, but didn’t get an answer. I tried friendly, verging on optimistic: ‘Well, we’ve got a nice day for a walk.’
Amy looked pensive. She scratched her elbow as she began to speak, ‘There’s something you should know …’
Now she had our attention.
‘Go on.’
‘When I was talking to Danny … before the date, he told me that Ben Laird owed him money.’
‘He what?’
She dropped her arms to her side, ‘I know he’s shitting it that the police will find out.’
I cut in, ‘He’s no danger there. Plod is officially sweeping this one under the carpet.’
Hod spoke, ‘Aye, but Shaky doesn’t know that.’
It was the first bit of room we’d had to manoeuvre. There was no getting around Shaky’s threat to stay away from the case, but now we knew what was behind his threat, we could act on it. ‘He’s running scared, then …’
‘Do you think Gemmill’s had something to do with the murder?’ said Mac.
I didn’t know the answer to that, there were far too many variables floating about, but I knew one thing. ‘He looked scared enough to have.’
‘Aye, but you’d be looking scared too if you had just pissed off Shaky in that fashion,’ said Hod.
He had a point.
‘Maybe we should start taking a closer look at Danny Gemmill,’ said Mac.
‘Well, somebody should …’
‘What do you mean by that?’
I walked to the edge of the building, took out my mobi, dialled.
Ringing.
An answer: ‘Fitzsimmons.’
‘Are you glad to hear from me?’
‘Jaysus, Dury …’ He lowered his voice. ‘What have I told you about ringin’ me on the landline?’
‘Never mind that. I need to meet you.’
‘Out of the question. I’m up to me eyes in it here.’
‘I have some very interesting information about that case … one your nephew is involved in.’
A gap on the line.
Long exhalation of breath.
Sighs. ‘Okay, give me a place.’
‘How about the Regent … top of Abbeymount.’
‘Christ Almighty, that’s a feckin’ fruity bar!’
‘Yeah, I know … Don’t go changing. I thought it would be the last place we’d be expected. Say about eight tonight?’
Fitz agreed, hung up.
I motioned the others back to the dirt road, said, ‘Get those thumbs out – gonna need them.’
* * *
I traipsed down the Mile, past a shower of crusty, dreadlocked fire-eaters and a unicyclist in a jester’s hat. Never ceases to amaze me the characters this Festival attracts – every one a total bell-end. I turned eyes to the sky, longing for the day this annual nonsense would all be over.
There was a jakey with a paper cup full of coins sitting outside the Hootsman building. He smiled a toothless grin at me; I matched him with my own, dropped in a few pence.
‘Thank you, sir … have a nice day now.’
Fuck me, it had come to something when even the beggars in this city had completed customer appreciation courses. I marched through the front door, rocked up to the wall panel that had replaced the receptionists, and buzzed for Rasher.
In the elevator I removed the can of Guinness I was carrying in my jacket pocket, took a reassuring belt on it. The smooth liquid soothed me as it went down, but I knew there was a deeper craving calling out to be settled. I couldn’t give in to it, though; if I did, it might just be my last.
Sky News played in the newsroom – some twenty-one-year-old was reading the day’s headlines in a cocktail dress and push-up bra. I shook my head. There was a big picture of Rupert Murdoch on one of the monitors as I passed. The place was abuzz with the announcement that he was going to start charging for web content on his newspapers’ sites. ‘Quality journalism doesn’t come cheap …’ was his explanation. I had to laugh: he owned the Sun. And he’d aged so much he now looked like Yoda’s sack.
Rasher greeted me in the middle of the floor. ‘Gus lad … good to see you.’ It was all a bit forced, but welcome none the less … I needed all the help I could get.
I returned the bonhomie with some good Scots derision: ‘What you after?’
‘Nothing … nothing.’
He’d be telling me he was just being friendly next. Never trust a friendly hack – rule one in the manual.
We strolled through to his office. The newsroom had been decimated. Even thinner than the last time I’d been around, said, ‘Where the fuck is everyone?’
‘Ah, we bumped the sub-editors.’
‘You what? How do you put out a paper without subs?’
I could tell he was still trying to figure that one out. ‘The reporters write into boxes … read over each other’s copy.’
I almost laughed. The idea of a reporter writing a paragraph that didn’t need rewriting was a stretch. ‘And what happens when the first big court action comes in because your eighteen-year-old hack missed the legal?’
Rasher frowned, looked skywards. ‘Upstairs have budgeted for that.’
I immediately got it: was cheaper to fight a court action every other month than maintain the wages bill for the sub-editors. This corporate world we live in made me want to chuck. The lunatics had truly taken over the asylum.
We went into Rasher’s office, sat. He produced a bottle of Johnnie Walker. It had been well hit: hardly two fingers sitting in the bottom of it. I felt like necking the lot, but waved aside the offer; he filled his coffee cup.
‘So … you took yer time getting here,’ he said.
Did I explain the hospital visit, the Amy farrago, the trip to the countryside with Boaby Stevens’s crew? Uh-uh. I glossed: ‘Yeah well, busy man …’
‘You still working the same story?’ He leaned over, looked more interested than I’d seen him in a long time. He had his sleeves rolled up and it added to the air of ‘let’s get to business’ that he carried.
‘O
h, aye …’ Recycled a line: ‘Quality journalism doesn’t come cheap.’
He laughed. ‘Very good … very good.’
My left hand started to tremble slightly. I knew it as a sign that the other would be following suit soon if I didn’t take a drink. I removed the Guinness can once more, took a belt on it. Rasher’s eyes widened, he put on a ‘Christ, that’s a jakey look, Gus’ expression. Like I gave a fuck at this stage.
‘So, you got something for me?’
Rasher dug in his drawer, removed a pale blue folder, he opened it up. Inside were a lot of photocopied cuttings. He put a finger on the top one. ‘This is the Laird laddie’s court coverage. All in here: bit of Bob Hope possession, some dealing, argy-bargy with a polisman … few others. Like I say, a charmer, real charmer he was.’ I watched Rasher delve further into the files. He spoke again: ‘I have to say, the lassie did a grand job going through the library … better than I expected.’
‘Oh, yeah? … What did she turn up?’
A grin – wide one, kind he reserved for special occasions, said, ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ He slammed the folder closed.
This was a turn in events, Rasher playing cat and mouse with me. ‘What’s this?’
He stood up, drained his cup, said, ‘You really don’t know, do you? You really have no idea?’
I watched him closely. There was a full-on smile playing on his face now. That was rare enough, but this was a smile unlike any other I’d seen on him. He seemed genuinely delighted with himself.
Said, ‘Right, spill the beans, eh, Rasher.’
He went back to his desk, picked up the folder and started waving it in the air. ‘I wonder how much this is worth to you.’
If he thought there was a chance of money exchanging hands, he was deluded. ‘I have about five sovs in my pocket … bit change, and that’s me.’
He laughed that up. ‘I don’t mean money.’
‘Well, what do you mean?’
He sat down quickly, opened the folder and leafed through to the bottom of the pile. He produced a photocopy that, going by the fonts, was about twenty or thirty years old. ‘See this? … This is big time!’