Long Time Dead

by Tony Black

  Long Time Dead

  Tony Black

  "Tony Black is my favourite British crime writer." – Irvine Welsh

  Gus Dury is back on the drink. While in hospital after a hit-and-run accident, his best friend, Hod, asks him to investigate the ritual, on-campus hanging of an Edinburgh University student. The murder victim's mother is a high-profile actress, who has promised a big-money reward. Gus, desperate for money, goes undercover at the university, taking a janitor's job, and soon uncovers a similar ritualistic hanging which took place in the 70s. Few of the students are prepared to talk about it – until another one of their group turns up dead by the same method. But Gus now moves into very dangerous waters as he begins to discover what and who is really behind it all – and he becomes the next target for the executioner.

  Tony Black

  Long Time Dead

  The fourth book in the Gus Dury series, 2010

  For Matt ‘Doc’ Neal

  Also by Tony Black

  Paying for It

  Gutted

  Loss

  Chapter 1

  THE DOCTOR WAS A NO-NONSENSE west-coaster, type that called a spade a shovel and if you didn’t like it would add, You got a problem with that?

  Problems I had. In spades. Or should that be shovels?

  ‘What were you drinking?’ he said.

  ‘Black Heart.’

  ‘Rum… the condemned man’s tot.’

  Like I’d argue. He laid hands on my head, tilted my face to the light, opened my eyelids with his thumbs.

  A tut.

  ‘Pardon?’

  No response.

  He motioned me stand, said, ‘Open your shirt.’

  The unbuttoning was a trial. My hands shook like fluttering starlings. The doc looked at his watch.

  ‘You in a hurry?’ I asked.

  A frown. ‘Are you?’

  I got his meaning. Didn’t answer.

  The stethoscope felt cold, made me flinch. What made the doc flinch, I could have done without knowing.

  ‘You’re dangerously underweight,’ he said.

  I hadn’t been on any scales that I could remember, said, ‘You weighed me with your eyes, did you?’

  He took off his glasses, frowned again. ‘Mr Dury, I can count your ribs.’ He put back his glasses, stood fists on hips. ‘You’re malnourished.’ Then the killer: ‘How frequent are the hallucinations?’

  I hadn’t told anyone about those. Either this guy was good or moonlighting as a stage hypnotist.

  I sat upright in the bed. ‘Halluci- wha’?’

  A hand on my shoulder, was meant to calm me. ‘You were flapping arms on Princes Street like Freddie Krueger was after you… You’re a sorry state, son.’

  My heart stilled when he called me son. My own father had never shown such concern. I grabbed the crisp white linen of the bed sheets, lifted them up to my throat. I could remember nothing. ‘How did I get here… I mean, what happened?’

  The doctor exhaled slowly. I felt as if I was back at school, in the headmaster’s office after some dust-up or a smashed window. ‘An old lady on a mobility scooter ran into you. She must’ve been going at a fair clip, mind… put you into the window of Burger King. Out like a light you went.’

  He didn’t even smile; I had to fight to suppress a laugh. Well, if you can’t laugh at yourself, you really are in bad shape.

  ‘She’s okay, by the way,’ said the doc.

  Like I gave a fuck – she put me in hospital; lied: ‘Glad to hear it.’ I touched my elbow; the skin was broken and reddened. As I looked at my fingers I saw they were stick-thin, yellowed by nicotine and black under the nails. I was plugged into a saline drip. I looked, and felt, like complete shit. Worse, I was choking for a drink.

  The door behind the doc opened. I caught sight of Hod. He held out a bottle of Lucozade, bunch of grapes. He was motioned in. Doc said, ‘Try talking sense to him, eh… He’s living on borrowed time.’

  I’d heard it all before. Been to the meetings, the therapy, the interventions. The ex-wife couldn’t help me – what made them think anyone else could? I felt like a man at the end of a long road; I was tired. Done. I needed no more looking after than I could give myself, and that wasn’t much. I didn’t care, though, because I’d lost all cares. As you stare down that dark well of despair, there’s the most astounding sense of relief, a release almost. A surrendering. A feeling of putting it all in the man upstairs’ hands. Fuck it, like anyone could do a worse job of it than me. I looked at the clock on the wall. It said 3 p.m. I’d be off by half past, if I could get a drink in me.

  ‘What’s this?’ I said to Hod.

  ‘Lucozade.’

  ‘You serious? Nothing else…?’

  Hod bridled. ‘Gus, your liver’s fucked. You’re up Shit Street, and you want me to bring you sauce.’ He shook his head, sliced the air with his hands. ‘No can do, buddy.’

  I tried to get out of bed. My head swam.

  Hod flattened me back with his forearm. ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid.’

  Oh, I was that all right: ran over by an old grunter on Edinburgh’s main drag – this was a new low, even for me. I wanted out. I wanted a bottle to climb into. I wanted to wash away the contents of this banged-up head of mine. I needed out, away. Anywhere but here. I struggled with Hod, but I didn’t have the strength; I was piss weak.

  ‘Okay, okay… you got me,’ I said.

  ‘Are you quite settled?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Good, because I need you to get yourself together pronto.’

  Hod’s eyes widened. He had that stare of his on, one that says, Whatcha make of those apples? He had my full attention as he handed me a copy of the evening paper. Front-page splash was a story about a hanging at one of the city’s universities.

  ‘The fuck’s this?’

  Hod snatched back the paper, read aloud: ‘Lothian and Borders Police announced the death of nineteen-year-old Ben Laird at a capital press conference this morning… blah-blah… His mother, the actress Gillian Laird, dismissed police claims of an erotic asphyxiation accident and pledged to spare no expense to root out her son’s killer.’

  ‘Erotic… what?’ I said.

  ‘Asphyxiation… Think they call them gaspers. Y’know, tie themselves up to get turned on.’

  Sounded like too much work to me. I took the paper back. ‘This him?’

  Got nods.

  I could see the family resemblance now: the lad’s mother was Scottish acting royalty, but she’d been front-page news herself recently. ‘Hod, this is the chick that came out, yeah?’

  A grin spread over his chops. ‘That’s the one… Left her husband, some big film director, for a twenty-year-old glamour model.’ He put open hands in front of his chest to mimic a sizeable rack.

  ‘She just dumped the film guy and swapped sides?’

  ‘He was a bit of a swordsman, lives over in the States now. Put it about for years. I’d say she got fed up and took the dramatic course of action.’

  I shook my head. ‘Some family… The glamour girl was a pole dancer, yeah?’

  ‘I dunno what nationality she was!’

  ‘Ha-fucking-ha… The one she’s sleeping head-to-toe with, she’s the one the papers ran the scoops on: had worked in the Pubic Triangle, and been a junkie and all that.’

  ‘Aye, aye, aye…’ Hod clicked fingers at me, shook his head, rapid-style. ‘Look, that’s neither here nor there, mate. What you need to know is, Gillian Laird is looking for someone to go and poke about in her son’s murder, and she’s paying big money.’

  He had my full attention.

  I was flat broke. Jobless. Hod had lost his last means of income, the Holy Wall pub, which I’d sold to him. The last thing I needed wa
s any more grief in my life, but shit on a stick, I needed something. Fast. My situation was worse than a fly sliding down a razorblade using its balls as brakes. Something had to give here – could this be the something?

  Said, ‘Go out that door and keep shoatie, Hod.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Till I get dressed. You don’t want me creeping out of here in a hospital gown, do you?’

  Hod grinned. ‘Nae danger… Let’s get ready to rumble, eh.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  On his way out the door, Hod spoke: ‘Seriously, Gus, you won’t regret it. I have a good feeling about this.’

  I’d heard those words from him before; nothing ever shitted me more.

  As I picked up my trousers the belt buckle rattled so much in my shaking hands I was like a leper with a bell, said, ‘Fucking hell, Gus, what’re you thinking?’

  I was in no state for this whack. I was in no state for anything.

  Chapter 2

  I TRIED TO PULL OUT the needle attached to the saline drip, but my vision wouldn’t focus. Be fucked if my hands would work either – shaking like a jakey with a tin cup.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Hod.

  I didn’t let on. Big mistake.

  ‘Aahh… fuck.’ The needle broke in my hand. I almost leapt through the wall.

  Hod was grimacing. ‘Jesus, Gus…’ He ran over, grabbed up my arm. ‘You’ve made a right cunt of this.’

  Like I needed telling. ‘Just pull the thing out would you!’

  He grabbed hold, tried to steady my hand, couldn’t do it. It flapped about like a power hose on the loose. ‘Can you keep still?’

  ‘Does it fucking look like it, Hod?’

  Three-quarters of the thick needle was poking through the skin and blood was oozing from the now sizeable hole it sat in. ‘Christ on a cross, Dury! Will you ever learn?’

  I thought that was one of those questions that required no answer, even the obvious one. As Hod removed the needle, flung it in the sink, I folded my arms and tucked hands under my oxters. Figured the flapping was on for the day; they wouldn’t settle. Had it come to this? I thought. What was next, shitting in a bag? Sleeping on cobbles and waking blind after a night on the meths? I had reached the end of a very long drop. My heart wept at what my mother must think of me. I could care less about the kip of myself, but I couldn’t bear putting more hurt on anyone else; I’d made an art form of that already.

  ‘Right, I think you’ll live,’ said Hod. He shot up an eyebrow. ‘For a wee while longer anyway.’

  He opened the door, looked out into the corridor. Was empty; he motioned me to follow. I was unsteady on my pins, my knees bucking on every step. There was a cement mixer going in my stomach, and I knew that had I eaten anything of late I’d be spraying the walls. My head hurt, but I couldn’t remember when it hadn’t so that made no difference to me. The real pain, though, the real heartscald, came from the realisation that I was walking back to reality, going into the real world. The song of drink called to me with every step; I needed a swally. A quick one or ten. A good bucket. I needed to put the lights out, shove my head under the pillow and wait with blessed relief until the magic wore off. I was hurting.

  In the lift I caught sight of myself in the stainless-steel doors. There’s a film, The Machinist with that Christian Bale bloke, think he went down to about eight stone for the role… He looked the picture of health by comparison to the image before me now. I’d watched my physical deterioration over the years with a kind of detached wonder… wonder at how I could let myself get so fucking bad. But now the wonder was replaced with flat-out awe. It was nothing short of miraculous that a human being could get so close to death’s door without knocking; mind, I didn’t have the energy.

  Hod placed a hand under my elbow, said, ‘You okay?’

  I jerked my arm away. ‘Get off, would you… I don’t need looking after.’

  He shook his head as the lift juddered and the doors pinged open.

  An orderly in a pale blue smock and a pair of Dunlop Green Flash was waiting with a mop and bucket. The smell of the strong disinfectant made me dry-retch. I brought a hand up to my nose and tried to hold off the stench, wasn’t working. Hod sensed my unease and put an arm around my shoulder. I was too faint to argue now, let him guide me past the reception desk and out the front door.

  We got a few steps into the car park when I was clotheslined by the sunshine.

  ‘Some day, eh?’ said Hod.

  ‘Won’t last.’

  Frowns, bit of a headshake.

  ‘But you can enjoy it whilst it’s here.’ A broad smile crossed his face. He clasped palms together and headed for the car. How could I argue with him? Was a given I felt more comfortable in the dreich, grey rain pounding down like stair rods of the Edinburgh I knew.

  Hod spun the tyres, seemed anxious to get rolling. I watched the city go by in a blur as we made it out onto the main road and headed for Porty.

  ‘We’ll hold up at my gaff for a bit,’ he said, ‘just till you get yerself on your feet again.’

  I turned to catch his expression, said, ‘That better not be what I think it is.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your usual caper… keeping an eye on me!’

  He smiled again, a fake one. ‘Gus, calm down. We have a job on.’

  Hod had got himself mixed up in my previous jobs for want of anything better to do, for kicks, a nice break from the office; slightly more of an adrenaline rush than snowboarding or rafting. With his property business going tits up, I guessed he had nothing better to do. Was that likely to play to my advantage? Was it hell as like. Hod on Rambo-action mode was like a Ritalin-deprived six-year-old with a Super Soaker. He needed more looking after than I did, and that was saying something.

  ‘Look, Hod… what’s the go here?’

  ‘Come again?’ He pulled out, floored it as he overtook a shit-heap Astra.

  ‘I mean, why the fuck are you getting all hyped up about some posh bint’s son copping his whack?’

  He cut the revs, steered round a parked white van with the blinkers on. ‘Look, Gus, it’s not a case of me taking an interest in the Laird boy’s murder-’

  ‘Whoa, whoa,’ I cut in, ‘you don’t know that it was a murder.’

  ‘Bollocks. You going with the papers, with plod?’

  I felt an urge to cough; I was craving nicotine. ‘Look, the way you fire up, mate, I’d be taking the dogs on the street serious before you.’

  Hod shook his head, gripping the wheel tighter. Saw I had him: there was more to this than he was letting on.

  I ferreted out a crushed ten-pack of Regal from my jacket pocket, sparked up. ‘So, what’s yer angle here, Hod?’

  ‘My angle?… Did you read that paper?’ He tapped the dash. ‘Look, I saw yer Laird woman on the news the other night – she’s fucking dripping in bling and living in a castle!’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And… she’s putting up serious poppy to get to the bottom of this murder.’

  I didn’t bother correcting him again. ‘And that’s your sole interest, is it? Making a nice little wedge? Cos I know you’re a fucking action junkie, Hod, and if you think I’m getting dragged along so you can play at being Richard Branson on his balloon race with my time and dime you can forget it.’

  He brought the car to a halt outside his block of luxury flats, turned the key in the ignition and opened the door. As he eased out he looked back to face me for an instant. ‘Gus, I need this payday like you wouldn’t believe.’

  He closed the door. I got out and eyed him across the car roof. ‘What do you mean?’

  As he turned I saw his pallor descend several shades of grey to rest at white. ‘Get inside, Gus. We need to talk.’

  Hod managed another three steps before he was T-boned by a burly biffer in a black suit. He placed a hand on Hod’s chest. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’ Another suit, shorter, but heavy in the neck, emerged from the passenger door
of a pimped-up Merc. He started to put leather gloves on as he strode towards us. I couldn’t see his face but I recognised the gait. Looked the kind of swagger I’d seen on more than a few widos from this town: the strut that said, You messing?

  ‘The fuck’s this?’ I said. My heart was pounding, didn’t do my head any favours. If either of them breathed on me I’d fall over. I knew I’d be no use in a pagger.

  ‘Get back in yer fucking hole, Dury,’ shouted the wee man. He pointed a black leather-clad finger as he put the bead on me. Now I recognised him. It was Danny Gemmill. A bottom feeder, but connected. He’d been a Hibs casual back in the eighties, back when they’d sharpened the tips of their golf brollies and gone looking for eyes to stick on them. He was a skelf with a serious wee-man complex. Had worked a rep as a nut-case after Stanley-knifing a few faces. After the casuals had carted the Samba and Pringle sweaters, though, Danny had moved into the more organised stramash, ran with a few mobs in the town; some of the bigger ones of late.

  Hod held up his hands in submission. ‘Okay, okay…’

  Gemmill quickly patted him down, thrust hands in his pockets. I’d seen Hod in some shit in my time, but this was the first I’d seen him roll over. The wee pug found what he was after, shook the car keys in front of Hod’s nose and smiled. ‘Don’t think you’ll be needing these, eh.’

  Hod drew swift breath, his deep chest inflating. I could tell there was a thought brewing, maybe a swift kick to the knackers and a few jabs to the jaw as a follow-up, but he clocked me pressing a palm to my aching ribcage and started to slowly exhale. ‘Nah, don’t suppose I will,’ he said.

  Gemmill placed a paw on Hod’s face, leaned in. ‘Don’t think this buys you much time, boy. You’ve got a fortnight to come up with the rest.’ He spun on the tarmac, tossed the keys to his mate, who took off for Hod’s Beemer laughing like an asthmatic hyena, seemed to be putting that in my direction; wondered why.