Long Time Dead

by Tony Black

  A subdued Stevo was back at base when I returned.

  ‘All right, there,’ I said.

  Got a nod. He had his feet up on a bale of barbed wire.

  ‘You got a light by any chance?’ he said.

  ‘Aye… aye.’ I handed him my Zippo, pulled out a Marlboro for myself.

  Stevo produced a half-tanned reefer, let it droop from his lip, sparked up. I watched him take the smoke deep into his lungs, let it settle there, then exhale slowly. It seemed to do the trick, calmed him. His eyes rolled up behind heavy lids.

  ‘Busy morning?’ I said.

  ‘Could say that.’

  I tried to move the conversation on. ‘The gents’ toilets overflowing again?’

  Frowns. ‘I put in a new ballcock… Should be fine.’

  ‘You make it sound like a doddle. Bet it’s a big job.’

  ‘Not really.’

  I let him get comfortable, took a couple of blasts on the joint myself. It seemed to put him at ease; made him think he was in friendly company. I wanted him to think that. He was a good bloke. I liked his company and I knew he could be of some use to me – if I could prise some proper chat from him. It had proved next door to impossible up till now, but nothing lasts for ever.

  ‘Stevo… what do you make of the Calder thing?’

  He had his eyes closed as he toked away, kept them shut. I saw them twitch behind those heavy lids as he spoke. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well… seems a bit strange, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Does it?’

  He was acting coy. This from the guy who had found Ben hanging, who had no time for Calder… I wondered what he was up to with Paul earlier, where he fitted into all of this. ‘Aye, well, I was thinking… y’know, with the Ben Laird hanging, then him hanging himself in such a short period of time.’

  Stevo opened his eyes wide. The whites dazzled me. ‘Paper said Calder felt guilty… it was in his note.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  He sat up straight, spoke fast: ‘Maybe! He was a funny bloke.’

  I finished off my tab, took out another Marlboro, offered one to Stevo. ‘I hear a lot of folk never liked him. Do you think, y’know…?’

  Stevo’s mouth twitched now. His gaze moved from me to the window. ‘What, that he was done over?’

  I tried to look nonplussed as he put his eyes back on me. ‘Well, it happens doesn’t it.’

  ‘Oh, yeah… wouldn’t put it past-’ He cut himself off.

  I leaned forward. ‘You wouldn’t put it past who?’

  Stevo realised he’d said too much. He got up and went over to the tray with the kettle and the coffee cups. ‘You want a coffee?’ It was all a distraction.

  ‘Go on then.’ I let him think I was finished with the subject, played the game.

  When he brought over my coffee I started again. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About Calder. You said you wouldn’t put it past someone?’

  ‘Did I?… Don’t think so.’

  He was being infuriating now. It was on my mind to jump out of the chair and clamp a good wake-up slap on him. But I had to keep my cool. There was no point in blowing my stack with Stevo, he was too decent a bloke for that kind of treatment. He’d come good yet, I figured, soon as his conscience got the better of him.

  I changed tack. ‘Did you know Ben Laird?’

  ‘Bender Ben… oh, yeah.’

  ‘Bender Ben…’ I played dumb. ‘What’s that all about?’

  Stevo sipped his coffee: was too hot; he blew on it, said, ‘That’s what they called him… Was a bit of a party animal. Seen him out on the town a couple of times. He was always the most drunk bloke in the room… Had this motto, “You’re a long time dead”.’

  ‘Did he really?’

  Stevo seemed to be more interested in talking about Ben. A smile cut his cheeks. ‘He was a good man to get a bag of puff from, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘A dealer?’

  He reached for a biscuit from a pack of ginger nuts. His heavy stomach looked as if it had been suddenly sliced in two, the top sagging like a full sack over his belt. ‘In more ways than one… He offered to get me some serious gear, y’know. And more besides.’ He giggled, a boyish gleam in his eye. ‘He offered me a go at a pro they’d brought back one night!’

  I kept my tone flat, feigned low interest. ‘They?’

  ‘Ben and his boys. There’s a wee clique of them.’

  ‘Would this be the ones you talked about before?’

  Suddenly Stevo started to get cagey again. He sat back in his seat, clamming up. ‘They’re just a group.’ He dunked his half-eaten ginger nut in his coffee. Filled his mouth with the biscuit like it was a gag.

  I shook my head, made to laugh. ‘Sounds like quite a wild wee gang.’

  He sparked up, ‘I never said they were a gang!’

  ‘Okay. Okay, Stevo… we’re only talking here. Why so defensive?’

  ‘Look, Gus… there are things in here you know nothing about.’ He got out of his seat. Coffee spilled from the cup in his hand. ‘You don’t want to mess about with that lot. I’ve seen them, heard them in the hall going on about being the masters and the born rulers… They’re out of control! Out of fucking control!’

  It was the first time I’d seen Stevo in this much of a state. For a doper he was seriously animated.

  ‘Okay, mate… we’re only talking here.’ The words sounded trite.

  Stevo dropped his cup. The last of the coffee spilled as the pottery shattered on the floor. I thought the lad might hyperventilate, his skin darkened and his cheeks puffed up. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing, Gus… I’ve had them asking about you! They know you’re up to something!’

  I rose to face him. ‘Who, Stevo? Who’s been asking about me?’

  He brought his chubby fingers to his lips. His hand trembled for a moment then he jerked it away. His face seemed to tighten now; his jaw drooped and his mouth contorted like Munch’s Scream. For a second he was frozen, then he turned and bolted for the door.

  I went after him but I was too slow on my pins to catch him.

  ‘Stevo… Stevo… come back!’

  He took off down the corridor at a fine clip, never looking back once. For a big biffer, he could fairly shift it.

  ‘Stevo…’ I yelled.

  He was round the corner and out of sight before I could call him again.

  Chapter 19

  I KEPT MY RETURN VISIT to hospital from Hod. He handed me the newspaper as I walked into the car park. Calder’s obituary had been written by some po-faced cadet journo who looked young enough to still be a student herself. A photo-byline on an obit as well… what next? She’d even failed to link it to Ben Laird’s murder – went on the line of Calder being overcome with guilt at the death of a student. It was the same old pish again. Was beginning to tire of hearing it.

  ‘Utter bullshit!’ I said. Made me want to chuck.

  ‘You really are away with the mixer now, Dury,’ said Hod.

  I said nowt; kept my eyes fixed on him, though. It was a well-worn look, I’d perfected it in my marriage to Debs. Let him know he could only get away with this kind of rant for so long.

  Hod reloaded: ‘I mean, where was your mind, man? Going to shake down Calder… Gillian blames you for his death, y’know.’

  ‘Oh, really.’ What did he know? Hod was baggage. I was merely carrying him along.

  ‘Y’know… we still haven’t signed this contract with her. This is just the kind of thing that would put her off. Do I need to remind you-’

  Enough was enough. ‘Shut the fuck up, Hod.’ I crushed up the newspaper, raised a finger, shook it left to right. ‘If you think you’re starting on that patter with me you can fucking well think again. We’re mates, not family.’

  Hit the right note; he drew in his head. Could almost see the shoulders recoiling as he sighed. Hod walked over to the edge of the car park, sat down on a wall. I watc
hed him fold arms, quickly raising a paw to test the stubble on his chin. He looked lost.

  I walked over, sat next to him. ‘Look, mate… what’s your game?’

  ‘Come again?’

  That had come out wrong. I rephrased it: ‘I mean, you’re a businessman, I’m right?’

  ‘Suppose… feel like a fucking shit one right now.’

  I turned out my pockets looking for a tab. Found a pack of Regal smalls that I’d been avoiding until I was desperate, sparked up. ‘You’re not a shit businessman, mate. You’ve had a rough stretch.’ I knew all about rough stretches, went on, ‘Way this economy is, your mob – builders – were always gonna take the worst hit…’

  He shrugged. ‘What you getting at?’

  ‘What I’m saying is… this racket, investigating, it’s not your game, mate. It’s mine.’

  That registered. He let out a slow breath, rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Okay… I hear you. You have the form… do it your way.’

  ‘Grand.’ I smiled, slapped him on the back, said, ‘I ever need a conservatory building, I won’t question how you put the windows in!’

  A nod, huff. ‘So, what’s next?’

  I stood up, stubbed my tab at the halfway mark; bloody rotten smoke anyway. ‘We go see Herself… pour some oil on the waters.’

  ‘Might take more than that.’

  ‘Trust me, what I have uncovered so far, she needs us more than ever.’

  Hod’s eyes lit. ‘And what would that be?’

  He was firmly on a need-to-know basis, said, ‘Plenty.’

  ‘Want to keep me in the loop?’

  Shook my head. ‘Spare me the business speak, eh.’

  He took the hint. Followed me to Mac’s van. We drove out to the West End in relative silence. I could tell Hod was deep in thought. He was putting a lot of faith in me; I felt the weight of it. There was a time when I would have been stressed out, but I knew we’d scratched enough at this scab to see the blood. We were far from a solution, far from anything that could even be called a better understanding… but we were on to something. I sensed it. Could feel the pulse in me quickening the second I saw Fitz’s face reveal the fact that the Craft was in on this. Say what you will, there’s something deeply satisfying about uncovering the kind of secretive shit some people make a virtue out of hiding. Secrets. Lies. They all wither and die in the light.

  ‘So, what did Gillian say?’ I pressed Hod.

  ‘She arked up is what she bloody did. She knew Calder. She’s not chuffed he’s dead. She doesn’t want it on her conscience.’

  I coughed to clear my throat. ‘Did she expect me to dig around in her son’s murder without upsetting people?’

  Hod slid the wheel, shot me a glower. ‘I think it was more the fact that you used her as leverage, then the second you’ve got the janny’s job, he turns up… dead.’

  ‘Well, y’know, if the two were related then Calder had more to answer for than we thought… Maybe I should have pushed him harder.’

  Hod frowned. ‘Yeah, well… tell her that – be interesting to see how she takes it.’

  I chewed on that for a bit. Figured if Madam didn’t like the way I worked she could find herself a new shitkicker. I held this thought for a moment, then remembered who I was really working for, said, ‘Look, Hod, leave this to me. Don’t sweat it, I’ll sort it all out.’

  Hod looked impassive. His face seemed to be paler than usual. For the first time I registered he’d probably not been on a sunbed for over a month – his gym membership was likely revoked. Christ on a rubber cross, the bloke must be feeling it. Said, ‘I mean it… just chill. I must have interviewed a thousand snooty-nosed celebrities for the papers. All they need’s a bit of ego-massaging and they’re Cool and the Gang.’

  He huffed, ‘I hope you’re right…’

  ‘I am… They’re the most simply packaged morons at root. Honestly, leave Gillian to me.’

  He turned eyes back to the road, spoke softly: ‘Just remember there’s more at stake here than your rep, Gus. Or your own ego… We have Shaky to think about.’

  He wasn’t wrong. Shaky – and Danny Gemmill – were a serious consideration. No fucking kidding they were.

  I settled back in my seat, watched the Festival traffic snarl up. This time of year was beyond nightmare scenarios on the roads. Crusty-laden Bedfords and skanky caravans creeping along at a snail’s pace were only one part of the deal. There were the day-trippers to think about: the families from Falkirk dragging wee Tarquin and Jemima through for a taste of culture in the school-run 4x4… like we didn’t have enough of those on our roads already. It was chaos. Time to time a horn would blare, maybe a window would be wound down and an abusive driver give vent. I’d seen it all before. You live in Edinburgh, you get used to this annual circus; and the fact that this is a city run entirely for those who visit it, not those who live in it.

  We travelled in silence the remainder of the way to the West End. Hod parked the van a street away to keep it out of Gillian’s view. As he turned off the engine there wasn’t so much as a glance in my direction. I could sense the heavy import he wanted to portray. It wasn’t about money for Hod now; maybe it never had been. Sure, he was broke… but what use was money when it was your knackers on the line? He slipped out the door and closed it gently, waited for me on the kerb. I got out; I wasn’t aware I was nibbling my lower lip but Hod clocked it and rolled his eyes. My heart seized. Craved a scoosh – bottle of. Swear if I’d had one on me I’d have downed it in a oner. My confidence evaporated as we turned for Gillian Laird’s home.

  Knew where this was going, how it would play out. I’d had my arse in a sling so many times it felt like comfort. This was my default gear: reverse. She’d kick off big time, maybe threaten to take her business elsewhere, which was a worry. Christ it was. Shit Street beckoned for Hod and me if that came to pass. My best card was the fact that I had a plan: there was a method in my madness; convincing a theatrical type of the fact might be a bit more difficult, though. Gillian was hard work, understood, but I figured I could play up to her and win her round. It was all about the vanity with celebrity types. To a one they had a deep-seated need to be praised, flattered, loved in disproportion to anything they deserved. No, it was the blonde by Gillian’s side who was the main worry. Something about Tina unsettled me, and it went way beyond the fact that she didn’t much like the look of my coupon.

  The heavy soles of my Docs crunched on the gravel driveway as we approached. My legs felt heavy as I walked, there was a knot tightening in my stomach that I couldn’t ignore. The discomfort threatened to have me chucking up but I fought it, schlepped on. The curtains twitched; my nerves joined in. Had they been hanging on our visit that much? Waiting by the window, ready to pounce.

  My mind emptied of all thoughts. Felt light as air as Hod pressed the bell.

  The dogs barked, kicking off behind the door. I straightened myself, tried to drop some steel in my spine. ‘Here goes,’ I said.

  Hod held schtum; kept eyes focused front. I wondered what was going on behind those heavy brows of his but forced it out of my mind. I had enough to think about now.

  As the door eased open I anticipated the same rigmarole from the butler bloke as we’d received on our earlier visit, but he was unfazed, not a sneer as he ushered us through the doorway. I was thinking this was going far too easy – as though he was on his best behaviour for some reason – and then my pulse jigged as I saw the cause of it.

  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.