‘Well, there is one thing . . . Can you do some sniffing with your builder boyos, suss out who this Czech is?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘He’s got a houseful in Leith, drives a Pajero . . . if that’s any help.’
He raised his bottle, tipped it to me. ‘I’ll get on it.’
As Hod went behind the bar, Mac grabbed me, said, ‘Hold up a sec.’
I stopped at the doorjamb and he slipped something in my hand. As I looked down I saw he’d come good on some more speed.
‘Nice one,’ I said. ‘I’ll be in touch soon, real soon. Keep your hammer handy.’
Chapter 12
ON THE STREET MY THOUGHTS were gnashing in my head. There was more to the killing of my brother than I had first thought. I knew from the off it was no mugging gone wrong, but I couldn’t grasp the idea that there was so much serious shit attached. There was a war going on inside me: demons wanted me to burst fat Davie’s head for answers, and they were teamed up with the crew who wanted to get me back on the drink. At the moment the only force waged against them was the need to find justice for Michael, but that lot were being held back by my desire to do right by Debs. The way things were stacking, with Czech crims in the picture, it didn’t augur well for our reformed relationship.
I battled with the snow. It was coming down hard. A bloke with a Christmas tree in polythene wrapping T-boned me at the junction. I slipped into the road but got held up by a big biffer in a parka. I thanked him; he had the hood up, couldn’t speak, but nodded. I read the North Face badge on his chest, said, ‘Be warmer there, likely.’
I carried on back to the car, got the notion I was being followed and turned round to see North Face trailing me. He had the parka hood zipped up to the hilt. I saw two eyes, there’s a phrase, like pissholes in the snow. I upped my pace – wasn’t easy, the soles of my Docs had worn thin. I cursed Debs for refusing me a new pair. Still, the toecaps were hard enough; might be grateful for those soon, I thought.
The parka guy stayed on me as I reached the car. He’d upped his work rate but was obviously feeling it, took down the hood to expose a shaved head and bright red cheeks, puffed with the exertion.
As I got to the car, Usual sprang up at the window. He saw me and lobbed himself into the driver’s seat. I looked up the street and saw North Face get into a run. A few yards off he reached out a hand for me as I got the keys from my pocket. Usual sensed my anxiety, started to bark. I had the key in the lock, turned it as the biffer appeared, put a grip on my shoulder – sent the dog ballistic.
‘You got a fucking problem, mate?’ I said.
He held tight. ‘Trying to do you a favour.’ He was Leith, I knew the accent. Saw him at Easter Road on a Saturday; not for the footy, for the post-match pagger.
I pushed him away. ‘I’m very careful about who I take favours from. Never know what they might want in return.’
He turned his head towards the car, saw the dog snarl, teeth bared. I had a grip on the handle – if he moved he could go a few rounds with those jaws. He got wind of his predicament. I watched him look back up, caught sight of a spider’s web tattooed on his neck. It looked amateurish, probably prison-issue. He spoke: ‘Man up there wants a wee word.’
I glanced into the road. There was a line of cars. ‘And who might that be?’
He brought his hand up to his nose: a sovereign ring on every finger, more tats. ‘Come and see.’
I didn’t like where this conversation was going; I saw that collection of Elizabeth Duke’s finest coming the way of my mush soon. ‘How ’bout I don’t.’
The dog went Radio Rental, sprayed white froth at the window. The pug weighed his options; snow collected on his eyelashes. Any second now that one lonely brain cell was going to overheat. ‘The big man won’t be pleased if I tell him that.’
‘Your trouble, not mine.’
‘I could fucking drag you.’
I pressed out a grin, indicated the car. ‘You could fucking try.’
Bastard did. Went for a low headbutt. He was too tall to disguise the move and I ducked it in time, pulled open the car door as he nutted the air and landed on the ground. Usual went right for his throat. The pug screamed like a loose fan belt as the dog tore into his parka. I let Usual take a few chunks out of the fabric, some orange lining spilled out. People in the street turned around; I didn’t give them enough time to grab any details for a witness statement.
‘Usual, drop it.’ He stopped, stared up at me. ‘Come away.’
The pug’s feet slipped out before him as he pushed up the street on the bones of his arse. The dog watched him cautiously, growling. When North Face got far enough away to feel safe he leaped up, pointed to me and said, ‘You’re done, pal.’ He drew a finger down his cheek. I’d seen this before: it meant I was to be marked with a razor. No one had ever come good on any ripping threat made to me. I put the dog on him again; Usual went for his heels as he ran. He attached jaws as the pug reached a dark Daimler.
I whistled and the dog let go, ran back down the street and jumped in the car. He sat on the passenger seat, panting. I swore he was smiling.
I got in the car and spun the wheels. Chucked a U-turn, palm in the windscreen like the taxi drivers do. I got blasted by the oncoming traffic, but I made my manoeuvre with only one front wheel clipping the kerb.
As I drew alongside the Daimler I checked out the pug. He had his Timberland boots up and was rubbing his ankle, grimacing. Beside him, sat between us, was a face I recognised instantly. Long and dour, pasty white. It was Ronnie McMilne. The man they called the Undertaker. I didn’t know him, I only knew of him. I knew about lots of people I wished I didn’t.
McMilne caught me staring at him. His face looked hollowed out, the cheekbones poking beneath the skin like meat hooks. I wondered if my own face registered what I was thinking: Holy fucking shit.
An electric window went down. I heard the pug cursing; rolled down my own window. The Undertaker put a bony hand on the edge of the car. I could make out the veins and liver spots from where I sat. He said, ‘You’re Gus Dury.’ His voice unsettled me, a low rasp that sounded like sandpaper on glass.
I spat a quick reply: ‘Yeah, that’s me.’
‘We need tae have a wee chat, Gus Dury.’ I knew what one of his wee chats might amount to. I felt my chest tighten, like a belt was being pulled around it.
‘Why would that be?’
The pug sussed me, couldn’t believe what he was hearing and started to roar, ‘I’ll fucking do him here!’
He got out the door before McMilne calmed him, ‘Sit doon, Sammy.’ It only took three words: the big mug stood in the street, glowering over the car’s roof towards me like he’d been tied to a post.
McMilne turned slowly around. He had the movements of a man much older than he was, or perhaps a heavily medicated one. He wore a double-breasted grey jacket, a black T-shirt underneath with a heavy gold chain sitting below the neck. It wasn’t a good look, like a jakey trying to dress as Tony Bennett. His lips looked blue; little flecks of spittle dislodged as he spoke. ‘I’ll no’ ask you again, laddie.’
I saw a break in the traffic. I got edgy now, creeped out by him to tell the truth, said, ‘Glad to hear it.’
I didn’t give him any time to reply, floored it.
The pug slapped the roof of the Daimler as I gunned the engine. I left the Undertaker, and whatever the fuck he wanted with me, behind. Vowed I’d worry about him another day.
Chapter 13
I’D NEVER MET RONNIE MCMILNE before. But I’d heard all about him. You live in Edinburgh, you move in my circles, it’s impossible not to have heard of the Undertaker. It was a name that got put up when there was some serious threat called for. The story of how he landed the tag has been a city legend for the best part of two decades, and still the source of fevered pub talk. For years the rumour merchants had claimed McMilne had put a business rival in a coffin, buried him alive. The bloke had been dug up long after the w
orms got to him and McMilne was in the frame. A lot of hacks were chasing the story and at the time, I was one of them. We were all guilty of building up the Undertaker’s rep in the papers. The filth were furious but they couldn’t do him for the murder.
Every so often someone gets worked over in the city and the Undertaker’s mentioned. His name was linked to grievous like the Colonel was linked to fried chicken. He’d built up a nice little empire on the back of knuckle-breaking too – few bawdy hooses, more than a few nightclubs, and he ran the lumps for every door in Edinburgh. I’d also heard that lately he’d become the go-to man on any kind of knock-off merchandise in the town. Touched just about every racket, except skag. That was a different game entirely.
As I got in the tenement I rested my back on the door, sighed.
Usual raced away up the stairs before me. I heard him scratch at the door. Debs let him in, made a fuss over him.
‘Gus, that you?’ she yelled.
‘Yeah. Yeah . . . just coming.’ I got moving. The stairs reeked again; another bastard had taken a slash while I’d been out. I covered my nose with my coat sleeve on the way up. I raged inside. Tried to make sense of the Undertaker’s appearance and what he might be after. I didn’t want him to show up at the flat, but I figured it was a long shot that he’d know where I lived. He’d obviously been asking about, heard I had the Wall once and chanced his luck. Still, the idea of being measured for one of his coffins didn’t exactly thrill me. This turn of events spelled bad shit, in block letters. How it connected to Michael’s murder, though, that was the question I wanted answered the most.
As I reached the landing Debs spoke: ‘We’re going to Jayne’s.’
‘What? Why?’
She frowned. ‘God, do you need to ask?’
I needed a hit of speed, played for a diversion. ‘Well, you better feed Usual first.’
Debs turned away, got back to fussing over the dog as I slipped the speed out of my coat pocket and headed to the cludgie. I shotgunned a couple of wraps, rapid style. I inflated the bag, then retied it. It held watertight as I opened up the cistern and sat it next to the ballcock.
Debs was standing in the hall when I came out. ‘You set?’
The car’s engine was still warm, it started first time. Debs fired into me about the therapist as we drove. I held schtum. Thought I might start prattling on with the speed coursing through me and I didn’t want to give her any more ammo. She got the message. By the time we hit the Grange, she’d more to think about.
A huge Christmas tree lit up the front room in my brother’s house. It shone through the window. Looked to be such a happy home. Thought: How could anyone doubt it?
‘Beautiful tree,’ said Debs.
‘Yeah, she must have just got it in, wasn’t there before.’
‘How can she do it? God, that’s so brave.’
I parked, two wheels up on the kerb. ‘It’ll be for Alice – she always loved this time of year.’
Debs leaned over, touched my arm. ‘Remember we used to take her sledging when she was really wee?’
I smiled. ‘Yeah, I remember.’ Poor Alice, this time of year would never be the same for her. The thought of what this had done to her wounded me more than anything. It was another life damaged, in my battered family. Debs put her arms round me, held tight as we walked to the door. Somehow it didn’t seem right, me being so happy to have Debs back in my life and my brother’s family destroyed.
A heavy frost was beginning to settle as Debs pointed to the house, said, ‘Who’s that?’
On the path round the side, next to the wheelie bins, stood Vilem. He was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette and staring straight at me.
‘That’s the lodger,’ I said.
‘The what?’ Debs edged forward, squinted.
‘Apparently Michael took in a lodger a little while back. He works . . . worked for him.’
Vilem realised he was being talked about, dowped his tab, a shower of orange sparks hitting the ground as he stamped it out.
‘Look, go on ahead without me, I want a word with him.’
Debs looked unsure. ‘Gus, we came together . . .’
‘Yeah, I’ll only be a minute. On you go.’
I jogged away from her, left her to go inside by herself. As Vilem clocked me coming for him, he turned down the path.
‘Hey, not so fast,’ I yelled.
He kept on. His limp had eased a bit now, but the shifty demeanour was still in place. He picked up his pace a little, tried to pair it with a casual air, but it wasn’t working. I hooked my fingers in his collar, yanked good and hard. He stopped dead. As I spun him I made sure Debs was out of sight – she’d gone indoors.
‘Bit jumpy aren’t we, Vilem?’
‘Get your hands off me.’
I showed him my palms. ‘Not touching you . . .’
He bristled, flared his nostrils. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘Och, c’mon . . . I think, by this stage, you know fucking well what I want, boyo.’
He spat. I watched the corners of his eyes contract as he tried to assess me. Like I was playing. I spun him towards the wall, put my forearm under his chin. He went up on his toes – his eyes widened now. ‘Have I got your attention, fuckhead? . . . I mean your full attention?’
He tried to nod, realised it was gonna choke him, gibbered, ‘Yes. Yes.’
‘Good, then listen . . . real carefully.’ I leaned in close, made sure my breath was hitting him. ‘I’ve got your little game sussed, well and truly . . . Now, I don’t know who’s pulling your strings yet, but soon as I find out, someone’s going to pay for my brother’s death. You can pass that on. And while you’re at it, let them know I won’t be as easy to shut up as Ian Kerr.’
The name hit home. I could see the flash of recognition in his face. I thought for a moment he was about to speak, that I’d done a job on him, but there was a shriek from the back yard. It was Alice.
She stood plugged in to her iPod, obviously shocked. She seemed to tremble. Her eyes looked red, like she’d already been crying. She pulled the sleeves of her baggy striped top over her hands, wiped her nose on her sleeve.
I let Vilem down, said, ‘Alice . . .’
She looked at me, then bolted.
Vilem got a shot of bravery, pushed me away as he ran for the house. For a second I was torn, but knew I had to go after her.
‘Alice . . . Alice!’ I shouted.
She was off running, bombing it down the path and onto the street.
As I got into the car she was already out of sight. The roads were treacherous. A bloke in a Honda Civic flashed me at the lights; he had right of way but was wary of tackling the icy road with me sitting so far out of the junction. A slight loss of traction and his rear end was likely to go crashing into my grille. I waved him as I passed and got a nod back.
I drove around a few streets but she’d lost me. Must have spent an hour looking; knew, by now, Debs would have blown a fuse.
Banged the dash. ‘Shitballs.’
I pulled in at the late-night Spar to get some tabs. A crowd of teenagers were hanging about on the steps. Skinny jeans and T4 haircuts all round. Arse-cracks showing above their belts. I thought they must be insane in this weather to go about exposing themselves. They looked a right bunch of twats; even the blokes had kohl round their eyes, and one of them was making his way straight for me.
‘Got a ciggie, my squire?’ He was three sheets, grinning at me from beneath a Wookie-barnet, waving a palm in a circular motion. It was the most effete bit of begging I’d ever seen.
Said, ‘Get fucked.’
His friends woop-wooped. I had him pegged as a student, regretfully one of our home-grown lot – around here they breed these invertebrates as effectively as the ones the English ship into the New Town every year.
I looked him up and down, waited for a put-up, got none.
He slunk off to his wooping buddies, showing me some red scants sitting above his kec
ks. They high-fived and handed him a tin of Scrumpy Jack for the performance.
I’d never wanted to drink alcohol less. I’d be hoarding this memory, bringing it back in widescreen the next time I felt tempted by the bevvy.
In the store I got my order in. ‘Can you give me forty Marlboro?’ Bloke on the till went for the yellow pack, the lights. ‘Eh, no . . . the red ones,’ I said.
He put them back. ‘The heavy hitters!’
Smiled, went, ‘Aye.’
‘It’s usually the others they go for round here . . . Saturday smokers, y’see.’
He grinned; a line of stained teeth showed me he was a big-time tobacco fan. He dropped his smile quickly as he caught sight of a ruckus in the back of the shop, shouted, ‘Hey, you gonna pay for that?’
I turned to see two of the yoofs from out the front and a young girl. They shoved a bottle of weapons-grade cider up her baggy striped jumper. I knew at once who it was. ‘Alice!’ I yelled.
She dropped the bottle and it bounced off the floor, then it burst, spraying out an arc of frothy liquid. The bloke behind the counter started shouting. The yoofs and Alice ran for the door. I went after them.
On the pavement I caught sight of their skinny arses chanking it up a close. They had their hoods up, laughing their guts out, slipping on the icy streets as they went. I made a sprint of a few steps but felt a stitch as I reached the corner, watched them disappear into darkness.
The bloke from the Spar came up behind me, panting, his cheeks going like bellows. ‘Did you see them?’
‘Gone,’ I said.
He toppled over, put his hands on his knees. ‘I’ll need to get your details for the police.’
‘Police . . . they never got away with anything.’
He stood up, still panting. ‘I need to tell them. We lost stock, that’s a bottle we could have sold.’
I passed him a fiver, said, ‘Write it off.’
He shook his head. ‘No, can’t do that. Who was that girl?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
Loss Page 9