by Lesley Kelly
‘What’s he doing here?’
Everyone turns to look at us. All conversation stops as the barflies stand there with their pints halfway to their mouths, and their gobs wide open. If Big Malky employed a piano player, by now he would have stopped tinkling the ivories and be hiding under a bar stool waiting for the shoot-out to begin.
As a valued customer I’m not too pleased at the welcome I’m receiving. We’re long term regulars at Shugs, which would be a proper spit and sawdust pub except Big Malky sees sawdust as an unnecessary expense. The pub itself has been in existence since Victorian times, and it still maintains some of the gaudiness popular in pubs found in ports. Big Malky is not really a fan of heritage; the tiled mural showing the travails of the working man is largely hidden by fading posters promoting a range of real ales, several of which are no longer in production. The floor mosaic that spelt out ‘Shugs’ and ‘Welcome’ is missing several squares, and is covered up by a mat for regulars to wipe their boots on arrival. And the stained glass windows seldom illuminate the room with colour, as most days Malky doesn’t bother putting the metal shutters up.
We’d started drinking here when it was run by Malky’s dad, who’d had a brief Premier League career in the 1950s. Big Malky had inherited his mother’s build and her ability at football. It didn’t stop him taking an interest in the game though, and Shugs sponsored a local kids’ team. The less-than-charitable talk in the back room was that he sponsored the team to ensure that Young Malky got a game, as the youngster had a build more suited to rugby, or as Wheezy would have it, sumo. The juniors never won anything but that didn’t bother the regulars too much. At Shugs, failure was a way of life.
‘I said, what’s he doing here?’
‘Malky, I’m not deaf, you can talk directly to me.’
I slightly regret this line of reasoning when Malky reaches over the bar, grabs a handful of my jacket and pulls me toward him.
‘I know that, but the thing is, I don’t really want to talk to you at the moment. Not when the word is that you’ve had money off of half my regulars for doing them a wee favour involving you pissing off out of town, and now I see you reappearing here bold as a two-dicked dog. Do you think that is good for business, Stainsie? Do you think you drinking here is an advert for my premises?’
I think that Shugs’ customers are probably immune to advertising and are more swayed by the twin facts of Malky’s low prices and high tolerance levels. But seeing as I am apparently pushing that tolerance to its limits, I keep my mouth shut.
‘Here – take this, Malky.’
While I’ve been otherwise engaged, Wheezy’s dipped my pockets and got hold of some of the cash that I took from the Priest’s House. How he even knew I had money is beyond me; the man’s got a nose like a bloodhound when it comes to used notes.
‘That’s £20 down, the pair of us’ll stay in the back room, everybody’s happy, OK?’
Malky thinks for a minute, then pockets the twenty. ‘Two pints of lager coming up.’ He points to the two of us and then to the snug. ‘I don’t want either of you showing your faces out here.’
Which is going to make getting the next round in difficult, but I decide not to argue.
‘So, what do we know so far?’
I finish my pint, belch, and sit back to think.
‘Well, we know Isa Stoddart was murdered, but not who did it.’
Wheezy nods. ‘Aye.’
‘We know that Lachie was murdered, but not who did it.’
‘Aye, I knew the daft bastard hadn’t topped himself.’
Call it a guilty conscience but I don’t like hearing Lachie slagged off like that. ‘Show some respect, Wheeze, the man is dead. And his heart was in the right place.’
‘No it wasn’t! The laddie had no brains, no bottle, and no heart. He was the whole cast of the Wizard of Oz in one chubby wee body.’ He sees me about to protest again and quickly moves on. ‘Anyhow, as you said, he’s also dead.’
‘Now,’ I lower my voice, ‘Assuming that we don’t already know who murdered Mrs Stoddart…’
Wheeze looks over both shoulders and nods.
‘… it seems to me that the chances are they two murders are related. But now there’s this other body turned up.’
‘Uh-huh.’
I’m about to launch into my theory about who the latest body is, and who is behind this killing spree when Wheeze beats me to it.
‘I’ve got a theory on who that body is. Get us another pint and I’ll share it.’
I decide that I’ll hear Wheezy out, mainly for the satisfaction of telling him he’s wrong. I’m not convinced that it’s my round but I know from long experience that a man could die of thirst waiting for Wheezy to dig deep so I saunter up to the bar, trying not to look worried that Malky might kill me. I needn’t have worried; he contents himself with a snarl and some ludicrous overcharging.
I place the two pints in front of us.
‘So - shoot.’
‘Two words – Guthrie Stoddart.’
I snort in disbelief. ‘He’s not dead – he ran off with some young bird.’
Wheeze raises an eyebrow. ‘Or so we were told. What if Isa had him topped?’
‘Why would she do that?’
Wheezy puts his hands on his head then flings them out in a manner I find a little on the theatrical side. ‘Found out about him having an affair. Fancied the business all for herself. She was having an affair. I don’t know, but I remember Isa in those days and she was a hard ticket even then.’
‘You and Mrs Stoddart must be about the same age, right?’
He slams his pint down. ‘How old do you think I am?’
I’d not given that particular question much thought before. ‘Sixty, sixty-five?’
‘I’m fifty-two!’
‘Oh. No offence, Wheeze, but you’re not wearing well.’ He’s looking daggers at me so I move onto my theory. ‘And thanks for sharing that ridiculous theory but I actually know who that body is, because I know who committed all three of they murders.’
He puts down his pint. ‘Who?’
‘Bruce.’
He looks blankly at me. ‘Who?’
‘Remember Mrs Stoddart’s laddies-with-dogs? The one with the long hair?’
He looks at me for a minute then bursts out laughing. ‘The big jessie with the dyed blonde tresses and the leather trousers? I don’t think so.’ He picks up his pint, then starts laughing so much he has to put it down again.
I ignore him. ‘He’s not that much of a ponce. He told me he’d killed the other laddie-with-a-dog.’
Wheeze thinks for a minute. ‘Right enough, I’ve not seen him about for a while.’ He’s beginning to get interested. ‘So, you think he’s the body that’s turned up in Isa’s house?’
‘I do.’
I’m not sure if it’s the drink talking or what, but I feel the need to unburden myself.
‘I’ve not been quite straight with you, Wheezy.’
‘Aw, shit.’ He drains his pint and sighs. ‘What now?’
‘Nothing bad. Well, I don’t think it’s bad.’ And I fill him in on me being Lachie’s rightful heir. When I’m finished he leans back in his chair and stares at me for a long time.
‘You are undoubtedly the single jammiest bastard I have ever met.’
‘Wheeze, we ought to tell Marianne what I found out. She might remember something that could help us.’
‘It’d better be me that tells her – you’re not exactly in her good books. That poor lassie. She’s had it hard.’
I don’t need guilt-tripped about Marianne. In light of my current predicament she should be feeling guilty about me. ‘Aye, aye.’
‘Her man ran off, and her stuck there in they banana flats with her laddie. That’s no place to be bringing up a bairn, no garden or nothing. You know what they call that style of architecture?’
‘Naw.’
‘Brutalist! And bloody brutal they are too…’
And he�
��s off on one before I can stop him. I tune out for a bit. I’ve heard this rant before; the evils of social housing is one of his favourite topics.
‘See social housing in this country, right, it’s always been about controlling the working class. Have you ever looked at an aerial picture of a Council housing estate, Stainsie?’
‘No, Wheeze, I can’t say that I have.’
‘They built all these new estates with big long straight streets, so that they could place a machine gun at one end of it and mow down the whole working class in one go if they ever decided to riot.’
I think for a minute. ‘Well, that would certainly work with the banana flats, so named for their strong resemblance to a straight line.’ I don’t think he picks up on my sarcasm.
‘See the working classes, right, we’ve been sold down the river by every government since Ramsay MacDonald.’
‘Another pint?’
‘Aye, well, just a quick one then I’m off to see Marianne.’
It’s dark as a docker’s joke when I finally leave the pub. By the time I thought about leaving, Wheezy was lying with his head on the table snoring softly to himself, so I thought I better take it on myself to give Marianne the good news. I know Wheezy has a key for her flat, so I dip his pockets before I go. I figure she might not be too pleased to see me but when she hears what I’ve got to say she’ll calm down.
The pubs along The Shore are half-empty. A damp Tuesday in April is never going to be a good night for business. The pubs make their money on Friday nights, when the Scottish Government workers and other office staff round here head out after work, and every night during summer when the tourists are in town. And don’t get me started about what it’s like during the Festival. Even Shugs gets tourists that have got lost. We generally just leave the stray travellers to it, apart from Wheezy who insists they take his picture, then charges them for the privilege.
For all that it’s a tourist trap these days, there’s still a hard core of old Leith round here. It’s the kind of area where it’s easy to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time, so I keep one eye looking over my shoulder while I hunt for Marianne’s flat. I’ve a bit of difficulty tracking it down again because all the floors in the banana flats look the same, and to be honest, I’m not at my sharpest after a few pints. Eventually I find a door that looks familiar, and I’m reassured by a little brass plate with ‘Murphy’ screwed on the doorframe. I knock but don’t get any answer.
‘Marianne.’ I try shouting through the letterbox but she still doesn’t come to the door, so I use Wheeze’s key. I’m no sooner through the door than she hits me with something. I fall over and she keeps hitting me.
I roll into a foetal position. ‘Jesus Christ, Marianne, it’s me, Staines.’
‘I know that.’ She takes another swipe at me and I uncurl long enough to grab hold of her weapon.
‘Do you always repel intruders with a Magic Mop?’
‘It was the only thing I had to hand.’ I let go for a second and she has another go at me.
I grab the implement with both hands this time. ‘Will you stop that?’
She stops trying to hit me with the mop and starts trying to stab me with it instead. ‘You bastard! What are you doing here? Is it sex you’re after? Do you think you can blackmail me into bed?’
I let go and roll over toward the door. Marianne is still standing with the mop held aloft like the last revolutionary in that French musical thing. I check my watch and notice that Marianne is in her pyjamas. It’s maybe a little bit late to be making a house call. I try for some humour.
‘Can a man not turn up unexpectedly at a lassie’s house at 11.00 at night for any reason other than sex? I’m a wee bit old for making booty calls.’
She’s still frowning, and her mouth is pursed tighter than a cat’s backside. ‘I’d sooner go to prison than sleep with you.’
This doesn’t surprise me. ‘That’s useful to know, thank you very much, but I’m actually here with some good news.’
She lowers her weapon and I take the opportunity to get to my feet.
‘I think I can prove you didn’t kill Isa Stoddart.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Make me a cup of tea and I’ll tell you.’
I don’t know what Marianne borrowed money off Mrs Stoddart for but it certainly wasn’t for fixtures and fittings. She sees me looking at it.
‘The Council’s supposed to be doing the kitchens up this year.’ She sounds quite defensive and I decide I better not insult her interior décor on top of everything else.
‘No, no it’s nice. Retro.’
Her hand’s shaking slightly as she puts a mug of coffee in front of me, so I try to lighten the mood a little.
‘Your laddie must be a sound sleeper.’
She does a tiny shake of her head. ‘He’s at his dad’s.’
I’m more interested in this information than I should be. I know that whoever Marianne does or doesn’t keep in touch with is none of my business. ‘He still sees his dad then?’
Her face twitches and I think she’s going to tell me to piss off, but she keeps it civil.
‘Sometimes.’
I realise I’ve overstepped the mark. ‘I didn’t mean to…’
She cuts me off. ‘Can you just tell me why you’re here, Stainsie?’
‘OK. Right.’ I’m not quite sure where to begin, and I’m a little distracted. Marianne’s PJ top is on the skimpy side, and it’s pretty cold in the kitchen. I make a God-Almighty effort to focus. ‘I had a conversation with Danny Jamieson.’
‘Who?’
‘The Polisman that’s leading the enquiry into Mrs Stoddart’s murder. I was at school with him.’
She nods.
‘Anyhow, he says that Mrs Stoddart died in the early hours of February 4th..’
She doesn’t say anything.
‘Like about eight hours later than when you hit her.’
‘Oh God – was she lying there dying all that time?’ Marianne looks distraught.
‘Well, possibly. But it doesn’t seem all that likely to me. Plus she’d have to drag herself from the Church all the way to the Foot o’ the Walk, where she was found.’
There’s a silence while she thinks about this, and I take the opportunity to ask something that’s been on my mind. ‘So, how many times did you hit Mrs Stoddart?’ I can’t quite imagine the scene. The way I picture it if she didn’t go down on the first blow you would be in deep trouble.
She looks confused. ‘Just the once.’
‘But Jamieson said something about her being repeatedly battered.’ I’m getting excited. ‘Marianne, I think we can prove it wasn’t you.’
She’s not looking convinced. ‘So, what do you think happened to her?’
‘I’m not sure. But I do know that you were not the only one that had a grudge against her. I’m thinking someone else found her, and finished off what you started.’
She’s got the same sceptical expression that her uncle had when I put the theory to him.
‘So, Marianne, what we need to do is work out who did do it and tell the boys in blue.’
‘Why?’ She stares me out. ‘I mean, why are you bothered who the Polis think did it?’
Because I want to leave town without worrying about you being sexually assaulted by a well-coiffeured thug. But she’s probably got enough to fret about without adding that to her list.
I sigh. ‘’Cause at the moment people keep grassing me up as being responsible.’ I get to my feet. ‘I’m not going to get a moment’s peace until someone gets arrested.’
I pick my coat up off the back of the seat and ease my arms into it. ‘And with Danny Jamieson on the case I’m not convinced it’ll ever get solved.’
I haven’t eaten all day, so I head round to my favourite chip shop on Leith Walk. Lachie and I weren’t really big on cooking so we were round there every second night. It’s owned by Mac and Logie, who are brothers, and they were always pretty
good to us. Half the time they never even charged us for our chips, and there’s been many a night when they’ve seen me home when I was under the influence.
‘I’m back!’ I say, wandering into the neon-lit shop.
There’s a brief silence, then Mac says, ‘You’re barred.’
‘What?’ This is confusing on all kinds of levels, not least because I don’t know exactly what you have to do to get barred from a Leith Walk chip shop. If they banned every customer that was rude, drunk or didn’t actually have the money for their purchases the whole street would be deserted after 9.30 pm. A few years ago a drunk guy cut off his knob and wandered into a chip shop round here waving it about. I bet he still gets served a fish supper when he asks for it. Though he’s probably gone off the battered sausage.
‘How am I barred?’ Then it occurs to me – these guys probably owe Mrs Stoddart money as well. ‘I’m not here to cause trouble – I’ve destroyed the tallybook.’
‘Tallybook?’ says Logie. ‘Who’s interested in a tallybook?’
Mac butts in. ‘We’re not giving you any more money, Stainsie. We’re not scared of you. You’re no Mrs Stoddart.’
Ordinarily I’d be offended at the implication that I was less frightening than a five foot nothing old lady, but in Isa Stoddart’s case they’re quite right. So, she’s been having protection money off of them. No wonder we got good treatment here.
‘You’ve been paying Mrs Stoddart off?’
‘Aye, Stainsie, as if you didn’t know that.’
‘I didn’t!’ They’re not looking convinced and frankly I don’t blame them for doubting my integrity. You lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas. ‘Swear to God!’
Logie places his hand on top of the counter. ‘Did you never wonder where I got this?’
The skin on his hand is scarred, as if he’s been badly burned. ‘You had an accident with the deep fat fryer?’ I say hopefully.
He smiles, grimly. ‘I didn’t have the money for Mrs Stoddart one week and she sent one of her thugs round. This wasn’t an accident Stainsie. That bitch had her man hold my hand in the fat.’