Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) (17 page)

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.

I continued, ‘Gillian, we both know this was never going to be pretty.’ I caught sight of Hod out of the corner of my eye. He looked nervous. I played it cool, dropped it down a notch or two. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk? … There’s a lot you need to know, a lot I’ve uncovered.’

Gillian’s eyes flashed back to life. She nodded quickly, waving a palm towards the sitting room. Hod and I followed her. The leggy Tina eased herself from the shadows where she had been leaning on the jamb of a door. She wore an expression I’d seen a few times before: contempt. I had half a mind to say
Got a fucking problem, hen?
Went with, ‘Hello again.’ She sneered at me, shook her head as she followed her partner to the sitting room. As she went I spotted a tattoo sitting above the band of her tight black mini – what is referred to colloquially as a tramp-stamp. I looked at Hod, whispered, ‘What’s her bloody problem?’

‘You don’t know? Seems obvious to me – it’s you!’

Gillian walked over to the drinks cabinet, poured herself out a large brandy, swirled it about in the base of the glass. Tina gently rubbed her back, put an arm around her shoulder. I saw that the bruising I’d noticed earlier had subsided. I made a mental note of that. Seemed worthwhile keeping tabs on this girl – and she
was
just a girl.

Gillian broke away from her young partner, said, ‘Drink?’

I looked at the silver tray with crystal decanters on top – seemed to be all spirits. I wasn’t about to risk it in my current condition … no matter how loud the wail. ‘Have you anything with a bit less of a kick?’

She turned from me, reached for the handle of the cabinet below her. There was a mini-fridge tucked away. ‘Wine? Beer?’

I eyed the contents: Polish lager would have to do. ‘A beer would be grand.’ I could feel my nerves shrieking for a taste of alcohol, any taste. I needed an hour inside that fridge, maybe with a few decanters of scoosh to help me out, but I fought hard.
The consequences didn’t bear thinking about, no matter how much my veins screamed for it.

Gillian handed over the beer, then turned to Hod and repeated the process.

We moved to the seating area, parked ourselves. Gillian looked sheepish, as though she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear what I had to say. I watched her cross and uncross her legs, then she took Tina’s hand and clasped it tightly.

With the first tug on my beer, I was gantin’ to get out my face. Tried to hold it off, pushed the beer back again and let my insides think it was just a matter of time before there was more to follow. I needed to stay calm, said, ‘There’s been some … developments.’

‘Go on,’ said Gillian.

How did I tell her Calder was most likely killed? That her only son was about as popular as a fart in a spacesuit? How did I tell her he was dealing drugs on campus, and supplying call girls? How did I tell her Ben was mixed up with the likes of Danny Gemmill? How did I tell her the Craft was engaged in a cover-up of his death with the very university she was now heading up? None of it sat easy with me, but she’d hired me to know this, so I told her.

When I was finished Gillian looked as if she’d fallen to earth without a parachute. I thought she must be too shocked to cross-examine me, or ask for the proof; or maybe she believed it all along and was just too tired to fight her conscience any more. Tina placed an arm around her again, stroked her hair with her other hand. Gillian was devastated. I had expected anger, denials, accusations, deflection, but the sight before me was of a mother bereft. Something in the telling had struck a chord; she knew her son, and it made sense. But she was his mother and forgave him all his sins; what she wanted more than anything was peace of mind. I knew the feeling.

‘Gillian, I can see much of this is of little help to you … I told you it wouldn’t be pretty.’

She shot eyes at Hod and me. ‘Yes, yes of course …’ She rose, walked to the other side of the room, pulled open a drawer and removed Hod’s contract. She signed it before us, then handed it over
to Hod. ‘You’ll need expenses, I suppose …’ She returned to the drawer, took out a chequebook and started to scratch away with a pen. Hod looked satisfied when she handed over the cheque.

As Gillian came back to face me, Tina got up from the couch, walked towards the door, turned, put icy blue eyes on Gillian for a moment, then walked out. Her heels sounded like hammer blows as she stomped down the hall. I figured this was a move she’d perfected storming out of some chippy or other on Leith Walk after a row with a schemie boyfriend, or maybe even a pimp. It was all street trash theatrics; she was showing her true worth – in all its glory.