Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) (29 page)

Hod and I had holed up back at his gaff in Porty. He wasn’t overly keen on the idea, but I gave him a guarantee that there would be no more visits from Shaky’s pugs. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, a promise I could keep. Well, not for certain, but I was working on it. After my chat with Fitz, I had a fair idea of what I needed to do to flush out Ben’s killer. It was risky, but then, doing nothing
was risky too. If I left things to progress at the pace they had done, Danny Gemmill was going to get jumpy, and I couldn’t risk upsetting Shaky. Fitz too was raking up all kinds of shit with the Craft, driven by his maniacal ambition and an arrogant belief that he could protect his nephew. He wasn’t bulletproof. The time when I thought of Fitz as merely filth had passed through; I didn’t want to see him get any deeper in the shit than he already was.

Everything hinged on my keeping the head, staying sober, together. I needed to find Ben Laird’s killer quickly. His mother had waited long enough. I got out my mobi, located Gillian’s number in the contacts.

Ringing.

‘Hello?’

It was Tina – know those rough tones anywhere.

‘Hello, it’s Gus Dury.’ I let that hang there. Had an idea it niggled her, maybe more than she could afford to let on.

‘Aye … and?’ She was rough all right: this was one Leith hingoot who had come a long way. Had to give her credit for that.

‘And … I’d like to speak to Gillian … if that’s okay with you, Tina.’

A huff. She made the kind of tells a teenage girl did; she hadn’t progressed beyond that level in many ways. Thought about telling her to watch that – it would be her undoing – but let it slide. Like I gave a fuck if she bollixed up the good wicket that she was on.

‘And what if I dinnae want you to speak to her?’

I riled, clamped it down. ‘Tina, I’m not looking for your approbation.’

She was thrown, sparked up, ‘You think yer smart, don’t you? Well, let me tell you, Gillian might no’ be wise to you yet but I fucking well am.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Aye … it is.’

She played to type, but I knew how to deal with her. ‘And where have you suddenly caught wisdom, Tina? Cop on, lass … go get your master.’

She slammed down the phone. It sounded as though it fell off the table; heard it swinging on the cord and battering off the wall again and again. Made me smile – I’d got to her. Thought: Daft sow.

A few seconds passed, then I heard high heels clacking on hard tiled flooring.

‘Hello.’

‘Gillian, hello … it’s Gus.’

‘What did you say to Tina?’

I winced. The girl had some plays after all. ‘I, eh, you know how she is about me.’

‘Look, let’s get something straight, Mr Dury, I’m not paying you to upset my partner.’

I took it on the chin, although where that dippit cow Tina was concerned, it was more like a crush of the nuts. ‘I think we understand each other.’

A curt, clipped, RADA-esque reply: ‘Good.’

I held my impatience in check, bit on my lip before I spoke again. ‘There have been some … developments.’

A sombre tone returned to Gillian’s voice; maybe she remembered how much she needed me. ‘I see … What kind of developments?’

I dropped in some dark tones: ‘I think I should speak to you in person. Can I pay you a visit?’

Gillian inhaled sharply. ‘What’s happened?’ She was anxious now for news.

‘Nothing … yet.’ I drew the conversation back on course. ‘Can we meet today, say noon?’

She seemed to be considering the question for a few moments, or maybe her mind was blinking. Suddenly: ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ I imagined her looking at Tina as she spoke, the tramp shaking her head.

‘And do you think you could invite young Paul along?’

This changed her tone yet again. ‘Paul? … What for?’

I played it cool but right down the middle. ‘Paul has some questions to answer.’

‘What about?’

‘Gillian … I’m investigating a murder, this is what I do. If I want to ask anyone questions, you can be sure they have answers I need.’ I turned it up: ‘Can you get Paul?’

‘Of course, yes … I’ll invite him round.’

‘Good, Gillian. I’ll see you about noon.’

I clicked off.

Hod had followed my side of the conversation from the kitchen doorway. Now he walked in, said, ‘We on the move?’

I thought again of Tina eavesdropping. ‘Your mother never tell you what happens to people who listen at open doors?’

‘What’s that?’

‘They never hear any good of themselves.’

The bin men were holding the city to ransom again. Could always be guaranteed they’d strike when the place needed them most. They were cunning bastards. But what a union they must have – fair fucks to that lot. At Festival time, Edinburgh is submerged in a sea of styrofoam kebab boxes, Maccy D’s wrappers and Starfucks cups. Add to this the greasy Home Counties crusties that can’t find any kip when they’re up to watch Tarquin in his first stand-up gig, and the place can look like a tip.

We drove up the Mile. Bins were piled to overflowing on the tourist thoroughfare. The scaffies had refused to take on the extra work associated with this time of year and the waste was mounting up. Foxes and seagulls had well and truly got stuck in to the muck. The cobbles were strewn with the evidence.

‘This is some fucking shape to show the place off at Festival time,’ I said.

Hod steered around a pile of black bags that had been kicked into the road. ‘Bloody bin men … lazy fuckers. Can be guaranteed: any big gig in this toon and they’re out on strike.’

He was right. ‘Cos they get what they want. Wait till the big Hogmanay bash, world’s eyes on Edinburgh – that’ll be the next strike.’

Much as I was loath to admit it, we needed more like the bin men. Maybe then the ruling classes and their offspring like Ben Laird might be held a bit more in check; shake off some of their more fanciful ideas about dominating the proles. It was all a sorry state of affairs.

As we drove through the city, I scanned the
Hootsman
for any news about the case – nothing. Noticed an interesting article about foreign national brassers, mainly Brazilian and Thai, who had rocked up for the Festival and were doing a bustling trade from cheap bedsits at £35 a throw.

‘Christ above … globalisation’s got a lot to answer for.’

‘Come again?’

‘No never.’

When we got to Palmerston Place, Hod started to watch his driving, easing the van into Gillian’s street as though he was carting nitro. When he parked up he smoothed out his shirt collar, tightened his tie in the rear-view mirror. Even managed to put a wet fingertip over his eyebrow. Would have thought he had a date.

‘Quite content?’ I said.

He looked me over, said, ‘One of us has got to think about appearances.’

I took that on the chin, got out and made for the front door. I brushed at the shoulder of my tweed as we went – didn’t seem to make much difference. I looked as crumpled as a paper bag.

We were shown through to the front room with the usual icy familiarity. Tina was already positioned by the drinks cabinet, pouring herself a large J&B. She had a cigarette burning in an ashtray which was overflowing with dowps.

‘Hello, Tina,’ I said.

She slit eyes at me. Thought she might swear out an insult but she held it together, merely sneered and raised a bony digit to me. Her pink fingernail had been chipped. There was no sign of Paul, but Gillian made her entrance from the French doors in her usual dramatic fashion, as if she was taking a curtain call.

‘Mr Dury, glad to see you.’

That sounded like exaggeration but I was glad of the formality. It would be a help for what I had in mind. If you’re going to say unconventional things, say them in conventional clothes.

‘Is Paul joining us?’

‘I have asked him, yes.’

Tina lit another cigarette from the tip of the one she was smoking, sighed loudly. It was enough to call all eyes to her, momentarily.

I said, ‘That’s good.’

Gillian walked around the sofa, spoke, ‘Are you sure it’s really necessary? I mean, I don’t see what he can tell us.’

I raised an eyebrow, wanted to say,
It’s my case, and it’s what I fucking think that matters
. Went with, ‘You might be surprised.’

Tina grudgingly offered Hod and me some drinks. I took a mineral water and settled myself in the corner, back to the wall, and opposite the main sofa where Gillian sat. I wanted to have a full vantage point, didn’t want to miss anything. If Her Ladyship liked theatre, she was in line for some – good-style.

We spoke for a few minutes about developments in the investigation. Gillian flustered once or twice, but held it together. I admired how buckled-up she was, under the circumstances. Tina stroked her back from time to time, making approving noises in between drags on her cigarette. It was all very touching; if you’re touched by that kind of thing. Hod looked fit to hurl. I knew I’d have to listen to a commentary on his views about lezzing off all the way home, jokes about Sandi Toksvig being on the Number 73 bus … stuff like that.

Gillian had a few things she wanted to get off her chest, ‘Why did you ask me to bring Paul here? … He was Ben’s friend, you realise, there was nothing nefarious in their relationship.’

Had she been listening to me? What about all the times I’d reported to her about Ben’s drug dealing, the brasser parties? And here she was, still playing the ‘my Ben was an angel’ tune. I rolled eyes. ‘Look, Gillian, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Ben and his friends were far from run-of-the-mill boyos. The whole crew had ideas above their station that got out of control.’

She looked stunned, as if I’d slapped her. ‘That’s not so.’

I battered that down: ‘Trust me … I know it.’

Tina clawed at Gillian’s hand, motioning her to be calm. ‘I don’t want to believe it.’

Hardly a breakthrough, but getting somewhere. I played the hard card. ‘I need to see Paul because he was mixed up in this mess … and I don’t want to see him get in any deeper.’

She turned to Tina, her voice faltering. ‘Go and get Paul.’

Tina let her heavily mascaraed eyelashes lock shut – for a second or two we were treated to her china blue lids in all their glory – then she shook her head and noisily stropped off to the door. I waited until she was out of the room before restarting my questioning. ‘How did you and Tina meet?’

Gillian fumbled her words: ‘I-I …’ She looked for an excuse not to answer, but nothing queued up behind her eyes. ‘Tina was a guest at a house party we threw.’

‘
We
?’

‘Ben and I … it was after my marriage broke down.’

‘Did Ben arrange this party?’ I pressed her.

She turned away from me, lied, ‘No. It was all my idea.’

When Tina came back with Paul he had slipped into his unctuous preppy-on-the-make persona, striding over to Gillian and grabbing her in a falsely convivial hug. I felt ready to chuck: one luvvie in the room was enough. If he thought Her Ladyship was going to protect him, he was deluded … more than I thought.

‘Hello, Paul,’ I said, tones flat.

He put those powdery-blue eyes on me, then Hod. The pair sized each other up over the rug for a moment or two, Paul dropped his gaze first. He was just a boy after all.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here today, Mr Dury,’ he said.

I couldn’t suppress a smirk. ‘Oh, I bet you didn’t.’

The ginge sat down between Tina and Gillian; Tina took his hand, held it firmly. I got the impression m’laddo had been waiting to be questioned for some time. That he was primed.

I got stuck right in: ‘Tell me about the Seriatim.’

He smiled, touched the side of his nose. ‘It’s a debating group … a few of the boys on campus are involved. I didn’t start it.’

Gillian seemed pleased with the answer; rubbed Paul’s thigh.

‘You didn’t start the fire, eh.’ They looked perplexed. I went on: ‘It was always burning … right?’

Paul shuffled in his seat, shrugged shoulders. ‘Erm, it’s an old group, started in the eighteenth century by prominent city luminaries who wanted to help out the coming generations … It’s tradition. There’s not much I can say about it.’

‘Sworn to secrecy?’

Paul’s chest inflated. He sighed. ‘It’s not that kind of group,’ he snapped now, getting jerky. ‘It’s a social thing more than anything.’

It might have started out that way, as a nice way of getting the up-and-coming brats more than their fair share of the pie, showing them the lie of the land, but this crew had got carried away. Ben had led the way with drug taking and wild parties; forays into the city’s seamier side; it had all got out of control. Maybe it always had been, though. I gave him that.

‘When did you and Ben start doing drugs?’

He turned to Gillian. She gave an approving look, nodded as if to say,
Go on
.

Paul said, ‘I … we started in first year … There was a lot of stuff about.’