Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) (5 page)

‘Hello, Paul … Do you mind hanging on a minute? I’m just seeing to something,’ said Gillian.

The lad fumbled his words: ‘Oh, no … not at all.’ Some sheets of paper fell from a folder in his arms. I watched him collect them up. He bumped his shins on the coffee table as he went about it. ‘Sorry, I’ll just get this tidied up.’

‘Paul is a … was a friend of Ben’s.’

The lad halted, a few more sheaves of paper fluttering to the floor. ‘Ben was my best friend,’ he said. ‘We were on the same course.’

‘Oh, really,’ I said. Thought about telling him he might want to change course in that case, but got the impression a wisecrack might snap him in two.

Gillian took Paul by the arm, led him back out and asked her man to get him a drink in the kitchen; she closed the door behind him and sat back down. I made a mental note to have a word with young Ginge at some point in the future.

Was a mother the best person to go to for the rundown on her only son? Seriously doubted it. Christ on a bike, my own mam would paint a rosy enough picture of me, and I was pretty far south of any kind of respectability. Gillian Laird had shifted into default gear to tell me about her deceased boy, Ben. I knew she was hurting. I’d lost loved ones, knew the manor, but I got the impression our actress was laying on the histrionics a bit too thick.

‘My boy was an angel.’ She rose from the sofa, crossed the immaculate carpet to raise a silver photo frame from the dresser. ‘He never had a bad word to say for anyone; never heard a cross word leave his lips.’

I caught Hod creasing his brows, rolling eyes up to the ceiling. Was one of those moments calling out for an elbow to the ribs; let it slide. Went with, ‘Gillian … Do you mind if I call you Gillian?’

‘No, that’s fine.’

‘Was there anyone who might not have … shared your opinion of Ben?’ I said.

She looked startled, flustered. A pale hand rose to her cheek, then was clasped tightly in the fingers of her other. She looked rattled by the thought, genuinely thrown at the notion.

‘No … no one … Ben was the most adored child.’

Her son was nineteen; that made him a man in my books. I was still young enough to remember what I was up to at that age – none of it was something I’d be opening up to my mother about. Late teens carry more secrets than the Masons. Had she never watched
The Inbetweeners
?

‘Your son, Gillian … he was at the university?’

‘Yes,’ my words had hit her like arrows, ‘he was a good student,’ a laugh, feint one, ‘… when he put his mind to it.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

Her eyes were wide, trailing some distant memory. They misted momentarily then dimmed. ‘Ben liked to be the centre of attention … always had, since he was a child. My husband … ex-husband, always said he inherited my dramatic tendencies.’

I knew the type: show-offs. Class clowns. Needy kids. The boys and girls so lavishly danced attendance upon by Mammy and Daddy that the real world always fails to deliver a big enough audience. Edinburgh was crawling with them. Always had been. Throw in a leisured class, proliferation of public schools and the brats come ten a penny. Couldn’t say I was warming to our Ben.

‘He was popular?’ I chose my phrasing carefully.

‘Oh, yes … very popular.’

‘With whom?’

That bit. She slit eyes, went hellcat on me: ‘With everyone, of course!’

‘Gillian, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you and I both know that’s seldom the case outside of maybe Gandhi and Elvis Presley.’

She arked up; her eyes became needlepoints, the thin slit of a mouth widened to a cavity ready to spew forth enough bile to blow me into the middle of next week.

‘My boy was adored! … By everyone!’

Okay. Registered that one.

Was time to move on. I made a mental note to keep all emotive questions away from her; I couldn’t rely on getting any kind of truthful answer anyway. This was a downer for sure, but there were many other ways Gillian Laird could make herself useful.

I pressed on. ‘He was at university … What year?’

‘Erm, second … he was in his second year.’

‘Studying?’

‘Media and arts.’

A typical pisspot subject for a spoilt little rich kid. Still, was one
up on windsurfing and Beatlemania, I suppose, although a BSc in either would be as much use as a nun’s tits in the current job market. I’m sure it worried neither of them.

‘I’ll need to see his timetable … and can you supply a list of his friends?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I am about to be made rector of the university, I don’t know if that’s something you know – it’s not been released yet …’

I hadn’t heard. This was a turn-up for the books. Edinburgh Uni rectors had come down in standing compared to previous post-holders – the country’s celebrity obsession had seen to that – but the job still carried some clout. Not least affording the appointee a nice profile. Sure that had nothing to do with her throwing her hat in the ring, though. Actors going for more press? Never.

‘You are? When was this decided?’

‘Erm … just now, well, within the last few days.’

Ben had died nearly a week ago now. I didn’t think the two incidents were related; not in any obvious sense, anyway.

‘Who told you about the … appointment?’

‘Mr Calder … Joe, the head of form. He was coordinating my campaign with … Ben.’ She gave in to emotion; her chin sunk onto her chest and she returned to the couch, head in hands. The blonde put a hand on her leg. She had very big hands; I figured she was the one playing the quasi-male role in this relationship. I almost sniggered at my lack of political correctness. Knew Hod was storing up a power of strap-on jokes to come.

‘Ben was working on your campaign?’

‘Yes … why?’

‘No reason. Just trying to form a picture.’

‘Surely the two incidents aren’t related.’

I coughed on the back of my hand. ‘Probably not.’

‘Then why ask?’

I felt my lungs call for nicotine; my stomach was calling for something else. ‘Gillian, if I’m to get to the bottom of this case, there will be a lot more questions … some of them pretty uncomfortable.’

The blonde patted her back, clasped her hand tightly. As she leaned in closer I saw her belly button was pierced with a silver bow.

‘I understand, I understand,’ Gillian nodded.

‘To that list … can you add all the campaign contacts, university staff especially.’

She nodded again.

‘Of course. I’ll let you have all those details, Mr Dury.’

Hod rose at my side; we’d covered all the ground we could, for now.

On the way to the door I had a Columbo moment: ‘Oh, one more thing …’

‘Yes?’

‘How much clout at the university does this post of yours carry?’

‘I’m sorry … what do you mean?’

‘I mean, is it honorary, or can you throw some weight about?’

She flustered, ‘Erm, I have some core responsibilities … It’s mainly for profile, but I do get to sit on a few committees.’

I buttoned up my tweed, said, ‘That might be very useful to me.’

I TOOK MYSELF OFF FOR a tab whilst Hod presented the paperwork to Madam; had a feeling this wasn’t going to be one of his better working relationships. Something about being lorded over by a snooty-nosed actress that got his goat. Call him picky.

The tweed was uncomfortable, had me shuffling shoulders to try and make the bastard wearable. I imagined a cloth-capped trail of my ancestors queuing up to chuck in the road. Christ Almighty, I’d be in brogues next, or worse, imperial collars and a dickie bow. What was I doing mixing it with posh twats? How little a fuck did I give for the loss of one more chinless rugger bugger with a trust fund and a silver spoon up his arse?

Thought: Not the attitude, Gus. I’d seen the look of hurt, real grief, on Gillian’s face and it touched me. The woman deserved justice – however much she had in the bank. Blood was blood, and the loss of it wounds us all.

Hod was hurting too. This was a payday for the man who had saved my arse more than once. I needed to screw the nut, put aside all my class prejudices and go to work. One thing was for sure: something wasn’t right here. And that did have my attention. Call me creeped out by the whole lesbo affair thing, but that dirty blonde in there was hiding something. Pound to a pail of shite she’d sussed I was on to her as well.

Hod appeared. ‘Right, let’s mush.’ He looked none too charmed. Pissed, even.

‘Who stole yer toffee?’ I said.

He marched off down the road, headed for the bus stop. There was no sign of the contract.

‘Well, are we in business or not?’

‘Y’wha’?’

I put a hand out, stopping him in his tracks. ‘Are we on Her Ladyship’s books?’

Hod knocked my arm away, slumped off again. ‘Like fuck.’

‘Eh? She didn’t sign the contract, then?’

A grunt, bit of a tut. ‘What do you think?’

‘I’ll take that as a no.’

Hod spun, fronted me, ‘She’s running the contract past her lawyer.’

‘Well, what did you expect?’

‘A bit more professionalism.’

‘Sounds fair enough to me … Think because you get a few cards printed up yer Duncan fucking Bannatyne? Grow sense, man.’

Hod took off again. ‘Yeah, well … that’s the good news.’

Didn’t like the sound of that. Had been put to me as a done deal, easy money. Suddenly that image collapsed like a house of cards.

‘Good news? What’s the bad?’

‘She didn’t go for the expenses either … and our retainer’s only two hundred a day.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Exactly.’ Hod took out his phone, pressed it to his ear. ‘I did push for a bumped-up bonus, though. Might be an idea to flush out a speedy result, Gus.’

Speedy result. This was a suspicious death we were talking about, not some fucking shunt and punt for Tam’s Hot Car Lot. There was no quiet road to the truth, I knew that from bitter experience. This was added pressure I could do without.

‘Yo, Mac,’ Hod barked into the phone, ‘get yer skanky arse down here and give us a lift, eh.’ He gave out the location, hung up. ‘He’s on his way.’

Didn’t fancy bussing it again, felt relieved. Sparked up a Lambert and Butler and watched swirls of smoke make for the sky. The sun peeked out through the clouds, put a few rays about. Felt unnatural. But the city always did at Festival time. Could almost feel the crusty carnival spreading down from the Mile; the rattle of piercings and Home Counties accents a heady mix.

Hod calmed, seemed deep in thought. He didn’t look as if he was thinking about the case. It was a
my arse is on the line
expression.

Chugged on the tab, said, ‘What about that performance in there, then?’

Hod scratched his chin. Held schtum.

I went on, ‘Yon Tina’s playing her cards close to her chest.’

He laughed, ‘Like she’s a choice … her arms are only three feet long!’

I welcomed the return of humour. ‘You get the impression she’s …’

‘Got something to hide?’

‘Yeah. Or maybe, I dunno, is pulling on an altogether different set of levers to Gillian.’

Hod put his back against the wall, sighed. ‘So, what you thinking?’

I was thinking we didn’t have much to go on, that I didn’t know where to start. ‘The university’s gonna be pleased to see us.’

‘They won’t welcome any digging around, that’s for sure. Stuffy old place like that, they’ll not be putting out the red carpet.’

‘Far fucking from it.’

Hod turned. ‘You think they’ll be awkward?’

I knew for sure they’d be that; what I didn’t know was how I was going to get around it. All my previous encounters with academia had ended in abject failure; I’d have to work smarter – the nick of me, harder sure as hell wasn’t an option.

‘You see much of Amy these days?’ I asked. Amy had been a trainee reporter of mine back in the day, till she got ideas about practising a little more than shorthand with me … on the company’s time. She’d been punted, then resurfaced with a passion to pick up
where she’d left off. But Hod had got keen on her and saved me the trouble of holding her at bay.

‘Amy? … Not in months. Why ask?’

‘Well, last I heard she was a student.’

‘Yeah … at the uni,’ said Hod. He took his hands out his pockets, pointed at me. ‘You thinking what I think you’re thinking?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Honey trap?’

I had to laugh. What was this, espionage? ‘Shit no, man. I was thinking she might be able to do a bit of groundwork, maybe sniff out the word around campus.’

Hod shook his head. ‘I don’t know …’

‘What?’ I was scoobied. This was a perfect opportunity to make an in, both for the case and for him.

Hod turned down his lip, showing his bottom row of teeth. ‘Do you remember the state she was in last time round?’