Gutted (10 page)

I wanted to give him the full intensity of my boot in his arse. I felt my mouth go dry, my teeth stick to my lips. Johnstone had nothing on me – it was all histrionics. All strutting. If he hoped I’d bottle it under the harsh lights, so he’d have a nice wee story to go back home and tell Debs, he was going to be disappointed.

I said, ‘For the record – and can you make sure this is noted down? I wouldn’t want you to bollocks your proper grown-up police procedures – for the record, I have no clue what in Christ’s name you’re on about.’

A grin. ‘All right, all right.’ He turned to the pug on the door. ‘Constable, the case, please.’

Johnstone pulled a laptop from a black briefcase and placed it in front of me. It booted up quickly. Few clicks later, I was shown some footage. I sussed at once that it was the security reel from the twenty-four-hour BP garage at the foot of Corstorphine Hill.
Some
white lettering in the corner of the screen told me the date it was taken was 15 May.

The reel started shakily, then jumped about as the cameras shifted their feeds. It was jerky, nothing you could watch without squinting eyes. And then, a figure dashed into the bottom-left corner. I knew at once who it was, I recognised the clothes: Tam Fulton. I’d say, though, given the amount of screen snow, any identification beyond male, short-ish and carrying something was a stretch.

‘Not exactly
Citizen Kane
, is it?’ I said.

The uniform pug pushed my head back to the feature presentation.

Johnstone spoke: ‘See anything of interest to you, Mr Dury?’

‘No, although . . .’ I leaned in to the screen.

Johnstone came with me, scrunched up his brow. ‘Yes? What?’

‘This is night-time, right?’

Interested: ‘Yes, it is.’

‘It’s night-time and we’re talking late, late at night.’

Intrigued: ‘Uh-huh.’

I leaned in closer, touched the screen. ‘Look here, outside the garage, on the forecourt . . .’

The eager cop lurched, said, ‘Where? There?’

‘Yeah, right there.’

‘What about it?’

‘Well . . .’ I said, staring at the forecourt stands, ‘who do you think is likely to be buying a bunch of flowers at that hour?’

I saw a vein twitch in his forehead. He clenched his teeth. The laptop was snatched from me, the lid slammed shut.

I lolled back on my chair. The Robocop behind me pushed my shoulders and shoved me under the desk again.

Johnstone spoke through his gritted teeth: ‘Laugh it up, Dury.’

I said nothing, let him say his piece.

‘You might think you’re smart but join the fucking dots . . .’

I shrugged. ‘What’s the picture? A confused-looking little twat in a Boss suit desperately trying to find someone to frame for a murder he can’t solve?’

‘Dury, are you as dumb as you look?’ He motioned away the pug then crouched to speak in my ear. ‘You and I both know what was in that package Moosey was carrying. Now, given that Rab Hart wants to know what happened to it every bit as much as I do, I’d say dealing with me was your best option.’

Now I was scoobied, but I knew there was only one thing that Rab Hart was interested in, said, ‘What the fuck are you on about?’

He put away the laptop, slung the case strap over his shoulder. I thought he might have put out a smile there, but no. ‘I knew that’s how you were going to play it, Dury . . . That’s why I have forensics going over your gaff.’

‘They won’t find anything.’

‘You seem very sure.’

‘As sure as there’s a hole in your arse.’

Now the smile. ‘Funny, your mate wasn’t so cocky when we took him in . . . Then again, with a record like Mac the Knife’s I guess he has more to think about than saving your scrawny arse, Dury.’

It was time to ruin Johnstone’s party. ‘If you want to pull anyone in it’s Joseph Crawford’s son . . . I saw him on the hill: he was one of the yobs taking potshots at the dog.’

‘
Judge
Crawford? You must be off your box, Dury.’

‘Give him a pull, then . . . see what he says.’

He squeezed his brows together. ‘Fuck that.’

‘What, you don’t think it’s even a little bit unusual that Moosey was accused of killing Mark’s sister and then turns up in the same state?’

Johnstone blew his top. ‘On whose say? Yours Dury? A washed-up hack who was half-cut when we took his statement . . .?’

I stood up, fronted him. ‘You’re up to no fucking good here, mate . . . You’re sweeping the facts under the carpet.’

Johnstone squared up to me. ‘It’s my version of the facts that counts here, Dury, and I’d say you’re the one who should be worried. Tam Fulton was carrying fifty grand the night he was
killed
and it’s missing. I don’t think the Crawfords are short of a few quid, but from what I hear your new pub’s going tits up.’

‘Oh, come on . . . that’s a motive?’

Jonny Johnstone smiled. ‘In my book, that’s one hell of a motive.’

JOHNSTONE WAS GETTING
the boot in. No question. But if Rab Hart was missing fifty Gs I could expect much worse. Either Moosey had ripped him off and been turned over himself, or somebody else had done a job on them both. Felt like I was limbering up to go the same way; I’d be turned into Spam.

I could see why Johnstone might want me to have something to do with this, but I couldn’t see how he could make it stick without some serious fitting up. It had me worried because he didn’t look like the usual lazy doughnut-muncher from Lothian and Borders plod. He was sly, what the Scots call
sleekit
. And worse, he had Debs.

The tie to my ex-wife, I was pretty sure, put an edge on things for him. It was a motivator. He’d be making comparisons between us now we’d met; it was human nature. But what worried me most was how I was going to handle the man Debs was about to marry coming for me. I’d a notion that if my short fuse got any shorter I’d go off like an Exocet missile. I needed to cool right down, go Gandhi.

They kept me in all night.

By morning I was twitching, breaking out in sweats. Ganting for a drink. Could see a bar full of Guinness lined up before me, the smell of it taunting me.

People will tell you it’s an inner need, the drink. You have demons calling out to be quenched. With me it’s more than that. I crave the smell and the taste almost as much as the effect. If I don’t see drink I can fantasise about the head of a pint, the way it sits on the inside of the rim. The way the dark liquid swirls. The condensation droplets on the glass.

I thought about nothing else now. My stomach felt empty. I can go for days without food; that kind of emptiness I can handle. The emptiness that calls out for the burn of a whisky shot is something altogether different. It’s a hunger that won’t go without feeding. An angry beast inside that scratches at your innards and demands action. Immediately.

When the cell doors opened this time there was no fanfare. An old desk sergeant, ticking off the days to retirement, dawdled in and dropped a tray before me. I looked down: a plate of beans and two potato scones.

‘You expect me to eat that muck?’ I said.

A heavily wrinkled brow raised. ‘You can take it or leave it.’

I took up the coffee – looked not long poured – said, ‘You can take the rest away.’

The uniform leaned back on his hip, straightened his back, said, ‘There’s a fella upstairs asked me to give you something.’

‘Upstairs?’

An eyebrow pointed to the ceiling. ‘Aye. Says you might need this.’

He reached into his pocket and I flinched. I’d been in this station before and seen some of the upstairs mob; I wasn’t too keen to take any of their offerings without closer inspection.

A quarter-bottle of Bell’s came out, topped up my coffee. ‘How’s that look?’

I felt my pulse quicken, devoured a good lash, said, ‘Beautiful.’ I nodded to the bottle again. ‘Couldn’t leave it, could you?’

‘Nae danger!’ A shake of the head, then another top-up, right to the brim.

‘Thanks, man . . . Can’t tell you how much of a help that is.’

He screwed the cap, said, ‘Your friend upstairs said you might thank me for it.’

‘Oh yeah . . . and my friend, who would that be?’

A laugh; phlegm rattled in his chest. ‘Walls have ears, son.’

My heart twinged to be called ‘son’. It had been a long time since I felt like anybody’s boy. I watched him carry off the tray, turn the key in the lock and walk out the door. As he went I dashed up to the slot, yanked it open, asked, ‘This friend – I was wondering, would it be an old friend or a new friend?’

‘How the hell would I know? . . . I’m just the messenger.’

I let him saunter off up the hall to the desk. He seemed an all right sort of bloke. I could do with a few more of those about the place. I had a fair idea who my friend might be. I’d already decided to make a visit to him, if I ever got out of the nick. But the whole issue raised an interesting question – the prospect that Johnstone wasn’t as popular as he liked to make out was something I could play about with.

They let me stew some more. Hours passed.

I was gonna start banging on the cell door, ask what the hold-without-charge limit was, when I got my second visitor of the morning.

Jonny Johnstone had changed his suit, a nice new one, grey this time and smartly pressed. His white shirt was so bright I almost had to turn away.

‘What’s this, the Daz doorstep challenge?’ I said.

‘Droll, Dury.’ He strutted. ‘If I were you I wouldn’t be laughing it up.’

‘And if I were you, I’d tone down the flash . . . Folk might start to wonder how you can afford so many designer suits on your salary.’

That struck just the note I’d wanted. The strut halted mid-step. ‘Don’t even try to shine me, Dury.’

‘Ha, like I could compete with the suit. Fuck off, Johnstone, I’ve had enough lame plays. You have nothing on me.’

He didn’t even blink. ‘Well, let’s see about that, eh?’

I was thrown by a wide grin. ‘What?’ I said.

‘Let’s see how you do in the line-up I’ve arranged.’

‘Line-up? What the fuck are you on about?’

‘See if our witness can pick you out . . . Course, I wouldn’t dream of leading our witness in your direction, Dury. That would just be wrong.’

He laughed as he left the cell.

I had another hour to myself before I was called. Sixty minutes of trembling and despair – set the mood for what followed.

I’d like to know where they’d picked this crew from. If they had another in the group even close to my height and build I was a Dutchman. Three had beards for a kick-off. None of this made sense to me: who was the witness, and what were they a witness to? Moosey’s murder?

A uniform roared, ‘Right, form an orderly queue.’

The group of us marched up to the end of the room and got in line.

‘You, down here.’ I followed the order.

I had what looked like a Canadian trapper to my left and Rod Hull –
sans
Emu – to my right.

As the cop left the room the lights went up.

My heart pounded. I wanted to yell that there had been a mistake; I was the one who had called the police. Only the few slurps of Bell’s I’d had kept me upright.

I looked down the row of people and, from nowhere, a voice boomed, ‘Eyes front.’

It felt like Big Brother was watching. Replayed Orwell’s quote: ‘If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face – for ever.’ From where I stood, that looked about right.

The mirrored window before us let on nothing. I knew, behind it, Johnstone was walking the floor. He’d be prodding his witness, directing whoever it was to point me out for something I hadn’t done. I knew it. I could sense it. My mind ran riot with what went on beyond that window.

‘Everyone turn to the right.’

I felt my knees weaken as I moved. The back of Rod Hull’s head looked to be crawling with something. Like maggots on a corpse. I had to turn away; my stomach flinched.

‘Keep still, arms to your side.’

I shut my eyes and tried to imagine myself elsewhere. Then the pictures came back. The corpse in the bushes, the blood. The photographs of the cadaver, lying on the mortuary slab. Was I seriously in the frame for this? Was I really here? It was a dream, surely.

‘Everyone turn to the left.’

I opened my eyes and stood in the lee of the Canadian trapper. His back was as broad as a shithouse door. I couldn’t believe it had come to this. Where the fuck did it all go wrong? I had a life once . . . career, job, no kids, but whose fault was that?

‘Everyone turn back to the front.’

I faced the window again. I didn’t try to imagine what was behind it now. It was what was in front of it that grabbed my attention. There I was. Me. Gus Dury. Rough as all guts. Face still bruised and battered. A hint of a shiner. And those bags under the eyes. God, Gus, where did it all go wrong? Where? Where did it all go so motherfuckingly wrong?