Gutted (13 page)

I collected a roll-on deodorant from the dresser, looked about for a comb, razor. ‘No kidding.’

‘You’re remarkably chilled for a man who’s being investigated for murder.’

‘What would you like me to do, piss myself? Whine, maybe? Not my style.’

I made Hod’s choice of CD for him. Morrissey wailed out ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’.

‘Gus, man.’

‘
What
?’

‘Do you have to?’

‘Do I have to what?’

‘Play that . . . It’s depressing.’

I put a hand on Hod’s shoulder, squeezed hard. ‘Believe me, mate, in my world, this is pretty fucking far shy of depressing.’

Eyes rolled again. A blank look, then a hand brought up to his chin again. ‘Gus, I was wondering, y’know the therapist that Mac suggested—’

The word put my stomach on spin cycle. ‘Hod, don’t get on that.’

He stopped rubbing his chin – was too Freud a look even for him – clasped both hands together. ‘Sure. Sure. It’s your call totally, but if you’re feeling any pressure, on the purse strings, I could sort out the fees.’

I swung him by the shoulders towards the door. ‘Out!’

‘What? I’m only trying to help. You’ve been so zoned lately, Gus, it might help.’

I shot him a glower as I grabbed for the door handle, watched his arse bump against the corridor wall. ‘Next word I hear about a therapist, I’m up for two murders. Got it?’

A nod. Eyebrows drooped towards the nascent beard.

‘And tell Mac if he starts again, he’ll see a side of me he won’t like either.’

I slammed the door. Bounded back to Morrissey, turned up the volume. Thought: The cheeky bastards.

I knew the therapist was a ruse to get me off the sauce. I’d been drinking the bar dry. Since Mac took over the running of it he’d been watching how much I put away. He didn’t understand the quantity was nothing special. I’d been drinking from morning till night for years. Was I going to change without a reason? Was I buggery.

I set the shower running, collected up my things, took a last glance onto the street. Plod was reading the
Daily Star
. Copping an eyeful of Candy, 22, from Essex on page three. I thought: You sad fuck. Mouthed,
Don’t let me catch you having a tug down there
.

The shower was hot. Near boiled the skin off me. Imperial Leather label peeled off the soap, I’d such a lather going. For some reason I was scrubbing at myself like I’d been interned in Bar-L. I wondered if subconsciously I expected to be.

There seemed no end of shit piling up on my doorstep. Of most concern was a visit from one of Rab Hart’s goons. Mac and Hod leaning on me was only making things worse, though.

As I got out of the shower I saw I had Morrissey jammed on
repeat
. Further along the track, he wailed about giving his valuable time to people who didn’t care if he lived or died. Got my vote. Nodded to the CD player.

I picked up some clothes from the ground: crisp white oxford, newish pair of dark-blue Diesel and a black lambswool cardigan. A few years ago, you wore a cardy, you were borderline care-in-the-community. Now, it was
the
look. I checked myself in the mirror:
the
look worked. Seemed to fit my mood.

I grabbed my mobi.

There was a heap of calls I needed to make, but only one pressed. Only one I knew might help my case.

Dialled.

Girl on the switchboard said, ‘Lothian and Borders Police. How may I help you?’

‘Eh, Fitzsimmons, please?’

‘Would that be Detective Sergeant Fitzsimmons?’

‘That’s him.’

‘Connecting you to his line. Thank you.’

I waited, got the feeling I’d missed him, then, ‘Yes?’

Gruff, to say the least.

‘Good morning to you too.’

Bit of edge creeping in now. ‘Who the hell is this?’

‘Oh, I think you know. Shall we say . . . a friend in need?’

Full-on badass mode hit fast: ‘Are you out your feckin’ mind?’

‘I’d like to meet you.’

‘I don’t believe my feckin’ ears . . . I have no idea who this is calling and I want to point out wasting police time is a criminal offence. Good day to you, sir.’

The fucker hung up.

I stared at my phone in disbelief. It began to ring. Showed a mobile number.

‘Hello . . .’

‘Dury, ye have pulled some feckin’ stunts but calling me at my own desk is the limit . . . Is it the sack you’re after for me?’

I sighed. ‘Yeah, that’s it, I’m that mad.’

‘Dury, get a feckin’ grip, and fast.’

‘Easier said than done in the current state of play. There’s a pair of your little helpers sitting outside my house.’

‘What did you expect – tickets to the Bahamas?’

‘I didn’t expect . . . Look, it doesn’t matter what I expected, what I need is some information.’

‘Am I feckin’ hearing this?’

‘
What
?’

‘Are ye on the tap for police intelligence?’

‘That’s an oxymoron, Fitz.’

Gap on the line. Silence.

I continued: ‘What I want, and what you want, are one and the same here, so before you go all righteous on me just remember your wife’s new-found interest in her lovely garden.’

‘Dury, don’t push it.’

‘See sense, Fitz. I’ll meet you by the National Monument. Off the track enough?’

‘Is this entirely necessary?’

‘Shall we say midday?’

I did the hanging up this time.

HOD SAT AT
the bar, moving dust about with his finger. Mac looked bored. There were no punters in.

‘Why are you still here, Hod?’ I said.

A spin on the stool, eyes flared. ‘I’m, er, at a loose end.’

I spotted Mac. He scratched his palm nervously.

‘This better not be what I think it is.’

Mac let out a sigh, fiddled with the little stud earring in his left ear, said, ‘And what would that be?’

‘Minding . . . I don’t need looking after!’ I pointed to the pump beside Mac’s elbow. ‘Usual.’

The dog came running up to meet me, put claws up. I swear that dog smiled. I looked down at him. He barked. Turned his head to one side, then the other. An ear sat up.

‘Gimme a Grouse whilst you’re there.’

Mac poured the whisky, placed it down. I fired it, said, ‘Another like it.’

Looks passed between the pair of them.

‘
Yes
?’

In unison: ‘Nothing. Nothing.’

‘Make it a double. Fuck it, treble.’ I smiled. ‘. . . As well hung for a sheep as a lamb.’ I sparked up a smoke, inhaled deep, said, ‘So spill.’

Hod bridled, tweaked the hair on the back of his knuckles. ‘I’m at a loose end.’

‘Horseshit.’

‘I am, straight up . . . I wouldn’t shit you about that. Why? Why would I?’

‘Cos you’re a born horseshitter.’

He rose. Walked over to me and stole a smoke from the pack that sat on top of the bar. I waited for him to speak. What he did was cough on the first drag, then make a sharp exhalation.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m bored, Gus . . . I told you.’

‘What about the burgeoning Hod empire . . . Bedsitland-by-the-Sea division must be keeping you busy with the kip of the students I see about the streets.’

‘I’ve got staff to do that now. There’s nothing left for me, Gus, business runs itself. I need something else – I’m as flat as a plate of piss.’

At once, I saw where this was going. Put the nail in that one. ‘Get a hobby.’

Hod puffed his chest at me, got bolshie. ‘I’ve done every hobby going: diving, archery – all wank.’

I wasn’t playing along. I knew the pair of them had cooked this up. The idea was to make Hod my sidekick; he could keep an eye on me. If there was one thing I didn’t need it was Hod Arnie-ing through this case, shooting all to buggery any chance I had of getting out of Dodge. I’d seen him in action before. Hod’s action I could do without.

Mac placed my pint on the bar. I raised it, slugged. Took the break in proceedings to change tack, shove Hod off balance.

‘What have you got for me this morning, Mac?’

He flung the towel over his shoulder. ‘By way of business, you mean? Well, there’s the bill from the brewery and the rates are due . . . Some damp in the cludgie I’d say needs looking at smartish. Apart from that, diddly.’

‘Mac, you’re giving me chatter. This is avoidance.’

He looked at Hod. The pair put eyes on me.

I turned to the wall, checked the calendar – had a Scots piper on it in a field of bluebells. Mac seemed to get the hint. He put his hands on the bar, leaned forward. ‘There’s still a hole in the books. There was another letter from the bank.’

‘Get it over.’

Mac leaned under the bar, took out the petty cash box. He ferreted in his pocket for a bunch of keys, found the one, opened up. I snatched the envelope. It was taped along the seal. Same Manila deal as usual, same threats from the manager. ‘This looks great,’ I said.

‘We need about thirty grand to keep afloat, and that’s before any refit to get new punters in. We can’t remortgage either,’ said Mac.

I put the letter back inside the envelope, tucked it in my pocket, said, ‘Did plod see this?’

Mac nodded.

‘Great.’ If Jonny Johnstone was looking for a motive, he had one in black and white.

In the last twenty-four hours I’d been planted firmly in the shit. The funny thing was, though I was fucked, all I could think about was letting Col down. I’d run his pub into the ground. I could feel his eyes on me where I stood, admonishing me, telling me I was better than I gave myself credit for, that I could pull this back. ‘Quality ye are, boyo,’ he’d said. God, hadn’t I proved him wrong, though. Col was the only man who had ever let me make mistakes without judging. He was the only man I knew who had ever felt genuinely proud of any minor achievement I’d made in my life, had shown faith in me, trusted that I wasn’t washed up, when all evidence pointed the other way. He was nothing like my own father.

Hod smoothed down the hair at the sides of his mouth. ‘Look, I can help out, but what you need is a buyer . . . If I put that to the firm, they’ll think I’m running a charity. If I take over the Wall, you’ll be left with nothing, Gus.’

I didn’t want to contemplate that. It sounded far too much like what I deserved.

I went to the window, stared out. A dog barked on the street and the one at my feet let off with a round of its own.

‘
Usual
. . .
Usual
, down, boy!’ roared Mac.

I was taken out of my gloom at the sight of the dog scurrying off to his basket, tail between legs. What that beast had been through put things into perspective. Thank Christ he was still in one piece.

‘What did you call him?’ I said.

Mac grinned. ‘Usual.’

‘
What
?’

The pair laughed. Hod butted in: ‘He thinks it’s his name . . . Fits, don’t you think?’

I turned to my pint, said, ‘Jesus H. Christ . . . I don’t know what to think any more.’

‘
NOW
,
YOU KNOW
what to do?’ I said.

Hod put up his collar, locked his jaw. ‘Course I do.’

‘No. You don’t, obviously.’ I turned down the collar, playfully slapped his chops, said, ‘Lose the roughhouse demeanour.’

He slouched, nearly dropped the tray of sandwiches, pies and coffee. ‘I just don’t do this nice thing too well, Gus.’

‘Look, you want to help out, right?’

‘I do, yeah.’

‘Well, this is test number one – you get this right, well, we’ll see.’

Mac appeared at my back. His face was set hard as granite. He had a donkey jacket on that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an Irish navvy of the seventies.

‘Dressing down?’

‘We’re going to Sighthill, Gus.’ He spat the words like bullets. As he stood before me he was transformed into the chib-man of old. Mac was ready for a pagger, I could see it in his eyes.

‘Now, you’ll behave yourself, won’t you?’

He didn’t answer; brushed past me and made for the door. He was a fearsome sight with the threat of violence upon him.

I caught Hod checking himself out in the Younger’s Tartan Special mirror that hung in the hallway. He seemed to be psyching himself
up
, but looked more like a learner driver waiting for the test examiner.

‘You cool with this?’ I asked.

‘Sure, aye . . .
Aye
.’ He straightened his back, showed teeth.

I nodded approval. ‘That’s the face you show them!’