Loss (19 page)

I sat in front of the tube, flicking, when I caught Gordon Ramsay calling a chef an arrogant twat, thought: Has the man no sense of irony? It was some ‘reality’ shite, couldn’t watch more than a second. Had the notion to suggest Tyson as one of Gordon’s next star turns – like to see him try the rough stuff on Iron Mike. Might even tune in for that.

Flicked some more, found an infomercial for a lateral thigh trainer. Kept going through the channels, hit the twenty-four-hour news. Some academic banged on about the end of capitalism, said we’d be binning globalisation and going back to small-scale economies. A bloke in the street had said something similar to me the other day: ‘We’ll see the horse making a comeback yet!’

I knew who I believed.

News said the oil price had slumped and Scotland was facing a whack to its offshore development. We’d lost our banks – some that were older than our dodgy Treaty of Union – our businesses were going to the wall by the hour, but I found something to smile about: the man who had been the country’s one and only billionaire had lost his title as Scotland’s richest man. His fortune had been slashed, he was even forced to sell his £50 million Cap Ferrat mansion. If I had any tears left I spent them laughing that he had to sell his £2 million yacht as well.

‘Welcome to reality,’ I said. Could see the day when some of the plutocrats that had been pushing the trickle-down economic model would be trickling down to the job centre. And it wouldn’t be long.

My mobi started to ring.

‘All right, my son,’ said Hod.

‘It’s John Wayne!’

‘I’ll be fucking John Wayne Bobbitt if I have to spend another night in here surrounded by nurses.’

I laughed that up, said, ‘Thought there was only two sure things in life – death and a nurse.’

Hod guffawed, ‘Aye well, no’ in uniform, that’s for sure. The food’s fucking awful as well; my belly thinks my throat’s been cut.’

I saw where this was going. ‘You checked out?’

‘Aye, oh aye . . . Want to come and collect me?’

‘I can hardly say no. When?’

‘Now, mate . . . sooner if you can make it.’

I flicked off the TV, said, ‘I’ll get in the car.’

I left the dog behind, chucked him some Bonios.

The roads were still iced up. No sign of a gritter the entire route. I drove in the teeth of a fierce wind all the way to the hospital. When I arrived Hod was out front in a short-sleeved shirt, three buttons open. The dash said it was about two degrees above freezing, but he looked unfazed. His second skin poking out his collar did the job. He smoothed down the corners of his tache as I pulled in – still couldn’t get used to the sight of it. ‘You want to drop round Wyatt Earp’s gaff to give him his mozzer back?’

‘Shut it, man. You’re just jealous of my manliness.’

‘Ah-ha, of course, your manliness . . . that’s what it’ll be. And I thought I was just embarrassed to be seen with someone who looks like he’s one of the Village People.’

He gave me the finger, said, ‘Fuck off, I can take it.’ We pulled out laughing. I was glad to have my mate back in one piece; didn’t think I’d ever been happier to see him. We headed for the Wall but got stuck in a static lane of traffic.

‘These roads are murder,’ said Hod. He winced, went on, ‘Sorry, didn’t mean . . . you know.’

I put him straight: ‘Don’t be daft, I’m not that far gone.’

‘Look, why don’t you pull off the road, we’ll grab a coffee and a roll in there.’ He pointed to a caff with a big open window. In front of it a bloke in a Honda indicated he was leaving his parking space.

I nodded, stuck the car into first.

The caff was a bit of a dive, peeling linoleum on the floor, peeling Formica on the tables. But it was a good solid Edinburgh scran house, and it suited us down to the ground.

Hod ordered up some rolls on sliced sausage. ‘You put onions on them?’

The waitress was tipping sixty, a frame so delicate a sneeze might knock her to the ground. Her face looked broken by the years, her eyes watery. She was no heartbreaker, but one of a thousand like her in the city. She was what the Scots call
soulish
. ‘You want sauce with yer onions?’

‘Oh aye, brown sauce.’ Hod rubbed his hands together, a bit too energetically: his ribs twinged and the pain played on his face.

The waitress left us, but her forlorn presence lingered.

I spoke: ‘Mac said you’d made a few calls in the hospital.’

He nodded. ‘Got on to some of the builders still in the game. Had big Brian Ingram pay me a visit as well – had lots to say.’

I was glad to hear of some progress. ‘Well, spill it.’

‘Your Pajero geezer . . . name’s Radek.’ He put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a note. It was an address overlooking Leith Links, written in carpenter’s pencil on the back of a torn-up pack of Regal King Size. ‘That’s his kip.’

I smiled, waved the address about. ‘This is good work, Hod.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve got my uses.’

‘So, what’s this cunt’s story?’

Hod leaned in. ‘Well, he’s no fucking saint.’

Surprise, surprise, said, ‘We knew that.’

‘In fact, he’s a bit of a nut-job by all accounts. Big Bri said he started out on the sites about a year and a half ago, was labouring, doing it hard as well. Double shifts on more than one site about the town. Was pulling a fair whack in poppy, but never happy, y’know the type?’

I nodded. ‘Eye to the main chance, enough never enough.’ No wonder he got on so well with fat Davie.

‘He’s got a bit of a rep as a boxer as well, going bare-knuckles and that. Got into a few scrapes on Bri’s crew and he punted him. Mad bastard only went and pulled a blade.’

This all sounded very interesting. ‘Mad indeed.’

There was some kind of commotion up the street, horns blowing. I looked out but couldn’t see anything. The waitress reappeared. She crept towards the window and stationed herself there like a wobbly sentry. I watched her shake her head, bony fingers worrying at the front pocket of her nylon tabard.

Hod reeled me back in. ‘Anyway, so Radek set himself up, got a few homeboys around him, was pulling in some gigs here and there and the rest is, well, you know the rest.’

The horns got drowned out by a belt on a police siren. A blue light flashed into the caff. ‘Aye, aye, it’s the woodentops. What’s going on here?’ I said.

Hod looked like he was about to speak, his mouth began to form the words then closed like a trap as the door to the caff swung open.

In walked a couple of uniformed plod. ‘On your feet, Dury.’

I turned. ‘
Wha’
?’

I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘Now come on, don’t have us haul you along the street . . . On your feet. We’re going down the station.’

‘DO YOU WANT TO TELL me what this is about?’ I said.

Obviously he didn’t: the uniform put his hand to his belt, took off his cuffs. I was spun by the shoulders and thrown onto the table.

‘For fucksake!’

Hod was on his feet. ‘This is out ay order.’

‘Shut it,’ said the flatfoot. ‘I can easy take you in as well.’

Hod raised his hands. I saw the old waitress come back from the window to join the rest of the folk in the caff staring at me, mouths open, heads shaking. I thought, What the fuck have I done?

On the street I got passed to another uniform, heard the first one talking on his radio, ‘Yeah, bringing him in now, guv.’

My head got pushed down as they forced me into the meat wagon. I protested and arced up, ‘What the fuck is this about?’

‘Shut yer fucking yap, Dury.’

It concerned me how well known my name had become, in all the wrong circles.

We took the ride to Fettes with the blue lights on. I thought this was a bit much, but there was no doubting their effectiveness on the Edinburgh traffic. I was thrown about in the back of the wagon; the cuffs dug into my wrists and stretched my arms from their sockets.

At the nick they hauled me in. ‘Look, you gonna tell me what this is about?’ It was ten minutes before the bastards took the cuffs off me, shoved me in an interview room.

Minding me was what looked like one of the force team’s rugger buggers: flat nose, beefy chest, and thighs that meant his trousers required the special attention of a tailor. He didn’t even glance at me, stared off into the middle distance, a dream of Murrayfield glory dangling before him.

I rubbed my red wrists as the door opened, a waft of air hitting me in the face. It was Fitz; he looked proper furious. The spruced look had gone – his collar open, the tie hanging like a noose. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and he was unshaven. I saw some burst blood vessels in his eyes when he looked at me.

‘Dury, by the fucking cringe.’ He slapped a folder down on the desk. I watched it fall; some pages escaped its edges.

I wasn’t biting. ‘Why the fuck am I here?’

He saw me rubbing my wrists. ‘Did they try the rough stuff? . . . Sorry, I told them to go easy.’

It made little difference to me, the situation hadn’t changed. ‘Do I have to ask you again?’

Fitz pulled out the chair in front of me. It stuck on a table leg. He cursed it, yanked so hard the table shook. I leaned back and fixed eyes on him. He was aware of my glare but didn’t respond. He ferreted in his pocket for a pack of Dunhill, found them, realised he didn’t have a light, said, ‘Ho, bonnie lad, you got a light?’

The uniform shook his head, pulled out his empty pockets.

Fitz said, ‘Ah, a feckin’ fitness freak.’ He opened a drawer and located some Swan Vestas, sparked up. He offered me a smoke; I declined.

‘Are you going to tell me?’ I said.

He drew in. ‘You don’t know?’

This was insane. ‘My telepathy’s on the blink, Fitz.’

He peered into me, over the smoke; I knew I’d been tested. Maybe I was still being sussed out. Either way, Fitz’s tone changed. He turned it up: ‘Ye feckin’ reckless young heller!’ He jumped out of his seat and slammed the table.

I’d seen bursts like this before, some in this station. It didn’t faze me. ‘Sit down, man.’

He paced, turned to me again. ‘You are one daft fecker, Dury. Daft as feck . . . Running about all over the shop, wrecking my investigation.’

Was this going somewhere? ‘Look, do you want to fill me in?’

‘I’d feckin’ love to fill ye in, Dury!’ He drew fists, ash fell from his cigarette. ‘Nothing would give me more feckin’ joy.’ He stamped back to the desk, grabbed the folder and opened it up. He plugged his tab in the corner of his mouth, muttered as he turned pages to find what he was looking for. The folder held photographs. He picked them up, one by one he flung them at me. ‘Feast yer eyes on that little lot . . . Jaysus, if it doesn’t make ye throw I don’t know what will.’

Fitz stamped away again, walked over to the wall. I watched him running his hands through his hair, then he hoisted up his trousers by the belt loops. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as he turned to watch me pick up the photographs.

‘Oh, fuck no . . .’

The images were horrific. They’d been taken at a crime scene; nothing had been missed out. I saw a face robbed of its features, black bruises and deep-drawn wounds where you would expect a nose or an eye. The pictures were in colour, but seemed to lack the full spectrum: everything appeared black or white, the death-mask skin so pasty, the blood so dark. The only hint of colour I found was on the collar of the old Lord Anthony ski jacket.

Fitz stood over me, ‘You recognise him?’

I nodded. ‘It’s Andy . . . from the factory.’ I kept turning the pictures. There were wider shots, had taken in the length of his body. A particularly gruesome image showed Andy lying spreadeagled, on wasteland. There was a dark pool of blood behind his head, down his front it looked like another bucket of the stuff had been tipped over him. Something was pinned to his chest – I saw the hilt of a blade.

I pointed. ‘What’s that?’

Fitz leaned in, drew on his tab. ‘That there . . . that would be the poor bastard’s tongue.’

I felt a heave in the pit of my gut. ‘They cut his tongue out?’

‘I don’t think the fecker did it himself.’ Fitz stubbed his cigarette, moved round the other side of the desk, sat. ‘I know ye spoke with Andy Gregory earlier in the week.’

I looked up from the photos, pushed them towards him. This was quite a turn of events. ‘Have you been trailing me?’ I knew he hadn’t; I’d never met the plod who managed that trick without making it as obvious as a donkey’s cock.

Fitz pointed a finger at me. ‘Dury, don’t feckin’ quiz me on this investigation. Ye have already gone and bollixed it up.’ He moved his finger to the photographs.

‘You blame me for that?’ The accusation jabbed me. Andy was a good man. He had helped me out, because he knew there were wrongs being done and because he respected the memory of my brother. I felt enormous guilt to have endangered him. All I could think about was what I had said to fat Davie on the Craigs, about having a snitch. Mac had held me back – I knew I’d fucked up. Had I caused Andy’s death?

Fitz kept still, then spoke slowly: ‘I don’t know the exact circumstances . . . Andy Gregory was obviously in over his head.’

It was time to tell Fitz what I knew.

I revealed everything I’d learned from Andy about the Undertaker’s involvement. He seemed to know all about it, sounded like the factory had been under surveillance for some time, which told me how they knew I’d met with Andy. I told Fitz that I knew Davie Prentice was up to his nuts in it and that got nods. He didn’t know what fat Davie had told me about Michael meeting with the Undertaker the night he died, and he knew nothing about the Czechs – or pretended not to.

‘What else did you question Andy Gregory about, Dury?’

‘The factory, y’know . . . what was going on in there.’