Loss (6 page)

‘The tape, Gus,’ said Mac. He pointed to the floor. Where the carpet ended there was a lino-covered floor, two thick strips of tape running side by side along the edge, one yellow, one red. ‘You never worked in a factory? It’s how they get about.’

I looked over. ‘It’s like
The Wizard of Oz
.’

‘Come on, we’re still a long way from Kansas.’

The tape led us through the shop floor. It wasn’t what you’d call heavy industry. Couple of assembly lines, lots of people in starched white dustcoats packing boxes. Occasional forklift. Radio playing ‘Eye of the Tiger’.

Mac tapped my arm. ‘You remember this? . . .
Rocky
, innit?’

‘Got that right.’

He curled his lower lip. ‘Ain’t gonna be no rematch.’

As we walked I caught sight of a familiar face: it was Vilem, the one Jayne had described as ‘the lodger’. He was on the line, but didn’t look to be grafting. There was a group of dustcoats around him but Vilem was in full flow, barking orders. He caught me staring and stopped, mid-blast, then crept away with that limp of his. I saw him remove a mobi from his pocket and press it to his ear.

‘Watch out,’ said Mac. A forklift forced us into the wall. We got pelters in a foreign tongue from the driver, who pointed to the floor.

Mac was none too pleased, looked set to lamp him. This time I hosed him down: ‘Think he wants us to stay behind the line,’ I said.

‘He should have fucking said that then.’

‘He did . . . in Russian or something.’ As I spoke I saw Vilem disappear from the line; I turned head.

‘There any Scottish folk in here?’

‘Oh, aye,’ I nodded up the corridor, ‘here’s one now.’

Davie stood outside his office, waiting for us. For a man in his mid-to-late forties, he wasn’t wearing well. Pot belly, ruddy lardass complexion and the classic sloping shoulders of the desk-jockey. He did himself no favours in the style stakes either: an unruly side-sweep like Bobby De Niro in
The King of Comedy
and thick square-framed glasses that I hadn’t seen since Frank Carson was last on the telly. He wore a striped shirt, frayed at the collar, and a too-wide-to-be-trendy tie that looked as if it had been cut from the tablecloth in a greasy-spoon caff.

‘Yes, gentlemen, what can I do for you?’ he said, smiling – fucking optimistically, I thought.

I walked past him through the doorway.

Mac said, ‘Get inside.’

Davie stepped back into his office, Mac shut the door behind him. A large window faced out onto the shop floor. Venetian blinds were tied up: Mac lowered them, blocking out the view.

‘Is that really necessary?’ said Davie. He smiled, tried to appear relaxed. He was convincing, I’ll give him that.

Mac said nothing, stood with his hands behind his back, played pug.

I answered for him: ‘Now, you tell me, Davie, is it necessary? Suppose that depends on whether you have something to hide.’

He creased his nose and I noticed something about fat Davie I hadn’t until now: he had a tache. It was a completely different colour from his barnet, much lighter, and it sat above his mouth like an anaemic slug. I’d never seen a mouth more inviting of a punch. He said, ‘I’ve nothing to hide, why would I have anything to hide?’

I took out my Marlboros, sparked up. A chair sat beside the wall. I nodded to Mac and he dragged it into the middle of the floor, manhandled fat Davie into it. ‘Is there any need for this?’ he barked.

‘Need for what, Davie?’

‘This . . . this rough stuff.’

Mac laughed, shot him a sideways glance.

‘Rough stuff, Davie? We haven’t even got started yet.’

‘Look, I’m not about to stand for this.’

‘You’re sitting, Davie. We gave you a seat, remember.’

He started to get up. Mac pushed his shoulders, forced him back down. Now Davie sat quiet. I expected him to finger his collar, take out a handkerchief and dab at his brow but he was ice. Fair shook me.

‘Okay, Davie, let’s take it from the beginning . . . When did you last see my brother?’

Now he flared up: ‘You surely don’t think I have anything to do with
that.
’

Mac crossed the floor again. ‘Answer the fucking question.’

Davie didn’t know who to address. He started to speak to Mac: ‘I don’t know anything about that
 . . .’

Mac put a mitt on Davie’s jaw, spun his face towards me, said, ‘Tell
him
, you prick.’ He bared his bottom row of teeth, looked tempted to panel Davie into his soft slip-on shoes.

‘I-I, come on, you can’t seriously . . .’

‘Davie, this is a simple enough situation we have here. Now, you’re an intelligent man, are you not?’

Silence.

Mac kicked the back of his chair. ‘Answer him.’

Rapid-style: ‘Yes. Yes.’

‘Good. That’s very good, Davie. Now, as an intelligent man you must know I’m not playing with you here . . . You know that, don’t you?’

He turned around swiftly to watch Mac. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘Excellent. Then, purely in the interests of clarity, let me confirm: you will answer every fucking question I ask of you, fully, truthfully and without hesitation, Davie, or Mac there is going to punch you a new hole. Got it?’

Head in spasm: ‘Yes. I understand. Yes. Yes.’

I took a drag on my tab, said, ‘When did you last see my brother?’

‘Erm . . . it was, er, last, er, yesterday afternoon.’

‘Where?’

‘Here . . . it was here in the office. Erm, in his office. Next door.’

‘What time exactly?’

‘It was lunchtime.’

‘What fucking time exactly?’

‘One . . . it was one-ish . . . one-thirty.’

‘Who else was there?’

‘No one. We were going over the returns for the accountant. They have to be in by the new year and . . .’

‘And what?’

‘Nothing . . . That’s it. Look, it was just another day at the factory. I never thought—’

I leaned into his face, blew out smoke. ‘You never thought he was going to get plugged out on the Meadows?’

Davie turned away, wiped at his soft moustache. ‘No, I never . . . You don’t think he was murdered? The police, I mean, they don’t think he was . . .’

I walked around the chair where he sat. I flicked ash from my tab as I went. ‘Maybe the police don’t have all the facts, Davie.’

‘What . . . what do you mean?’

I nodded to Mac. He tipped back Davie’s chair – his slip-ons went in the air. ‘I mean, do the police know how things are here? About the lay-offs? Sounds like cost-cutting – you must be feeling it.’

Mac let Davie’s chair go. He fell backwards onto the floor. His glasses came off, he flapped about like a recently landed cod. When he found his specs he jumped up and ran to his desk, picked up the phone.

Mac was on him: ‘You fucking cheeky wee cunt.’ He grabbed the line and yanked it out of the wall. The thin cable snaked up and whipped a polystyrene ceiling tile, showered a little dust. Davie put his hands to his head like the sky was coming down.

I said, ‘You never answered the question, Davie.’

‘What question?’

I moved over to face him, sat on the edge of his desk and brushed the white dust from his shoulder. ‘Do the police know about your financial troubles?’

Davie shifted his gaze, left to right, ‘I don’t have any financial troubles.’

‘You
don’t
?’ I turned to Mac. ‘How about that? I’m all right Jack, he says. Funny your business partner was finding things so tough, was it not?’

Davie straightened his tie. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘You don’t?’

‘No. I don’t.’

I felt my pulse pounding. There was an angle being worked here. What was this shithead saying, that my brother was in some kind of trouble of his own making? Michael was the canniest man I’d ever known: he wouldn’t get into any difficulties if his own firm was still paying its way.

‘You’re telling me this place is sound?’

‘Of course it is . . . There’s no trouble here at all.’

I flicked his tie. ‘Very well, Davie, I’m impressed. You seem to be the only businessman in Edinburgh riding out the economic storm, with no ill effects.’

He tipped his head, smirked. ‘Well, I don’t know about that.’

‘No, Davie . . . and neither do I. You see, I might not be a businessman myself, but I do know when someone is trying to sell me a crock of shit.’

I nodded Mac to the door. He opened it up and waited for me to step through. I didn’t give fat Davie the benefit of a backward glance.

Mac said, ‘We’ll be seeing you.’

I felt the menace of his words.

ON THE WAY OUT OF the factory, the young girl on reception was taking dog’s abuse from what sounded like an irate former employee. He was what the Scots call
ropeable
, had the sweaty brow, bulging eyes, the lot. Every now and again he’d fling back his head, put on a glower then regain his rant, slapping the desk for emphasis.

‘I’m owed money, wages, not the peanuts they pay you cunts!’ He leaned over her, his face lit red as he showered the hate. ‘What you gonna do about it? I want fucking paying . . .’

He caught sight of us as we appeared in the foyer, started to wave his hands about. He had a wage slip that he slammed on the desk. ‘This place went to shit the moment they started hiring your lot. No understanding of the workplace – just cheap fucking trash!’

I shot a sideways glance at Mac: he had a swagger on, the kind bouncers wear before throwing folk down the stairs. I’d been on the end of a few like it. I thought about hauling him up, putting in a word to the wise, but this bloke was arcing up big time. I thought there might be an interesting response coming if I let it go.

The girl got out of her chair, cowered behind the phone and dialled for assistance. Mac strolled over, put a hand on the bloke’s shoulder. ‘What’s your problem?’

‘
Eh
?’ The guy’s face turned to a grimace; his lower lip drooped to reveal two prominent teeth poking up like a bust wicket.

Mac moved his hand from the bloke’s shoulder to his chest, edged forward. Mr Angry took a few steps back, said, ‘It’s got nowt to do with you, pal.’

‘Maybe I’m making it something to do with me.’

I had to laugh, couldn’t get enough of Mac in badass mode. I checked the girl was okay: ‘You all right there?’

She nodded. Seemed a bit shaken.

‘Have you called for some back-up?’

She didn’t catch my meaning, words falling behind the language barrier.

‘Is there someone coming out?’

‘Yes. Yes.’ Her speech came staccato. ‘The foreman from the shop floor, he is on his way.’

As she spoke the doors behind us were flung open. Two big biffers in overalls ran through, trailed by a little baldy bloke in a white dustcoat. The big lads took over from Mac, who had the furious worker pinned on the wall by a forearm. ‘All yours, lads,’ he said.

‘I just want my fucking wages . . . I just want what’s fucking owing to me.’ Soft lad got carted off, raised on his elbows. He didn’t know what was good for him, wouldn’t shut up. ‘You’re a bunch of wankers . . . I’m owed wages. Think I don’t know what’s going on here? I know the fucking score!’ I reckoned he’d be getting paid in a currency he hadn’t bargained on, probably out the back. I was interested to see how they did business around here – was nothing like I expected. I caught Mac staring at me. We were on the same wavelength: he leaned over and pocketed the wage slip the bloke had put on the desk.

Dustcoat sat the young lass down, patted her on the head as though she was a spaniel. ‘You sit yerself down, hen. I’ll get you a nice cup of tea, eh.’

‘She going to be okay?’ I asked.

‘Anna, oh aye – they’re hardy, these Czechs. Isn’t that right, hen?’

She looked up, put heartmelter eyes on the old fella. He smiled at her, in a fatherly way.

Mac checked out her rack, said, ‘I think you’ll live, love.’

I shook my head, got a
wha’? wha’?
stare in return. I turned to the young lass, crouched on my haunches at her side. ‘So you’re a Czech?’ I said. ‘How long have you been in Scotland?’

She crossed her legs away from me, shifting her weight uneasily. ‘Not very long.’

The old boy hovered, turned attention to me. ‘I don’t know you, do I?’

I looked up at him. ‘You tell me.’

‘Are you after something?’ He wasn’t used to front-of-house duties, checked himself. ‘I mean, is there something I can help you with?’

The place seemed strangely quiet without the shouting and roaring. Even the air seemed stilled, calmer. I played a long ball: ‘You’ve got a lot of Czechs working here . . .’

‘Yes.’ He was abrupt, brusque even.

‘That causing trouble with the locals?’

Now he bit, nostrils flared: ‘No. Look, I don’t think this is a discussion I should be having with you, Mr . . .’

‘Dury. The name’s Gus Dury. My brother used to be a partner here.’

The girl got up, patted down her skirt front, seemed to mumble breathlessly in Czech, then ran off down the hallway.

Dustcoat calmed, watched the girl stumble a bit on the carpet tiles, then, ‘We, eh, all heard. I mean there was an announcement, before the police came . . . I’m sorry for your loss.’

I breathed deep. Looked away.

‘He was a good man, always very . . . fair, with everyone.’

I drew back my gaze. I still had the speed firing and my thoughts ran from one end of my mind to the other. I knew this wasn’t the place for a beat-down; hadn’t worked with fat Davie. I said, ‘If you think of anything that might be worth my looking into, maybe you could give me a bell.’ I picked a Post-it note off the desk, scribbled down my number.

Dustcoat snatched the piece of paper from me, buried it in his pocket. ‘Yes, of course.’ He quickly turned, went off in the same direction as the girl.