Long Time Dead

Hod shook his head, gripping the wheel tighter. Saw I had him: there was more to this than he was letting on.

I ferreted out a crushed ten-pack of Regal from my jacket pocket, sparked up. ‘So, what’s yer angle here, Hod?’

‘My angle?… Did you read that paper?’ He tapped the dash. ‘Look, I saw yer Laird woman on the news the other night – she’s fucking dripping in bling and living in a castle!’

‘And?’

‘And… she’s putting up serious poppy to get to the bottom of this murder.’

I didn’t bother correcting him again. ‘And that’s your sole interest, is it? Making a nice little wedge? Cos I know you’re a fucking action junkie, Hod, and if you think I’m getting dragged along so you can play at being Richard Branson on his balloon race with my time and dime you can forget it.’

He brought the car to a halt outside his block of luxury flats, turned the key in the ignition and opened the door. As he eased out he looked back to face me for an instant. ‘Gus, I need this payday like you wouldn’t believe.’

He closed the door. I got out and eyed him across the car roof. ‘What do you mean?’

As he turned I saw his pallor descend several shades of grey to rest at white. ‘Get inside, Gus. We need to talk.’

Hod managed another three steps before he was T-boned by a burly biffer in a black suit. He placed a hand on Hod’s chest. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’ Another suit, shorter, but heavy in the neck, emerged from the passenger door of a pimped-up Merc. He started to put leather gloves on as he strode towards us. I couldn’t see his face but I recognised the gait. Looked the kind of swagger I’d seen on more than a few widos from this town: the strut that said, You messing?

‘The fuck’s this?’ I said. My heart was pounding, didn’t do my head any favours. If either of them breathed on me I’d fall over. I knew I’d be no use in a pagger.

‘Get back in yer fucking hole, Dury,’ shouted the wee man. He pointed a black leather-clad finger as he put the bead on me. Now I recognised him. It was Danny Gemmill. A bottom feeder, but connected. He’d been a Hibs casual back in the eighties, back when they’d sharpened the tips of their golf brollies and gone looking for eyes to stick on them. He was a skelf with a serious wee-man complex. Had worked a rep as a nut-case after Stanley- knifing a few faces. After the casuals had carted the Samba and Pringle sweaters, though, Danny had moved into the more organised stramash, ran with a few mobs in the town; some of the bigger ones of late.

Hod held up his hands in submission. ‘Okay, okay…’

Gemmill quickly patted him down, thrust hands in his pockets. I’d seen Hod in some shit in my time, but this was the first I’d seen him roll over. The wee pug found what he was after, shook the car keys in front of Hod’s nose and smiled. ‘Don’t think you’ll be needing these, eh.’

Hod drew swift breath, his deep chest inflating. I could tell there was a thought brewing, maybe a swift kick to the knackers and a few jabs to the jaw as a follow-up, but he clocked me pressing a palm to my aching ribcage and started to slowly exhale. ‘Nah, don’t suppose I will,’ he said.

Gemmill placed a paw on Hod’s face, leaned in. ‘Don’t think this buys you much time, boy. You’ve got a fortnight to come up with the rest.’ He spun on the tarmac, tossed the keys to his mate, who took off for Hod’s Beemer laughing like an asthmatic hyena, seemed to be putting that in my direction; wondered why.

I watched the pair drive off. Hod caught my gaze, shrugged.

‘The fuck’s that all about?’ I said. I couldn’t get over seeing him cave like that.

Another shrug, hands thrust in pockets. ‘Come on, let’s get in, eh.’

I reached out to grab his shoulder as he started away from me. ‘Hod, you just handed over yer car to a pair of fucking mugs! What’s going on?’

He turned. ‘I’m in for a few bob… to Shaky.’

‘Fuck me! Shaky?’ Boaby Stevens specialised in brutal violence, loansharked on the side. Not even Hod was that stupid, or desperate, surely. No wonder Gemmill was laughing his arse off – he’d hit the big time now.

Hod removed a hand from his pocket to scratch his chin. This was altogether a new expression for him. He didn’t do whipped dog well. Went, ‘Let’s get inside, eh… I’ll fill you in.’

I found myself staring open-mouthed. As he turned again, I sprang at him, surprising myself with the force I contained. ‘You’re in to Shaky! That fucker’ll cut yer hands off, y’know.’

Hod checked to see there were no curtains twitching in his neighbours’ windows. ‘Gus, can we get inside?’

‘There’s nowhere to hide from him.’ I pushed past. ‘You daft cunt, Hod… You fucking daft fucker.’

Chapter 3

THANK CHRIST IT WAS SUMMERTIME – the place was as cold as a witch’s tit. For luxury apartment in Edinburgh, read: flung-up-in-five-minutes new-build. Bit of a view. Maybe some chrome on the balcony. If the estate agents were being honest they’d describe it as fucking shonky. Might make reference to plasterboard walls so thin you can hear your neighbours taking a piss and maybe a wanky Shaker-style kitchen from Ikea that’s the latest must-have on the ideal home front. If I’d seen one of these low-on-style, soulless shitholes, I’d seen a hundred. They were, as a whole, the boldest metaphor for what this city of ersatz culture had become. The architectural equivalent of gonorrhoea, only spreading faster among the Pinot Grigio-drinking smart set. Trendy yuppies – can’t get enough of them.

I’d kipped at Hod’s gaff before, been a guest more times than I cared to remember… but never once did it look like this. As we entered the hallway my Docs clumped heavily on the exposed floorboards. I say boards – can you call chipboard slabs floorboards? The walls were bare, the light fittings had been removed, the one concession to homeliness was a cheapo Argos slim phone, sitting disconsolately on the ground with its cord twisted and kinked into all angles.

Hod held schtum, closed the door behind us and motioned me to the living room. The carpets had been lifted in here too, every stick of furniture had been removed. On the wall where the plasma had hung was no more than a depressing oblong outline that looked as though it had been drawn in charcoal on the wallpaper. Hod caught me staring open-mouthed and turned away. He took off his jacket and flung it on the fireplace. The fireplace had once been in the wall; now it was on the floor, no doubt on its way to the car boot sale.

‘Hod, what the fuck has happened here?’ I said.

He stalled. ‘Want a coffee?’

‘Do you even have coffee?’

‘Erm… actually, no.’

Hod walked the long steps to the kitchen door, opened it, pointed in. The kitchen had been stripped.

‘Where’s your kitchen, man?’

He put his hands behind his head, ruffled his hair a bit then threw them up with a great exhalation of breath. ‘Gone to the yard.’

‘Come again?’

‘Flogged it… Was Italian marble – needed the wonga.’

I felt my hand rising to my forehead, don’t know why; is it the universal symbol for disbelief? Hod had been the one safe port in my stormy existence. He was successful in a way most people can only dream of. He was stable. Sorted. Had a Nectar card, for Chrissake. This was off the scale.

I walked towards him. ‘Hod, mate, time to spill the beans.’

That sigh again. Huge chestful of air departed. ‘I got into a bit of a rut there with the pub…’

This I did not want to hear. The Holy Wall had been bequeathed to me by our mutual friend Col. With all the business acumen of Del Boy I’d promptly set about running it into the ground… Then Hod had stepped in.

‘I knew I should never have let you buy me out-’

Hod sparked up, ‘It’s not what you think. It’s, well, finances were stretched across the whole business.’

‘Bedsitland by the Sea… Thought the student digs were doing all right.’

‘Were… look, the long and short of it is I ran out of credit with the bank and…’