Long Time Dead

He dipped his head, rested his chin on his barrel chest. ‘Gus, trust me.’

That was a laugh – I seemed to remember hearing that a few times before… usually preceding some kind of catastrophe: a door slammed in my face; good kicking; Debs packing a bag.

‘Hod, I just think-’

He slayed that move by pressing the doorbell. Loud theatrical chimes sounded; three, maybe four little dogs yapped behind the glass.

A dark figure loomed, rattling keys.

Hod spoke: ‘Remember, Gus, I need this… we need this.’

Did I need reminding?

‘Shut the fuck up, eh.’

The door edged an inch, caught on a chain, closed again.

‘Seriously, Gus… screw the nut. Now.’

As the door opened a ginger Pomeranian snapped at my ankles, then two other indeterminate bundles followed, barking and generally throwing a shit fit. Felt my ‘please, God’ face forming. Swept it aside. There was a bigger picture here: Shaky’s name had been put up – Hod’s card was marked.

Hod fronted the man in black, grey-haired and stiff-collared. Did people still have butlers these days? Holyfuckingshitballs. I was appalled how the other half lived. A few soap operas, slot in the Big Brother house, all the usual piss and wind generated by Hello! and OK! and suddenly you’re living the Upstairs, Downstairs life. Not for the first time, I wanted to throw.

Hod spoke, ‘Good morning. I’d like to speak with the lady of the house.’

Couldn’t help it, had to laugh. Muttered, ‘Lady of the house…’

Hod slit his eyes at me, put his hands behind his back and squared his stance. ‘Is Gillian Laird at home?’

The suited gadgie turned up an eyebrow, was as close to incitement as I’d seen; screamed derision. I had this little arse-licker pegged as an adept in the art of greasy pole climbing. Would have been a shit-shoveller before ascending the stairs to the big hoose.

He peered down his nose, chipped, ‘And you might be?’

I’d be fucked if I was pandering to this prick.

Easing past Hod, I fronted him. ‘Look, bonny lad, we’re here to speak to the organ grinder, not the monkey. Go and get herself, there’s a good chap.’

That got his goat. His thin lips parted for a moment, revealing falsies that needed longer in the Steradent cup. He said, ‘If you don’t have an appointment, I can’t-’

Enough was enough. I dipped into the pocket of the tweed, handed him one of Hod’s newly printed cards. It took all my strength to stop myself posting it in his mush. ‘You might want to tell her this can’t wait.’

Jeeves took the card, made a face as if the poker in his arse had just twitched, then invited us to wait in the corridor.

The dogs followed us in, barking and yapping all to fuck. It hurt my head so much I wanted to put fingers in my ears but they soon lost interest in us, started to calm. Hod was less relaxed. It unsettled me to see him so desperate, so unlike the Hod I knew. He’d always been so confident, so cocksure of himself. It was as though I was watching him dwindle before my eyes.

‘What’s up with you now?’ I said.

‘Did you have to noise him up?’

‘Hod, the guy’s a tool.’

‘I’m only saying… Can we be professionals here.’

‘Professionals… You think we’re playing Bodie and Doyle, fuck off.’

‘Gus, just cool yer jets, eh. At least till we’ve got her signature on that contract.’

I shook my head, turned eyes to the corniced ceiling, said, ‘Whatever.’

There’s a phrase, through you like a dose of salts, could tell from the off this chick was ready to put it into action. The heels came clacking on the tiled floor like sniper fire. She had a hard, drawn face that was softened only slightly by what looked like a Hermes scarf. You write the odd magazine feature in your time, you get to know the kip of the pricey gear.

Gillian Laird stopped a couple of yards from us. She wore long black trousers and a black cashmere top. When she put her hands on her hips she looked like a very familiar work of art. Fuck me, was I a bit star-struck? Told myself to calm down – she’d done River City after all.

She looked me in the eye, seemed to register disbelief, then her gaze quickly darted to Hod. She was weighing us up, no question. Said, ‘Gus Dury…’ then thrust out the card. Was I supposed to take it back? Leave?

Stepped up to the plate, nodded, ‘That’s my name.’

She took a deep breath, her cheeks pinching as she looked me up and down. Got the distinct impression she thought I was taking the piss. Her expression yelled: There’s a pikey in my house. I inwardly cursed Hod for making me wear the tweed – felt like a Terence Stamp caught shoplifting.

‘Should it mean something to me?’

Hod interrupted, ‘Mrs Laird, we believe we might be able to help you with-’

She opened her mouth a little, lowered the card, then quickly folded her arms. It was a defensive stance. Her gaze flitted left to right as she barked, ‘Help me with what?’

I could see Hod’s anxiety rising. If I let him start yakking he’d be like a dog eating chips. I took the reins: ‘I have some experience in dealing with the particular situation you find yourself in, Mrs Laird.’

An improbably tall blonde appeared at her back. She had a rack Jordan would have been intimidated by and a pair of lips set in a permanent pout. She looked groomed to within an inch of her life as she sidled up to the actress and put an arm around her waist. When she placed her head on her shoulder she reminded me of the models I used to see coming into the paper to shoot fashion spreads. They all looked like unattainable goddesses, until they opened their gobs and you realised they were schemies.

Gillian spoke: ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

She handed the card to the blonde. She stared at Gillian for a moment and then said to me, ‘I know you… Yer the reporter guy.’

There it was, the schemie inside… Who says you can’t polish a turd?

Hod blustered, ‘Mr Dury specialises in investigative work now.’

I could have given him a slap. The woman was on the verge of kicking us out; could this have gone any worse? What had I been thinking, taking Hod’s word that this was a goer?

‘Does he now?’ said Gillian.

I watched her weigh up what looked like several possibilities. One was obviously calling the filth, but there was a flicker of desperation in there – as though she couldn’t rule out anything, however weak. Or maybe she just thought I looked the part: rat catchers don’t dress in pinstripes. She turned her head, spun on her heels, a shrill tone in her voice as she commanded, ‘Follow me.’

Hod winked as we set off behind her. The blonde bit turned once or twice, drew a few daggers at us, but I figured her approval we could live without.

In an immaculate white drawing room, the black silhouette of Gillian Laird cut an incongruous figure. She looked bullet hard as she perched on the edge of a giant sofa, crossed her legs, patted the cushion beside her. ‘Sit down, Tina.’ Her friend did as she was told. I thought she was out of her league – what the Scots call all fur coat and nae knickers. But her face was her fortune; throw in the figure and she was commanding a tidy sum. Maybe Gillian thought she could knock off a few rough edges here and there, or maybe rough was a nice change.

‘Okay, what’s the story, Mr Dury?’ said Gillian.

I felt as if I was put in the spotlight; an urge to rifle her shelves for a whisky bottle flashed. Calmed it, took hold again: ‘I believe there’s some case to doubt the official verdict on your son’s death.’

‘You do?’

She was hardballing me. I didn’t buy that she was all granite, though. There was an artist lurking in there and that required some sliver of sensitivity.

‘I believe… you do.’

She looked at Tina. I noticed their fingers had laced. ‘My son was killed, Mr Dury.’