Long Time Dead

‘The police said it was death by misadventure.’ I’d spat it out, came too harsh and I immediately regretted it.

‘They called it breath-control play!… Bullshit. I know my Ben, he would never… He was far too sensible, too smart to…’ Her resolve dropped, eyes misted; but she pulled it in. ‘Mr Dury, why are you here? I mean… what do you think you can do for me?’

‘It’s fir the money,’ said Tina. She had a heavy accent, sounded Leith. Christ, sounded Leith Links.

Hod butted in: ‘We’re professionals, Mrs Laird. We have a track record that can be verified. We don’t enter into any undertaking of this nature without serious consideration to the known-’

I stood up. ‘If your son was killed, I’ll find his killer.’

Tina put a long pale arm around Gillian’s shoulder. I saw some bruising on her wrist; it was dark against the skin. She spoke loudly: ‘You sound right confident, so you do.’

I held schtum. Wasn’t getting into a barney with this bint. Felt my chest cry for nicotine. A finger went up to my collar.

‘Gus is the best there is,’ said Hod.

Gillian’s eyes darted to him. ‘The best?’

I walked towards the couch, crouched down in front of them. I was close enough to see the red edges of the actress’s eyes, the tears welling. She needed help; I knew the territory. For the first time since I’d arrived my sympathies sparked. I knew I could bring some ease to that deep suffering. Made me feel useful – if not entirely capable. Hoped my health would hold out. I reached inside me for the right words. ‘If you like, I could look into this for you. I promise you this: things are never quite as they seem… If there’s an answer that can ease your pain, I’ll get it.’

She turned to Tina, nodded to her.

We all rose, stood in the middle of the floor facing each other like an AA meeting.

‘Perhaps we can discuss terms, Mr Dury.’

Hod reached for the contract in his pocket.

I spoke up: ‘There are one or two things I’ll need to know first, Mrs Laird.’

The door to the drawing room opened. It was the butler again, showing in a young lad of about eighteen in a checked sportscoat. He had red hair that, despite a heavy application of gel, burned the eyes. He looked shocked to see Hod and I, but fought it. I looked him up and down – he turned away.

‘Hello, Paul… Do you mind hanging on a minute? I’m just seeing to something,’ said Gillian.

The lad fumbled his words: ‘Oh, no… not at all.’ Some sheets of paper fell from a folder in his arms. I watched him collect them up. He bumped his shins on the coffee table as he went about it. ‘Sorry, I’ll just get this tidied up.’

‘Paul is a… was a friend of Ben’s.’

The lad halted, a few more sheaves of paper fluttering to the floor. ‘Ben was my best friend,’ he said. ‘We were on the same course.’

‘Oh, really,’ I said. Thought about telling him he might want to change course in that case, but got the impression a wisecrack might snap him in two.

Gillian took Paul by the arm, led him back out and asked her man to get him a drink in the kitchen; she closed the door behind him and sat back down. I made a mental note to have a word with young Ginge at some point in the future.

Was a mother the best person to go to for the rundown on her only son? Seriously doubted it. Christ on a bike, my own mam would paint a rosy enough picture of me, and I was pretty far south of any kind of respectability. Gillian Laird had shifted into default gear to tell me about her deceased boy, Ben. I knew she was hurting. I’d lost loved ones, knew the manor, but I got the impression our actress was laying on the histrionics a bit too thick.

‘My boy was an angel.’ She rose from the sofa, crossed the immaculate carpet to raise a silver photo frame from the dresser. ‘He never had a bad word to say for anyone; never heard a cross word leave his lips.’

I caught Hod creasing his brows, rolling eyes up to the ceiling. Was one of those moments calling out for an elbow to the ribs; let it slide. Went with, ‘Gillian… Do you mind if I call you Gillian?’

‘No, that’s fine.’

‘Was there anyone who might not have… shared your opinion of Ben?’ I said.

She looked startled, flustered. A pale hand rose to her cheek, then was clasped tightly in the fingers of her other. She looked rattled by the thought, genuinely thrown at the notion.

‘No… no one… Ben was the most adored child.’

Her son was nineteen; that made him a man in my books. I was still young enough to remember what I was up to at that age – none of it was something I’d be opening up to my mother about. Late teens carry more secrets than the Masons. Had she never watched The Inbetweeners?

‘Your son, Gillian… he was at the university?’

‘Yes,’ my words had hit her like arrows, ‘he was a good student,’ a laugh, feint one, ‘… when he put his mind to it.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

Her eyes were wide, trailing some distant memory. They misted momentarily then dimmed. ‘Ben liked to be the centre of attention… always had, since he was a child. My husband… ex-husband, always said he inherited my dramatic tendencies.’

I knew the type: show-offs. Class clowns. Needy kids. The boys and girls so lavishly danced attendance upon by Mammy and Daddy that the real world always fails to deliver a big enough audience. Edinburgh was crawling with them. Always had been. Throw in a leisured class, proliferation of public schools and the brats come ten a penny. Couldn’t say I was warming to our Ben.

‘He was popular?’ I chose my phrasing carefully.

‘Oh, yes… very popular.’

‘With whom?’

That bit. She slit eyes, went hellcat on me: ‘With everyone, of course!’

‘Gillian, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you and I both know that’s seldom the case outside of maybe Gandhi and Elvis Presley.’

She arked up; her eyes became needlepoints, the thin slit of a mouth widened to a cavity ready to spew forth enough bile to blow me into the middle of next week.

‘My boy was adored!… By everyone!’

Okay. Registered that one.

Was time to move on. I made a mental note to keep all emotive questions away from her; I couldn’t rely on getting any kind of truthful answer anyway. This was a downer for sure, but there were many other ways Gillian Laird could make herself useful.

I pressed on. ‘He was at university… What year?’

‘Erm, second… he was in his second year.’

‘Studying?’

‘Media and arts.’

A typical pisspot subject for a spoilt little rich kid. Still, was one up on windsurfing and Beatlemania, I suppose, although a BSc in either would be as much use as a nun’s tits in the current job market. I’m sure it worried neither of them.

‘I’ll need to see his timetable… and can you supply a list of his friends?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I am about to be made rector of the university, I don’t know if that’s something you know – it’s not been released yet…’

I hadn’t heard. This was a turn-up for the books. Edinburgh Uni rectors had come down in standing compared to previous post-holders – the country’s celebrity obsession had seen to that – but the job still carried some clout. Not least affording the appointee a nice profile. Sure that had nothing to do with her throwing her hat in the ring, though. Actors going for more press? Never.

‘You are? When was this decided?’

‘Erm… just now, well, within the last few days.’

Ben had died nearly a week ago now. I didn’t think the two incidents were related; not in any obvious sense,