‘Cut the shite, Dury.’
The waiter brought the tea. I handed over the cash without looking at the bill. Waited for him to leave, said, ‘Consider it cut.’
Fitz’s lower lip pointed at me, his grey teeth on show as he spoke, ‘Have you completely lost the fucking plot, boyo?’
‘Fitz.’
‘No, don’t you Fitz me — when I think about the ways, the thousands of ways, Dury, that I could hang you out to dry.’
I stopped him in his tracks, pointed a finger. ‘Cool the beans, Fitz.’
He poured his tea, looked around. ‘This place has gone to the dogs.’
‘Haven’t we all.’
I passed the milk and sugar. Watched him stir them in.
‘What’s your game, Dury?’
I tried to clear the air. Played up to his ego. ‘Look, about that earlier stuff — just forget it. I was a bit…’
‘Pissed?’ He laughed at his own joke.
A wry smile. ‘Well… let’s leave it that I was wrong to abuse the friendship.’
He burst into uproarious guffaws. ‘Friends? You and me?’ The thought brought a tear to his eye.
I had him blindsided, hit him with: ‘Yeah. Who the fuck am I kidding? Let’s keep things on a business footing. I’ve something for you.’
He pushed aside his teacup, leant forward. ‘What’s this bollocks you’re talking, Dury?’
‘Now, now. Nothing for nothing.’
‘Fuck off.’
I went for the kill. ‘Fitz, I’m onto something here, something big.’
‘Billy Boy?’ I knew by the tone of his voice he’d already done his homework.
‘You know what I’m on about? For Chrissake, Fitz, he was tortured to death in a public place.’
‘So?’
‘So — these days, a wee lassie falls over and scrapes her knee and there’s cops running around kitted out like Dustin Hoffman from that Outbreak movie. But Billy’s taken out good style, and your lot sweep it under the carpet!’
He leant back, took a sip of his tea. Topped up the cup from the pot. I saw he was thinking things through.
‘What have you got?’
‘Uh-uh. First the file.’
‘Arrah, there’s no way. No way, Dury.’
‘Why not? You know I’m not messing about.’ I looked him in the eye. ‘Fitz, if you help me out, I could put you back on the K-ladder. This isn’t just about Billy, there’s been another murder, one of your countrymen as it happens.’
He took a slow sip of tea.
‘Think about it, Fitz. Do you want that DI’s badge back?’
He stood up, went for his coat. ‘Not in here.’
I followed him out. Lit up a Mayfair. It seemed to hit the spot.
‘Look, I can’t just remove a file. What world are you living in? It’s all computerised these days, a printout sends warning lights flashing. What exactly do you need to know?’
‘Who’s behind this?’
‘By the holy, Gus — is that something anyone would put on a file? All I can tell you is there’s a, shall we say, tacit agreement to lay off this one.’
‘From who?’
‘The top.’
‘Why? Do you know why?’
‘Let’s just say our Billy was dealing with some very unsavoury characters.’
‘Zalinskas.’
‘Vice are all over him.’
‘So, they hung Billy out to dry?’
‘Bigger fish to fry.’
I took my turn to deliver the goods. I told Fitz about the Latvians at Fallingdoon House. About Milo’s calls, and the fire. I left out Nadja’s involvement; she could still be useful to me.
‘That’s it? You wouldn’t be holding out on me here, Dury?’
‘Never. I get any more you’ll be the first to hear.’
‘I better be.’
‘But, Fitz, go back to that file. I’m not buying any of this.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘There’s more to it.’
‘Go way outta that.’
‘No, I mean it… someone’s feeding us a cover story. You need to find out who’s at the back of it.’
33
If you follow the London Road out from Meadowbank, you come to Portobello. Not as glamorous as it sounds, but, like every other district of Edinburgh — on the up.
When I come to Porty now, I always think of George Galloway. He said that when he was a kid his father had wound him up about a trip to Portobello, thought he was off to the Italian coast the way the name sounded. Bet he felt disappointed when he hit the beach and got a waft of the sewage outflows. Still, you have to love Gorgeous George. Have to love anyone who sticks it to Bush and Blair in such a high old fashion.
In parts, beyond the Bedsitland-by-the-Sea fringe, Porty maintains a moneyed air of old Victorian mansions. Hod’s place, however, is new money. A top-floor apartment in one of the front’s eyesores. Plenty of chrome, plenty of glass. Not one ounce of class.
I pushed the buzzer on the front door. The factor was nowhere in sight so I scanned the residents’ names. Went for Clarke.
A woman’s voice, said, ‘Hello.’
She sounded posh, it threw me. I didn’t want to come over like I’d an eye to burgle the joint.
‘Hello, there. My name’s, Dury, I’m er…’
‘Oh, you must be here to look at my box!’
I spluttered, ‘Excuse me?’
‘The television thingie.’
Suddenly things began making sense.
‘Eh no, I’m staying with Hod — Mr Dunn.’
She said no more. Think I’d embarrassed her into opening the door.
My friend had offered to put me up for a while. The combination to his flat’s door had always been a simple one: 1745. For a rabid nationalist like Hod, it could be nothing other than the date of the Jacobite Rebellion.
I took my boots off in the doorway. Hod’s anal fixation for tidiness struck me straight away. If he wasn’t a builder I’d have said some dumb doctor’s wife had been hard at work, filling her home time by polishing the ceilings.
The thermostat in the hall read 25 °Celsius. I scrunched up my toes in the deep, cream-coloured carpet and thought, ‘Now, this is the life.’
Seemed a shame to pollute the atmosphere, but I’d made a visit to the tobacconist on the Mile, stored up on some quality smokes. Gitanes, the ones with the dancing gypsy woman on the pack. They’re a dark baccy, too tough to get through a whole pack. How Bowie managed to chain them in his Thin White Duke days can only be
