the Knife’s I guess he has more to think about than saving your scrawny arse, Dury.’
It was time to ruin Johnstone’s party. ‘If you want to pull anyone in it’s Joseph Crawford’s son… I saw him on the hill: he was one of the yobs taking potshots at the dog.’
‘ Judge Crawford? You must be off your box, Dury.’
‘Give him a pull, then… see what he says.’
He squeezed his brows together. ‘Fuck that.’
‘What, you don’t think it’s even a little bit unusual that Moosey was accused of killing Mark’s sister and then turns up in the same state?’
Johnstone blew his top. ‘On whose say? Yours Dury? A washed-up hack who was half-cut when we took his statement…?’
I stood up, fronted him. ‘You’re up to no fucking good here, mate
… You’re sweeping the facts under the carpet.’
Johnstone squared up to me. ‘It’s my version of the facts that counts here, Dury, and I’d say you’re the one who should be worried. Tam Fulton was carrying fifty grand the night he was killed and it’s missing. I don’t think the Crawfords are short of a few quid, but from what I hear your new pub’s going tits up.’
‘Oh, come on… that’s a motive?’
Jonny Johnstone smiled. ‘In my book, that’s one hell of a motive.’
Chapter 14
Johnstone was getting the boot in. No question. But if Rab Hart was missing fifty Gs I could expect much worse. Either Moosey had ripped him off and been turned over himself, or somebody else had done a job on them both. Felt like I was limbering up to go the same way; I’d be turned into Spam.
I could see why Johnstone might want me to have something to do with this, but I couldn’t see how he could make it stick without some serious fitting up. It had me worried because he didn’t look like the usual lazy doughnut-muncher from Lothian and Borders plod. He was sly, what the Scots call sleekit. And worse, he had Debs.
The tie to my ex-wife, I was pretty sure, put an edge on things for him. It was a motivator. He’d be making comparisons between us now we’d met; it was human nature. But what worried me most was how I was going to handle the man Debs was about to marry coming for me. I’d a notion that if my short fuse got any shorter I’d go off like an Exocet missile. I needed to cool right down, go Gandhi.
They kept me in all night.
By morning I was twitching, breaking out in sweats. Ganting for a drink. Could see a bar full of Guinness lined up before me, the smell of it taunting me.
People will tell you it’s an inner need, the drink. You have demons calling out to be quenched. With me it’s more than that. I crave the smell and the taste almost as much as the effect. If I don’t see drink I can fantasise about the head of a pint, the way it sits on the inside of the rim. The way the dark liquid swirls. The condensation droplets on the glass.
I thought about nothing else now. My stomach felt empty. I can go for days without food; that kind of emptiness I can handle. The emptiness that calls out for the burn of a whisky shot is something altogether different. It’s a hunger that won’t go without feeding. An angry beast inside that scratches at your innards and demands action. Immediately.
When the cell doors opened this time there was no fanfare. An old desk sergeant, ticking off the days to retirement, dawdled in and dropped a tray before me. I looked down: a plate of beans and two potato scones.
‘You expect me to eat that muck?’ I said.
A heavily wrinkled brow raised. ‘You can take it or leave it.’
I took up the coffee — looked not long poured — said, ‘You can take the rest away.’
The uniform leaned back on his hip, straightened his back, said, ‘There’s a fella upstairs asked me to give you something.’
‘Upstairs?’
An eyebrow pointed to the ceiling. ‘Aye. Says you might need this.’
He reached into his pocket and I flinched. I’d been in this station before and seen some of the upstairs mob; I wasn’t too keen to take any of their offerings without closer inspection.
A quarter-bottle of Bell’s came out, topped up my coffee. ‘How’s that look?’
I felt my pulse quicken, devoured a good lash, said, ‘Beautiful.’ I nodded to the bottle again. ‘Couldn’t leave it, could you?’
‘Nae danger!’ A shake of the head, then another top-up, right to the brim.
‘Thanks, man… Can’t tell you how much of a help that is.’
He screwed the cap, said, ‘Your friend upstairs said you might thank me for it.’
‘Oh yeah… and my friend, who would that be?’
A laugh; phlegm rattled in his chest. ‘Walls have ears, son.’
My heart twinged to be called ‘son’. It had been a long time since I felt like anybody’s boy. I watched him carry off the tray, turn the key in the lock and walk out the door. As he went I dashed up to the slot, yanked it open, asked, ‘This friend — I was wondering, would it be an old friend or a new friend?’
‘How the hell would I know?… I’m just the messenger.’
I let him saunter off up the hall to the desk. He seemed an all right sort of bloke. I could do with a few more of those about the place. I had a fair idea who my friend might be. I’d already decided to make a visit to him, if I ever got out of the nick. But the whole issue raised an interesting question — the prospect that Johnstone wasn’t as popular as he liked to make out was something I could play about with.
They let me stew some more. Hours passed.
I was gonna start banging on the cell door, ask what the hold-without-charge limit was, when I got my second visitor of the morning.
Jonny Johnstone had changed his suit, a nice new one, grey this time and smartly pressed. His white shirt was so bright I almost had to turn away.
‘What’s this, the Daz doorstep challenge?’ I said.
‘Droll, Dury.’ He strutted. ‘If I were you I wouldn’t be laughing it up.’
‘And if I were you, I’d tone down the flash… Folk might start to wonder how you can afford so many designer suits on your salary.’
That struck just the note I’d wanted. The strut halted mid-step. ‘Don’t even try to shine me, Dury.’
‘Ha, like I could compete with the suit. Fuck off, Johnstone, I’ve had enough lame plays. You have nothing on me.’
He didn’t even blink. ‘Well, let’s see about that, eh?’
I was thrown by a wide grin. ‘What?’ I said.
‘Let’s see how you do in the line-up I’ve arranged.’
‘Line-up? What the fuck are you on about?’
‘See if our witness can pick you out… Course, I wouldn’t dream of leading our witness in your direction, Dury. That would just be wrong.’
He laughed as he left the cell.
I had another hour to myself before I was called. Sixty minutes of trembling and despair — set the mood for what followed.
I’d like to know where they’d picked this crew from. If they had another in the group even close to my height and build I was a Dutchman. Three had beards for a kick-off. None of this made sense to me: who was the witness, and what were they a witness to? Moosey’s murder?
A uniform roared, ‘Right, form an orderly queue.’
The group of us marched up to the end of the room and got in line.
‘You, down here.’ I followed the order.
I had what looked like a Canadian trapper to my left and Rod Hull — sans Emu — to my right.
