word I hear about a therapist, I’m up for two murders. Got it?’
A nod. Eyebrows drooped towards the nascent beard.
‘And tell Mac if he starts again, he’ll see a side of me he won’t like either.’
I slammed the door. Bounded back to Morrissey, turned up the volume. Thought: The cheeky bastards.
I knew the therapist was a ruse to get me off the sauce. I’d been drinking the bar dry. Since Mac took over the running of it he’d been watching how much I put away. He didn’t understand the quantity was nothing special. I’d been drinking from morning till night for years. Was I going to change without a reason? Was I buggery.
I set the shower running, collected up my things, took a last glance onto the street. Plod was reading the Daily Star. Copping an eyeful of Candy, 22, from Essex on page three. I thought: You sad fuck. Mouthed, Don’t let me catch you having a tug down there.
The shower was hot. Near boiled the skin off me. Imperial Leather label peeled off the soap, I’d such a lather going. For some reason I was scrubbing at myself like I’d been interned in Bar-L. I wondered if subconsciously I expected to be.
There seemed no end of shit piling up on my doorstep. Of most concern was a visit from one of Rab Hart’s goons. Mac and Hod leaning on me was only making things worse, though.
As I got out of the shower I saw I had Morrissey jammed on repeat. Further along the track, he wailed about giving his valuable time to people who didn’t care if he lived or died. Got my vote. Nodded to the CD player.
I picked up some clothes from the ground: crisp white oxford, newish pair of dark-blue Diesel and a black lambswool cardigan. A few years ago, you wore a cardy, you were borderline care-in-the-community. Now, it was the look. I checked myself in the mirror: the look worked. Seemed to fit my mood.
I grabbed my mobi.
There was a heap of calls I needed to make, but only one pressed. Only one I knew might help my case.
Dialled.
Girl on the switchboard said, ‘Lothian and Borders Police. How may I help you?’
‘Eh, Fitzsimmons, please?’
‘Would that be Detective Sergeant Fitzsimmons?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Connecting you to his line. Thank you.’
I waited, got the feeling I’d missed him, then, ‘Yes?’
Gruff, to say the least.
‘Good morning to you too.’
Bit of edge creeping in now. ‘Who the hell is this?’
‘Oh, I think you know. Shall we say… a friend in need?’
Full-on badass mode hit fast: ‘Are you out your feckin’ mind?’
‘I’d like to meet you.’
‘I don’t believe my feckin’ ears… I have no idea who this is calling and I want to point out wasting police time is a criminal offence. Good day to you, sir.’
The fucker hung up.
I stared at my phone in disbelief. It began to ring. Showed a mobile number.
‘Hello…’
‘Dury, ye have pulled some feckin’ stunts but calling me at my own desk is the limit… Is it the sack you’re after for me?’
I sighed. ‘Yeah, that’s it, I’m that mad.’
‘Dury, get a feckin’ grip, and fast.’
‘Easier said than done in the current state of play. There’s a pair of your little helpers sitting outside my house.’
‘What did you expect — tickets to the Bahamas?’
‘I didn’t expect… Look, it doesn’t matter what I expected, what I need is some information.’
‘Am I feckin’ hearing this?’
‘ What?’
‘Are ye on the tap for police intelligence?’
‘That’s an oxymoron, Fitz.’
Gap on the line. Silence.
I continued: ‘What I want, and what you want, are one and the same here, so before you go all righteous on me just remember your wife’s new-found interest in her lovely garden.’
‘Dury, don’t push it.’
‘See sense, Fitz. I’ll meet you by the National Monument. Off the track enough?’
‘Is this entirely necessary?’
‘Shall we say midday?’
I did the hanging up this time.
Chapter 18
Hod sat at the bar, moving dust about with his finger. Mac looked bored. There were no punters in.
‘Why are you still here, Hod?’ I said.
A spin on the stool, eyes flared. ‘I’m, er, at a loose end.’
I spotted Mac. He scratched his palm nervously.
‘This better not be what I think it is.’
Mac let out a sigh, fiddled with the little stud earring in his left ear, said, ‘And what would that be?’
‘Minding… I don’t need looking after!’ I pointed to the pump beside Mac’s elbow. ‘Usual.’
The dog came running up to meet me, put claws up. I swear that dog smiled. I looked down at him. He barked. Turned his head to one side, then the other. An ear sat up.
‘Gimme a Grouse whilst you’re there.’
Mac poured the whisky, placed it down. I fired it, said, ‘Another like it.’
Looks passed between the pair of them.
‘ Yes?’
In unison: ‘Nothing. Nothing.’
‘Make it a double. Fuck it, treble.’ I smiled. ‘… As well hung for a sheep as a lamb.’ I sparked up a smoke, inhaled deep, said, ‘So spill.’
Hod bridled, tweaked the hair on the back of his knuckles. ‘I’m at a loose end.’
‘Horseshit.’
‘I am, straight up… I wouldn’t shit you about that. Why? Why would I?’
‘Cos you’re a born horseshitter.’
He rose. Walked over to me and stole a smoke from the pack that sat on top of the bar. I waited for him to speak. What he did was cough on the first drag, then make a sharp exhalation.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m bored, Gus… I told you.’
‘What about the burgeoning Hod empire… Bedsitland-by-the-Sea division must be keeping you busy with the kip of the students I see about the streets.’
‘I’ve got staff to do that now. There’s nothing left for me, Gus, business runs itself. I need something else — I’m as flat as a plate of piss.’
At once, I saw where this was going. Put the nail in that one. ‘Get a hobby.’
Hod puffed his chest at me, got bolshie. ‘I’ve done every hobby going: diving, archery — all wank.’
I wasn’t playing along. I knew the pair of them had cooked this up. The idea was to make Hod my sidekick; he could keep an eye on me. If there was one thing I didn’t need it was Hod Arnie-ing through this case, shooting all to buggery any chance I had of getting out of Dodge. I’d seen him in action before. Hod’s action I could do without.
