I put him straight: ‘Don’t be daft, I’m not that far gone.’
‘Look, why don’t you pull off the road, we’ll grab a coffee and a roll in there.’ He pointed to a caff with a big open window. In front of it a bloke in a Honda indicated he was leaving his parking space.
I nodded, stuck the car into first.
The caff was a bit of a dive, peeling linoleum on the floor, peeling Formica on the tables. But it was a good solid Edinburgh scran house, and it suited us down to the ground.
Hod ordered up some rolls on sliced sausage. ‘You put onions on them?’
The waitress was tipping sixty, a frame so delicate a sneeze might knock her to the ground. Her face looked broken by the years, her eyes watery. She was no heartbreaker, but one of a thousand like her in the city. She was what the Scots call soulish. ‘You want sauce with yer onions?’
‘Oh aye, brown sauce.’ Hod rubbed his hands together, a bit too energetically: his ribs twinged and the pain played on his face.
The waitress left us, but her forlorn presence lingered.
I spoke: ‘Mac said you’d made a few calls in the hospital.’
He nodded. ‘Got on to some of the builders still in the game. Had big Brian Ingram pay me a visit as well — had lots to say.’
I was glad to hear of some progress. ‘Well, spill it.’
‘Your Pajero geezer… name’s Radek.’ He put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a note. It was an address overlooking Leith Links, written in carpenter’s pencil on the back of a torn-up pack of Regal King Size. ‘That’s his kip.’
I smiled, waved the address about. ‘This is good work, Hod.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve got my uses.’
‘So, what’s this cunt’s story?’
Hod leaned in. ‘Well, he’s no fucking saint.’
Surprise, surprise, said, ‘We knew that.’
‘In fact, he’s a bit of a nut-job by all accounts. Big Bri said he started out on the sites about a year and a half ago, was labouring, doing it hard as well. Double shifts on more than one site about the town. Was pulling a fair whack in poppy, but never happy, y’know the type?’
I nodded. ‘Eye to the main chance, enough never enough.’ No wonder he got on so well with fat Davie.
‘He’s got a bit of a rep as a boxer as well, going bare-knuckles and that. Got into a few scrapes on Bri’s crew and he punted him. Mad bastard only went and pulled a blade.’
This all sounded very interesting. ‘Mad indeed.’
There was some kind of commotion up the street, horns blowing. I looked out but couldn’t see anything. The waitress reappeared. She crept towards the window and stationed herself there like a wobbly sentry. I watched her shake her head, bony fingers worrying at the front pocket of her nylon tabard.
Hod reeled me back in. ‘Anyway, so Radek set himself up, got a few homeboys around him, was pulling in some gigs here and there and the rest is, well, you know the rest.’
The horns got drowned out by a belt on a police siren. A blue light flashed into the caff. ‘Aye, aye, it’s the woodentops. What’s going on here?’ I said.
Hod looked like he was about to speak, his mouth began to form the words then closed like a trap as the door to the caff swung open.
In walked a couple of uniformed plod. ‘On your feet, Dury.’
I turned. ‘Wha’?’
I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘Now come on, don’t have us haul you along the street… On your feet. We’re going down the station.’
Chapter 22
‘Do you want to tell me what this is about?’ I said.
Obviously he didn’t: the uniform put his hand to his belt, took off his cuffs. I was spun by the shoulders and thrown onto the table.
‘For fucksake!’
Hod was on his feet. ‘This is out ay order.’
‘Shut it,’ said the flatfoot. ‘I can easy take you in as well.’
Hod raised his hands. I saw the old waitress come back from the window to join the rest of the folk in the caff staring at me, mouths open, heads shaking. I thought, What the fuck have I done?
On the street I got passed to another uniform, heard the first one talking on his radio, ‘Yeah, bringing him in now, guv.’
My head got pushed down as they forced me into the meat wagon. I protested and arced up, ‘What the fuck is this about?’
‘Shut yer fucking yap, Dury.’
It concerned me how well known my name had become, in all the wrong circles.
We took the ride to Fettes with the blue lights on. I thought this was a bit much, but there was no doubting their effectiveness on the Edinburgh traffic. I was thrown about in the back of the wagon; the cuffs dug into my wrists and stretched my arms from their sockets.
At the nick they hauled me in. ‘Look, you gonna tell me what this is about?’ It was ten minutes before the bastards took the cuffs off me, shoved me in an interview room.
Minding me was what looked like one of the force team’s rugger buggers: flat nose, beefy chest, and thighs that meant his trousers required the special attention of a tailor. He didn’t even glance at me, stared off into the middle distance, a dream of Murrayfield glory dangling before him.
I rubbed my red wrists as the door opened, a waft of air hitting me in the face. It was Fitz; he looked proper furious. The spruced look had gone — his collar open, the tie hanging like a noose. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and he was unshaven. I saw some burst blood vessels in his eyes when he looked at me.
‘Dury, by the fucking cringe.’ He slapped a folder down on the desk. I watched it fall; some pages escaped its edges.
I wasn’t biting. ‘Why the fuck am I here?’
He saw me rubbing my wrists. ‘Did they try the rough stuff?… Sorry, I told them to go easy.’
It made little difference to me, the situation hadn’t changed. ‘Do I have to ask you again?’
Fitz pulled out the chair in front of me. It stuck on a table leg. He cursed it, yanked so hard the table shook. I leaned back and fixed eyes on him. He was aware of my glare but didn’t respond. He ferreted in his pocket for a pack of Dunhill, found them, realised he didn’t have a light, said, ‘Ho, bonnie lad, you got a light?’
The uniform shook his head, pulled out his empty pockets.
Fitz said, ‘Ah, a feckin’ fitness freak.’ He opened a drawer and located some Swan Vestas, sparked up. He offered me a smoke; I declined.
‘Are you going to tell me?’ I said.
He drew in. ‘You don’t know?’
This was insane. ‘My telepathy’s on the blink, Fitz.’
He peered into me, over the smoke; I knew I’d been tested. Maybe I was still being sussed out. Either way, Fitz’s tone changed. He turned it up: ‘Ye feckin’ reckless young heller!’ He jumped out of his seat and slammed the table.
I’d seen bursts like this before, some in this station. It didn’t faze me. ‘Sit down, man.’
He paced, turned to me again. ‘You are one daft fecker, Dury. Daft as feck… Running about all over the shop, wrecking my investigation.’
Was this going somewhere? ‘Look, do you want to fill me in?’
‘I’d feckin’ love to fill ye in, Dury!’ He drew fists, ash fell from his cigarette. ‘Nothing would give me more feckin’ joy.’ He stamped back to the desk, grabbed the folder and opened it up. He plugged his tab in the corner of his mouth, muttered as he turned pages to find what he was looking for. The folder held photographs. He picked
