Long Time Dead

that reeked of cover-up – of those with the power abusing it.

Turned for the corridor; took the oak boards all the way down to the white-painted door with the brass nameplate on it. The prick had been pretentious enough to have the string of letters engraved after his name too. Cut no ice with me. Thought about knocking but it’s not my style.

Strode in, took a look about. Calder was fifty-odd, but could have passed for ten years shy of that mark. He had a lot of hair, swept back over a high forehead and tucked behind his ears, sitting in tight curls above his shoulders. From a certain angle it looked like a very bad mullet, the kind that sat over a Klem top on Hibs casuals of the eighties. Didn’t rate my chances of getting along with him. Maybe it was the ox-blood brogues. He sat upright, seemed to focus on my tweed, calmed some, said, ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

I strolled to the bookshelves beside his desk, eyeballing the titles. Lit on some Foucault, Sartre, Derrida… maybe he wasn’t a total arsewipe after all. I wasn’t betting on that, though. He got out of his chair, started to stroll over to me. ‘Excuse me, but is there something I can help you with?’

I turned, gave him the once-over, head to toe, said, ‘Might just be, Joe… might just be.’

His brows lifted. A loose curl of dark hair unfurled from his fringe, he swept it back with a very weak wrist movement, went, ‘Do I know you?’

‘I don’t know, Joey Boy… do you?’

The puzzled look turned to panic. ‘Look, what the hell is this? You come into my office and-’

I raised a hand to my mouth, motioned shush. He stilled, stepped back, it has to be said, nervously.

I went, ‘I’ve been speaking to… your new rector.’

‘What… I mean, what do you mean?’

‘Shouldn’t that be a why… or perhaps even a when?’

He ran fingers through his hair, straining to produce a dim smile. ‘Right… this is some kind of joke, is it? Has Gillian put you up to this?’

I moved past him, sat on the edge of his desk. Stubbed a finger into the thick layer of dust, blew it away. ‘Joke… do you think Gillian’s in the mood for jokes after her son’s been murdered?’

Calder’s face drained of all expression. If there was any colour left it was in his lips… and they were blue.

‘Don’t forget to breathe, Joey Boy. I hear that can seriously impair your health… Y’know, like a fucking noose round your neck.’

He raised his hands to his ears, splayed fingers, then shot past me, ran for the other side of the desk and picked up the phone. He bashed a few digits, said, ‘Margaret, Margaret… is that you?’

I followed his steps slowly, faced him.

Calder said, ‘Good, can you please get that security guard up here, I have-’

I reached over the desk, cut off the phone. Calder stood with the receiver in his hand, looked at it, looked back to me, said, ‘I want you out of here right now… whoever you are, I want you off the premises right now or I’m calling the police.’

I started to chuckle; couldn’t remember putting the shits up another grown man with such ease. ‘Look, Joey Boy, who the fuck do you think you’re kidding? We both know the last person you want round here is plod.’

He lowered the phone, placed the receiver in its cradle. As he did so the door behind me swung open. A borderline obese fifty-something with a Ray Reardon slick came puffing in and nodded breathlessly towards us. ‘Everything okay here, Mr Calder?’ The words came out slowly, gave us all time to think.

‘Erm, no, Mick… actually, I mean, yes… everything’s fine.’

I gave the security guard a tug of the forelock; he backed out the door like a trained spaniel. Knew inside of five he’d be back in his doocot scratching his balls and whistling through his teeth at the high nipple-count in the Star.

I waited for the footsteps to fade from the corridor, let Calder be seated, said, ‘Now then, quite a sorry fucking mess we have here, eh?’

‘I don’t know what you’re referring to at all but-’

I cut him off, slamming hands on the desk. ‘Don’t cunt me around, Joey Boy… or it might just be your scrawny neck in the noose next.’

You get guys with out-there hairstyles, there’s usually a reason for it: mam did them a bowl-cut right through to their teenage years; maybe they got stuck on Bono’s Joshua Tree look, never got over themselves, or woke up to the fact that U2, and Bono especially, were such a bunch of wank that it was actually deeply embarrassing to contemplate. Joe Calder, it suddenly struck me, was wearing his hair long for much simpler reasons – if he didn’t, he’d be the spit of Louis Theroux. He had the selfsame gangly gait, the slightly lost look to the eyes, hiding behind double-glazed glasses that could do with a good wipe. He also had that stalled, almost addled, way of communicating; like a deeply self-conscious teenager who wanted desperately to stay a small child because it had worked so well for him in the wrapping-adults-round-their-little-finger stakes. He was a man-child; guessed he’d been spoon-fed through life. He’d probably came straight to academia from his own schooling and never left because he had found the perfect place to hide. I don’t think I’d ever met a man more deserving of a slap around… Christ Almighty, disguising the look of Louis Theroux with a fucking Michael Bolton hairstyle was seriously call-the- doctor time.

‘Right, Joey Boy… you and me are gonna have a bit of a chat here.’

He fidgeted in his chair; the castors beneath him squeaked. He held schtum. Gave him this: he had marbles, knew when to keep his trap shut. There was nothing he could come up with that was going to dig him out with me. I had him pegged as up to his nuts in Ben Laird’s death and I wasn’t letting up on him. The sheer look of this streak of piss was enough to have me gantin’ for his scalp; fact I had him on the back foot was all a bonus.

I eased back – felt like a leopard with a gazelle – ready to cane some big-time arse. ‘Yeah, make yourself comfortable, Joey… I’ll be taking my time here.’

He got jumpy, arked up, ‘Look, I have plenty to be getting on with… without this.’

I laughed in his face. ‘Trust me, laddo, you’ll have fuck all else to be getting on with for the foreseeable.’ I put the bead on him. Caught his eye; my own was steel, but he blinked and looked away to the bookshelves. Thought to tell him there were no answers there for him; he could keep his learning. Way I was playing it, there was no Dummies guide could help him. I kept it zipped, though, let him squirm a bit, wonder what in the name of fuck I was playing at.

I strolled over to the window, stared out, removed a pack of Rothmans and sparked up. ‘Quite a spot you have here,’ I said. I turned head in time to see Calder shrug. Of course he had no idea how nice a spot this was, he’d known nothing else; slogging in a call centre or wheeling tyres at Kwik Fit wasn’t ever on the cards for this arsewipe. I drew deep on my tab, felt a heavy craving for something a bit stronger. My throat constricted with every twinge of desire. I was suddenly in the ballpark of hallucinations; don’t know where the feeling came from but it welled up in me, sent tremors through my bones. I wanted to shake myself, step outside my body, but there was nowhere to run. I was trapped. My hands started to tremble. I took a nervous glance at Calder – he was staring at his shoes, had seen nothing. The moment had passed off without incident, but I knew there was going to be a time when I wouldn’t be so lucky.

I spat, ‘Is this fucking office dry or what?’

‘I don’t… you mean alcohol?’

‘What do you think? The middle classes not offer their guests a drop?’

He raised himself from the creaky chair, crossed the rugged boards to a little wooden cabinet. ‘I actually don’t drink myself.’

Great surprise indeed. ‘Yeah, well, I do.’

That got me a glower. The balls on him.

The bottle of Glenfiddich was a fair age – had seen the logo updated at least once since it was last on the shelves – but it was still three-quarters full. He poured out two fingers’ worth… Felt the frown creeping up my face. ‘Jesus, wet the glass, would you!’

He poured in some more, smirked. If he thought this was the moral high ground he’d been clambering for, he was sorely mistaken. I was here to talk about a young lad’s death… not my predilections and peccadilloes.

I grabbed the glass, said, ‘Cop on, Joey… it’s not me on trial.’

‘I don’t believe I am either.’

I slugged deep. ‘Yeah well, not yet anyway.’