that there would be no more visits from Shaky’s pugs. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, a promise I could keep. Well, not for certain, but I was working on it. After my chat with Fitz, I had a fair idea of what I needed to do to flush out Ben’s killer. It was risky, but then, doing nothing was risky too. If I left things to progress at the pace they had done, Danny Gemmill was going to get jumpy, and I couldn’t risk upsetting Shaky. Fitz too was raking up all kinds of shit with the Craft, driven by his maniacal ambition and an arrogant belief that he could protect his nephew. He wasn’t bulletproof. The time when I thought of Fitz as merely filth had passed through; I didn’t want to see him get any deeper in the shit than he already was.
Everything hinged on my keeping the head, staying sober, together. I needed to find Ben Laird’s killer quickly. His mother had waited long enough. I got out my mobi, located Gillian’s number in the contacts.
Ringing.
‘Hello?’
It was Tina – know those rough tones anywhere.
‘Hello, it’s Gus Dury.’ I let that hang there. Had an idea it niggled her, maybe more than she could afford to let on.
‘Aye… and?’ She was rough all right: this was one Leith hingoot who had come a long way. Had to give her credit for that.
‘And… I’d like to speak to Gillian… if that’s okay with you, Tina.’
A huff. She made the kind of tells a teenage girl did; she hadn’t progressed beyond that level in many ways. Thought about telling her to watch that – it would be her undoing – but let it slide. Like I gave a fuck if she bollixed up the good wicket that she was on.
‘And what if I dinnae want you to speak to her?’
I riled, clamped it down. ‘Tina, I’m not looking for your approbation.’
She was thrown, sparked up, ‘You think yer smart, don’t you? Well, let me tell you, Gillian might no’ be wise to you yet but I fucking well am.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Aye… it is.’
She played to type, but I knew how to deal with her. ‘And where have you suddenly caught wisdom, Tina? Cop on, lass… go get your master.’
She slammed down the phone. It sounded as though it fell off the table; heard it swinging on the cord and battering off the wall again and again. Made me smile – I’d got to her. Thought: Daft sow.
A few seconds passed, then I heard high heels clacking on hard tiled flooring.
‘Hello.’
‘Gillian, hello… it’s Gus.’
‘What did you say to Tina?’
I winced. The girl had some plays after all. ‘I, eh, you know how she is about me.’
‘Look, let’s get something straight, Mr Dury, I’m not paying you to upset my partner.’
I took it on the chin, although where that dippit cow Tina was concerned, it was more like a crush of the nuts. ‘I think we understand each other.’
A curt, clipped, RADA-esque reply: ‘Good.’
I held my impatience in check, bit on my lip before I spoke again. ‘There have been some… developments.’
A sombre tone returned to Gillian’s voice; maybe she remembered how much she needed me. ‘I see… What kind of developments?’
I dropped in some dark tones: ‘I think I should speak to you in person. Can I pay you a visit?’
Gillian inhaled sharply. ‘What’s happened?’ She was anxious now for news.
‘Nothing… yet.’ I drew the conversation back on course. ‘Can we meet today, say noon?’
She seemed to be considering the question for a few moments, or maybe her mind was blinking. Suddenly: ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ I imagined her looking at Tina as she spoke, the tramp shaking her head.
‘And do you think you could invite young Paul along?’
This changed her tone yet again. ‘Paul?… What for?’
I played it cool but right down the middle. ‘Paul has some questions to answer.’
‘What about?’
‘Gillian… I’m investigating a murder, this is what I do. If I want to ask anyone questions, you can be sure they have answers I need.’ I turned it up: ‘Can you get Paul?’
‘Of course, yes… I’ll invite him round.’
‘Good, Gillian. I’ll see you about noon.’
I clicked off.
Hod had followed my side of the conversation from the kitchen doorway. Now he walked in, said, ‘We on the move?’
I thought again of Tina eavesdropping. ‘Your mother never tell you what happens to people who listen at open doors?’
‘What’s that?’
‘They never hear any good of themselves.’
The bin men were holding the city to ransom again. Could always be guaranteed they’d strike when the place needed them most. They were cunning bastards. But what a union they must have – fair fucks to that lot. At Festival time, Edinburgh is submerged in a sea of styrofoam kebab boxes, Maccy D’s wrappers and Starfucks cups. Add to this the greasy Home Counties crusties that can’t find any kip when they’re up to watch Tarquin in his first stand-up gig, and the place can look like a tip.
We drove up the Mile. Bins were piled to overflowing on the tourist thoroughfare. The scaffies had refused to take on the extra work associated with this time of year and the waste was mounting up. Foxes and seagulls had well and truly got stuck in to the muck. The cobbles were strewn with the evidence.
‘This is some fucking shape to show the place off at Festival time,’ I said.
Hod steered around a pile of black bags that had been kicked into the road. ‘Bloody bin men… lazy fuckers. Can be guaranteed: any big gig in this toon and they’re out on strike.’
He was right. ‘Cos they get what they want. Wait till the big Hogmanay bash, world’s eyes on Edinburgh – that’ll be the next strike.’
Much as I was loath to admit it, we needed more like the bin men. Maybe then the ruling classes and their offspring like Ben Laird might be held a bit more in check; shake off some of their more fanciful ideas about dominating the proles. It was all a sorry state of affairs.
As we drove through the city, I scanned the
‘Christ above… globalisation’s got a lot to answer for.’
‘Come again?’
‘No never.’
When we got to Palmerston Place, Hod started to watch his driving, easing the van into Gillian’s street as though he was carting nitro. When he parked up he smoothed out his shirt collar, tightened his tie in the rear-view mirror. Even managed to put a wet fingertip over his eyebrow. Would have thought he had a date.
‘Quite content?’ I said.
He looked me over, said, ‘One of us has got to think about appearances.’
I took that on the chin, got out and made for the front door. I brushed at the shoulder of my tweed as we went – didn’t seem to make much difference. I looked as crumpled as a paper bag.
We were shown through to the front room with the usual icy familiarity. Tina was already positioned by the drinks cabinet, pouring herself a large J &B. She had a cigarette burning in an ashtray which was overflowing with dowps.
‘Hello, Tina,’ I said.
She slit eyes at me. Thought she might swear out an insult but she held it together, merely sneered and raised a bony digit to me. Her pink fingernail had been chipped. There was no sign of Paul, but Gillian made her entrance from the French doors in her usual dramatic fashion, as if she was taking a curtain call.
