‘You see much of Amy these days?’ I asked. Amy had been a trainee reporter of mine back in the day, till she got ideas about practising a little more than shorthand with me… on the company’s time. She’d been punted, then resurfaced with a passion to pick up where she’d left off. But Hod had got keen on her and saved me the trouble of holding her at bay.
‘Amy?… Not in months. Why ask?’
‘Well, last I heard she was a student.’
‘Yeah… at the uni,’ said Hod. He took his hands out his pockets, pointed at me. ‘You thinking what I think you’re thinking?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Honey trap?’
I had to laugh. What was this, espionage? ‘Shit no, man. I was thinking she might be able to do a bit of groundwork, maybe sniff out the word around campus.’
Hod shook his head. ‘I don’t know…’
‘What?’ I was scoobied. This was a perfect opportunity to make an in, both for the case and for him.
Hod turned down his lip, showing his bottom row of teeth. ‘Do you remember the state she was in last time round?’
She’d went overboard, got herself a pole-dancing gig at a strip joint in the Pubic Triangle, ended up with some cell time and a threat of prostitution charges from plod. Hod was right about one thing: we didn’t want a repeat of that. But she was a smart girl; surely she’d have matured a bit in the intervening years. And this was small-time. I mean, how risky could it be for her to go shake down a few plooky students?
‘That was a different matter entirely, Hod.’
He looked away. ‘If you say so.’
‘What, you don’t? You think I’d put her in any danger?’
He shrugged. Set wide eyes on me. I got the message, loud and clear. Perhaps he was right – women like Amy always complicate matters. I had another idea to get to the facts, but it was a longer shot. Letting him think I was playing safe, said, ‘Okay, maybe we’ll put Amy on the bench for now.’
He seemed genuinely pleased. ‘Good, I think that’s for the best.’ Could tell he was still keen on the girl; another complication I could do without.
As I put my tab under the sole of my Doc Marten, white-van man screeched into the street at speed. It was Mac.
‘This our wheels?’ Was a Bedford Midi, white, but wearing almost as much rust. ‘Jesus Christ…’
Mac leaned out the window. ‘Your chariot awaits.’
We looked at him, said nowt. Took the sliding door and got in. Mac gunned it, Hod and I rolled onto our sides in the back.
‘Mac, cool the fucking beans, eh,’ shouted Hod.
‘Aye, okay, okay… It’s a bit jumpy in the low gears. Needs a servicing.’
‘Don’t we fucking all… but just keep the heid, eh.’ Hod brushed dust from his coatsleeve. ‘So, you were saying…’
‘What we want is an inside track.’
‘Come again?’
‘Some way of getting amongst the students and fishing out what the word is.’
‘Well, we’re both a bit long in the tooth for that gig. Don’t think we’d even pull off the mature student act.’
Mac shouted back to us, ‘What the fuck are you pair jabbering about?’
‘A job.’
‘What?’
‘We’re on a job… at the university.’
Mac laughed it up. ‘Only job you pair of widos will find at the university will be as fucking jannies!’
Hod’s eyes beamed, a smile split his face. ‘I think he’s onto something.’
Got my vote. Said, ‘Maybe you’re right.’
Chapter 7
GOT OFF THE BUS AT North Bridge. Had managed two steps before some skanky yoof with a lip piercing started to seriously agg me, walking backwards waving fliers for a comedy gig. Got to love Festival time. I tried to walk around him, went left, then right. Wasn’t happening. Skinny jeans and Converse All Stars working overtime to keep up.
‘What’s your comedy passion, geezer?’
Did he just call me geezer? ‘Comedy passion… Go away and find sense, lad.’
Undeterred: ‘You look like a serious man. Political satire, I’m guessing?’
‘What’s that… Harpo Marx?’
Still undeterred, those matchstick legs doubled their pace. He wasn’t giving up. But he was new to this patter, I had that sussed early on. Turning my stride towards the edge of the pavement, I subtly steered Student Grant at the pile of cardboard boxes outside Argos. His legs actually managed to fly in the air at the same time as he hit them. His arse thudded into the boxes like an anvil falling on Wile E. Coyote. Managed a laugh; almost felt grateful to him for that. Not grateful enough to help him pick up the fliers that floated into the gutter though.
At the uni I had a deep sense of unease; felt ready to go off like a ten-bob rocket. Had already had enough of the type of brat who frequented this joint. Was relieved beyond words to see the place virtually empty. I fronted a tabard-wearing old girl with a mop. ‘Hello, there…’
World-weary eyes rolled skyward. ‘Aye?’
‘I was wondering, who’s running the show right now? Looks like the
Didn’t register. I got pointed to the stairs, ‘Office is up there, might find some folk knocking about… Might no’, mind.’
I thanked her, gave a grateful nod, went for the stairs. I could feel the alcohol oozing through my pores. There was a cold sweat rising on my brow and an icicle forming on my spine. I knew it was time for a heart-starter, blast on the Grouse to melt the frost; knew that was an unlikely shout for the foreseeable. My stomach griped, threatened to start greetin’. I clenched fists in my pockets and tried to stamp the craving out on the marble steps. At the top landing I headed for the door. The office was empty save some tweedy Morningside lady with a teapot, mid-pour. Said, ‘Hello there.’
The biddy looked startled. The spout trembled; some tea escaped onto the saucer. ‘Oh, dear, dear.’ She started to move some papers away from the spreading spill.
I walked over, gave her a hand. She pressed out a weak smile, showing some yellowed teeth. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’m looking for Mr Calder.’
‘Oh yes… he’s in today.’
Playing it cool: ‘He is. Grand.’
She took a box of man-size tissues from a desk drawer. ‘He’s been in the whole time. Pretty much gave up his vacation since the, well, y’know…’
I watched her mop up the tea. ‘Since the…?’
‘Incident.’ She spoke sharply, I missed all intonation. Thought: Pity – would like to have noted that.
‘You mean the Ben Laird… incident.’
She straightened her back, eyed me full-on. ‘Yes.’ She walked away with the pile of wet tissues, dropped them in a bin on the other side of the desk, said, ‘If you’re looking for Joe, he’s in his office.’ A hand went onto her hip. She pointed to the door, continued, ‘Down the corridor, second door on the left… His name’s on the front.’
I smiled, thanked her. Something about her manner, about the way she dismissed Ben’s death as no more than an
