I rose, walked to the other end of the cell. My head hurt with the possibilities. I couldn’t fathom what Fitz was telling me. Somehow my thought processes had seized up.
‘Don’t you fucking get it yet?’ said Fitz.
I flagged him quiet. ‘I get it. I get it.’
‘Johnstone and McAvoy have been taking Rab’s cash for months, years even, but this is a whole other payday for them.’
My cigarette had burnt down to the filter. A long grey slew of ash fell to the floor. I dropped the filter after it. ‘They’re working me to get Mark Crawford off the hook.’
Fitz slapped his palms on his heavy thighs, stood up to face me in the narrow cell. As I looked at him I didn’t know where my mind was. I felt lost in some rage, some bitterness, some misdirected hatred… He was nearest to hand, so copping for all of it.
Fitz spoke, ‘I did my best for you, Dury.’
Still he played me. ‘Anything you did for me, Fitz, was either to put the boot into McAvoy and Jonny Boy or to keep me from blowing the whistle on how you came by some of your previous collars, so don’t come acting the big benevolent with me. You’re filth, like the fucking rest of them.’
He straightened himself, pulled at the belt loops on his trousers and fastened his coat. His face flushed red, the whites of his eyes glowing with rage. He held out a hand for the cigarette packet. ‘Come on, then, get that over. I’ll be on my way.’
As he walked to the cell door, Fitz turned briskly. ‘One more thing, Dury…’
‘What?’
‘That’s us even.’
‘Fuck off, Fitz.’
‘No way, laddie. I want to hear you say it.’
I walked over to him, said, ‘We will never be even, Fitz… but if it makes you feel better, we’ll call it quits.’
As he walked out of the cell, he spoke in a near whisper: ‘And you are well and truly on your own now, boyo.’
Chapter 50
Mcavoy favoured an early start.
Lights flashed on; must have been all of six in the a.m.
He came in battering a steel tray with the heel of his hand. ‘Rise and shine, cocksucker,’ he yelled. Leaned in close to my ear, added, ‘Today’s judgement day.’ A laugh. Uproarious. The full demoniac head-tilt to follow.
Was I rattled? Past caring? I couldn’t judge.
Flung my legs over the side of the bunk. Too slow for some: a pug in uniform grabbed my shirt, led me to the interview room.
McAvoy sat, crossed his legs. His socks caught my eye — black with red and green argyle diamonds down the sides. His hair seemed to be carefully gelled into place, but no amount of combing was going to disguise the bald patch.
As I took my chair, McAvoy pulled the cuffs of his shirt beyond the limits of his jacket. The cuffs, white like the collar, were fastened by black onyx links; gold arrows pointed at me from each of them. I’d seen them somewhere before, those arrows… Oh yeah — on the old prison uniforms.
McAvoy twiddled with the cufflinks, smiled like a car salesman. ‘Here we all are again,’ he said.
‘The gang’s all here.’ A pack of smokes, John Player Specials, sat between us. I reached out for them. From nowhere the pug slammed down his hand, crushed the smokes underneath his giant mitt. I looked at him, said, ‘Little jumpy, are we?’
McAvoy laughed. ‘Oh, Dury, you kill me. You really do.’
Wanted to say, I’d fucking like to. Somehow thought it wouldn’t quite fit the situation; went with, ‘You know, you crack me up too.’
The pug retreated. McAvoy took the packet of tabs, removed the cellophane, smoothed out the crushed edges. He opened the top on the cigarettes, pinged the base until two or three tabs popped up, offered me one.
I accepted. Put it in my mouth. ‘How about a light?’
‘Sure, sure.’ He leaned back, ferreted in his jacket pocket, produced a silver, soft-touch lighter. Flame shot up about an inch high.
This was going too well. I felt unsettled. That was the aim, right? I tried to focus. Remembered I had right on my side. Of course I’d done wrong, many times, but not this time. This time I was in the right. It would take a hell of a lot more than placing me at the scene of the crime with a dodgy motive to get me put away for a man’s murder
… wouldn’t it?
McAvoy watched me, curiously. Let me get halfway down the tab, then spoke: ‘You get about, Dury.’
‘You mean the Gibby thing… Not gonna try hanging that on me too, are you?’
A smile. Wry one, maybe. ‘No, definitely not. We have that little, ahem, incident tidied up already.’
‘Clean-cut, was it?’
A laugh. ‘Let’s say we got an early lead on it.’
‘Wonders never cease.’
McAvoy sighed, weary of me already. He leaned in. ‘Your involvement is still something of a mystery, but I’ve bigger plans for you, Dury.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Have ye now.’
Didn’t register a hit. He reached below the desk, took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. He shuffled them a while. Hummed, hawed. Pointed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, then, ‘Ah, here we are. Now to other matters.’
He placed two sheets of paper before me. Both held graphs: identical red lines highlighted on each of the two pages. McAvoy peered at them, twiddled with his cufflinks again, made sure they were on show. Said, ‘Why don’t you take a look at those, Dury? A close look.’
I picked up the pages. They were fingerprint analyses; seemed to indicate a match for the two. ‘Okay, you have two charts, matching prints for something,’ I said.
McAvoy looked pleased. Too pleased. He smiled, almost giggled, leaned forward. He removed a silver pen from his top pocket, pointed, said, ‘Now, see here… where the two red lines peak?’
I nodded.
‘That’s a definite match — one hundred per cent — that can’t be faked.’
I drew on my tab.
He pointed with the pen again. ‘And here… and here… and here… and here.’ He kept pointing to similar peaks and troughs on the two charts.
I cut him off, ‘You’ve made your point.’
‘Have I? Have I really?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
He looked at the pug, smiled. The pug smirked back like an inbred farmer’s son who’d just received a pat on the back for fucking his first sheep. ‘Are you sure you understand, Dury? I mean really understand?’
I stubbed my tab. Leaned across my side of the desk, blew out the last of my smoky breath in his face as I spoke. ‘You have my fingerprint from the murder scene.’
McAvoy’s face changed shape, and colour. His brows drooped. He said nothing, sat back and waited for me to speak.
I said, ‘I’m guessing you found this on Moosey’s wallet.’
McAvoy was speechless. I wanted to plug his mouth. He checked to see the tape was running as I spoke. I wondered what his pulse rate was sitting at. He was as psyched as a Formula One driver in the pits, raring to
