again, thought I was a route to some action. Truth told, I was glad of the help. He’d jumped at the chance to track down the Crawfords for me, do some snooping.
There was a CD being pumped out in the cafe, Lennon covers by contemporary artists. I caught the first one on the way in — Lenny Kravitz doing ‘Cold Turkey’… Not for the first time, I thought. U2 had grabbed ‘Instant Karma!’ by the bollocks; sounded painful. Now the Black Eyed Peas were murdering ‘Power to the People’.
I’d had enough. Muttered, ‘Is nothing sacred any more?’
‘Dream the fuck on.’ It was Hod.
‘What’s that on your face?’
‘Trying for a beard. I hear it looks distinguished.’
‘Dishevelled more like.’
He took that where it was intended, on the chin; changed subject. ‘I’ve checked out the Crawfords. They’ve got a place on Ann Street.’
I knew it well — on the edge of Stockbridge; the pretentious called it New Town.
‘Good for them.’
‘Did you know they had another kid?’
I didn’t. But it interested me no end when he spilled the details before me. The Crawfords had a lad about the same age as the yobs on the hill. Hod had pictures on his camera phone. Showed me a skelf of a youth. They were poor quality.
‘I can’t place him. They all look alike these days,’ I said.
‘Yeah, fucking Bay City Rollers rejects. Look at that hair: it’s in a side-sweep.’
He wasn’t wrong. ‘It’s the fashion.’
‘Y’what? The fashion’s to look like Archie fucking Macpherson?’
‘Would you prefer Arthur Montford and those jackets?’
We laughed it up.
Hod said, ‘You don’t think our boyo there could be one of those yobs off the hill.’
I looked closer. ‘Well, he’s in the right gear.’
‘It doesn’t make sense, though, y’know…’ Hod brushed at the stubble on his chin, turned away to look out the window. ‘Him coming from a good family.’
There were more tourists passing by.
‘Does anything make sense, ever?’
He didn’t answer me. I knew where he was coming from. This kid was up to no fucking good.
Hod spoke, got agitated, brought down his finger on the tabletop. The salt-shaker trembled. ‘The guy who we’re told was responsible for killing this kid’s sister turns up gutted like a fish and he’s maybe yards away on the night in question… Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
I looked at him, shook my head. ‘I’m thinking the beard’s not gonna work, Hod.’
He stood up. ‘Fuck off. Ready to rumble?’
I took out my mobi. ‘Can you put those pictures on my phone? They might be useful.’
‘Sure — I’ll Bluetooth it.’
‘Yeah, whatever… Here it is. Do your stuff.’
Hod fiddled with the settings, sent the pictures, then we got moving. At the door he turned. ‘One more thing… Joseph Crawford, the kid’s father, he was a lawyer.’
‘ Was a lawyer?’
‘He’s a judge now.’
‘You mean we’re about to doorstep a judge?’
‘Thought it worth mentioning.’
They say Ann Street was the Queen Mum’s favourite street in Edinburgh. When she was on her way to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, so the story goes, she would always ask her chauffeur to make a detour down Ann Street. She loved the Georgian splendour of the architecture; reminded her of a bygone era. I could do without it myself. Reminded me of what had always been wrong with this city and the country in general — the haves having far too fucking much at the expense of the have-nots.
I checked out the Crawfords’ place — a carefully manicured lawn and, what was that, topiary? I shuddered at the thought. Their one concession to conspicuous parading of their wealth, however, was a silver-grey 5 Series Beemer, just pulling in. A 5 Series says one thing: ‘still on the up’. Not quite a 7 Series; that says ‘I’ve arrived’. A car like this, you have a ways to go. Gave me some room to negotiate.
‘That him?’ I asked, pointing to the bloke getting out the driver’s door.
Small, thin, a black suit and brown shoes — eccentric, or another new fashion I’d missed? Either way, I didn’t like the look.
‘He’s our man,’ said Hod.
We walked over, there’s a phrase — calm as you like. Hod firmed his features, had his patter all planned out. ‘Mr Crawford?’
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Joseph Crawford?’
‘Yes, what is this?’ He flustered real easy; the distance between his brows and his rapidly receding hairline shrank fast.
Hod worked him, took out a little notebook, opened up, tested the spine, said, ‘You are the father of one Mark Crawford, an employee of the Royal Bank on Nicolson Street… Both of you reside here at number-’
The judge butted in, set his briefcase down on the road. ‘Look, what the hell is this? I demand to know.’
I intervened, crossed the distance between Hod and the man, said, ‘I don’t think we want to set any curtains twitching. We should go inside.’
He looked over my shoulder, checked all the curtains were still in place, raised his briefcase. ‘What? Who are you?’
‘You lost a child some years ago, didn’t you?’ His complexion changed. I went on, ‘I believe a man called Fulton was in the frame. He’s been killed.’
The judge’s brow glistened. ‘I don’t see how that concerns me.’
I had the words ready but Hod jumped in first. ‘Look, your son was spotted at the murder scene.’
Subtle as fucking ever; Hod could give Alf Garnett lessons. I took over. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but I think that it might be best if we go inside, Mr Crawford.’
The front door was immaculately painted in cornflower blue, the window showing a Charles Rennie Mackintosh-style scene in stained glass. The judge turned the key in the lock, prised open the door. Inside I heard loud, repetitive dance music. Christ, have kids today no ear for a tune?
The carpet covered only three-quarters of the hallway; at the edges were polished boards. There was a time when this look spelled poverty — fitted carpets were a luxury — now it reeked of trendiness and ersatz nostalgia. The judge put his briefcase on the hallstand, dropped the keys of the Beemer in a little brass tray.
‘Shall we?’ He motioned to a door.
In the living room our yoof sat sprawled on a green chesterfield, feet up on the arm, reading a copy of Viz. The judge ran in and slapped down his feet, yelled, ‘Get that bloody garbage turned off!’
I recognised him at once as one of the yobs from the hill. Every fibre of me wailed ‘Boot his balls into his neck’. I fought an urge to drag him from the couch and set about his head with fists. I looked at Hod, expected an acknowledgement, but he was too busy eyeing the cornicing, running calculations in his head. Old habits die hard: once a property speculator…
The wee prick tried to speak: ‘I was listening to that-’
‘Shut up,’ said his father.
As the lad turned he saw myself and Hod in his home and firmed his jaw as if he was ready for a fight.
‘Hello, Mark,’ I said. I gave him a couple of nods in quick succession, as if to confirm the thoughts running through his head. ‘.. We meet again.’
‘You know these men?’ said his father.
Mark Crawford was frozen to the spot, trapped by the instinct to have a pop at me and the need to stay calm in front of his father. The power of speech deserted him. Where he held on to his comic his knuckles turned white. I thought he might lose it any minute.
