Mac huffed, shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, rattled his change. It was a practised ‘bollocks to you’ look. Served him well.
I followed Fitz for a few steps then spun him. ‘What the fuck are you playing at, man?’
He was indignant, eyebrows shot up. ‘What am I playing at? Jaysus, Holy Mother of God… I told ye, Dury, to leave this investigation to the force.’
I squared my shoulders. ‘You told me it was a fucking mugging.’
‘Yes, yes… and all evidence points to that. This is procedure, Dury, procedure.’
He had no right to be so rattled. He hadn’t lost a brother. Where was this coming from?
I jutted my head forward. ‘What’s your angle here, Fitz?’
‘Y’what?’
‘You’re not coming down here’ — I flicked his lapels — ‘in the good bag of fruit to talk procedure with Davie Prentice.’
Fitz’s mouth drooped, a thin line of saliva stretched between upper and lower lips. He looked scoobied. ‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing.’
‘You want me to put it in writing?’ The drugs had me racing through the gears; I needed Fitz more than he needed me but I was too rattled. ‘Draw you a picture?… I dunno, interpretation through the medium of fucking dance?’
Fitz closed his jacket, fastened the buttons. ‘Go home, Dury.’
‘Fuck off… mate.’
His voice was low, flat. ‘I mean it, go home. Get some rest. We’ll talk another time.’
‘We will that.’ I pointed at him. ‘Mugging my arsehole.’
I watched him get in the car, drive away.
As I turned to the building I saw fat Davie at a window. He clocked me and ducked inside.
‘What d’ye make of that?’ I said to Mac.
Mac shrugged his shoulders, removed his hands from his pockets. ‘I never trust the filth, me. Asking the wrong bloke.’
‘But did you see the way he was with fat Davie… all pally?’
‘Aye, I got that impression — the auld pals act.’
I turned for the door, the speed ramping in me, stormed past Mac. ‘I’m gonna burst him.’
I got about two steps before I was grabbed. ‘Calm it, eh.’
‘Y’what?’
‘Gus, just turn it down a bit. You don’t want to be going in there guns blazing, you’ll get fuck all that way.’
I knew he was right, I needed to watch my mouth. I was getting agitated; the anger I felt was hard to control, though. ‘Okay. Okay. You lead the way.’
Davie had disappeared from the window. As we went through the front doors I was overcome by the shoddiness of the set-up. Cheap carpet tiles on the floor, budget emulsion on the walls, institutional magnolia at that. I’d always imagined the place my brother earned such a good living from to be a classier affair altogether. I was wrong. It was designed with a purpose in mind, and the purpose wasn’t comfort, it was graft.
A pretty blonde girl on the reception desk piped up. Polish or something, a definite Eastern European — there were still stacks in the city despite the papers insisting they were all headed home since the economy nosedived. I imagined the ones that were left got a pretty hard time from the native troglodytes — in the seventies they all shaved their heads and chanted jingoistic slogans; now they were harder to spot, but I’d bet no fewer in number.
Mac nudged me, whispered, ‘Wouldn’t mind going a few rounds wi’ that!’
I shoved him away, went for warmth: ‘Hello there, can you tell your boss I’d like a word, please?’
‘That would be Mr Prentice. Do you have an appointment?’
‘No. I’ve no appointment… I think he’ll see me, though. I’m Michael Dury’s brother. We just, er, spoke.’
‘One moment.’
She picked up the phone — one of the old BT jobs, must have been a few years old. I didn’t think I’d see one of those again; this place was in a time warp.
‘Yes, if you follow the red tape.’
‘Follow the what?’
‘The tape, Gus,’ said Mac. He pointed to the floor. Where the carpet ended there was a lino-covered floor, two thick strips of tape running side by side along the edge, one yellow, one red. ‘You never worked in a factory? It’s how they get about.’
I looked over. ‘It’s like The Wizard of Oz.’
‘Come on, we’re still a long way from Kansas.’
The tape led us through the shop floor. It wasn’t what you’d call heavy industry. Couple of assembly lines, lots of people in starched white dustcoats packing boxes. Occasional forklift. Radio playing ‘Eye of the Tiger’.
Mac tapped my arm. ‘You remember this?… Rocky, innit?’
‘Got that right.’
He curled his lower lip. ‘Ain’t gonna be no rematch.’
As we walked I caught sight of a familiar face: it was Vilem, the one Jayne had described as ‘the lodger’. He was on the line, but didn’t look to be grafting. There was a group of dustcoats around him but Vilem was in full flow, barking orders. He caught me staring and stopped, mid-blast, then crept away with that limp of his. I saw him remove a mobi from his pocket and press it to his ear.
‘Watch out,’ said Mac. A forklift forced us into the wall. We got pelters in a foreign tongue from the driver, who pointed to the floor.
Mac was none too pleased, looked set to lamp him. This time I hosed him down: ‘Think he wants us to stay behind the line,’ I said.
‘He should have fucking said that then.’
‘He did… in Russian or something.’ As I spoke I saw Vilem disappear from the line; I turned head.
‘There any Scottish folk in here?’
‘Oh, aye,’ I nodded up the corridor, ‘here’s one now.’
Davie stood outside his office, waiting for us. For a man in his mid-to-late forties, he wasn’t wearing well. Pot belly, ruddy lardass complexion and the classic sloping shoulders of the desk-jockey. He did himself no favours in the style stakes either: an unruly side-sweep like Bobby De Niro in The King of Comedy and thick square-framed glasses that I hadn’t seen since Frank Carson was last on the telly. He wore a striped shirt, frayed at the collar, and a too-wide-to-be-trendy tie that looked as if it had been cut from the tablecloth in a greasy-spoon caff.
‘Yes, gentlemen, what can I do for you?’ he said, smiling — fucking optimistically, I thought.
I walked past him through the doorway.
Mac said, ‘Get inside.’
Davie stepped back into his office, Mac shut the door behind him. A large window faced out onto the shop floor. Venetian blinds were tied up: Mac lowered them, blocking out the view.
‘Is that really necessary?’ said Davie. He smiled, tried to appear relaxed. He was convincing, I’ll give him that.
Mac said nothing, stood with his hands behind his back, played pug.
I answered for him: ‘Now, you tell me, Davie, is it necessary? Suppose that depends on whether you have something to hide.’
He creased his nose and I noticed something about fat Davie I hadn’t until now: he had a tache. It was a completely different colour from his barnet, much lighter, and it sat above his mouth like an anaemic slug. I’d never seen a mouth more inviting of a punch. He said, ‘I’ve nothing to hide, why would I have anything to hide?’
I took out my Marlboros, sparked up. A chair sat beside the wall. I nodded to Mac and he dragged it into the middle of the floor, manhandled fat Davie into it. ‘Is there any need for this?’ he barked.
‘Need for what, Davie?’
‘This… this rough stuff.’
Mac laughed, shot him a sideways glance.
‘Rough stuff, Davie? We haven’t even got started yet.’
