Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) Page 5

  I started to chuckle; couldn’t remember putting the shits up another grown man with such ease. ‘Look, Joey Boy, who the fuck do you think you’re kidding? We both know the last person you want round here is plod.’

  He lowered the phone, placed the receiver in its cradle. As he did so the door behind me swung open. A borderline obese fifty-something with a Ray Reardon slick came puffing in and nodded breathlessly towards us. ‘Everything okay here, Mr Calder?’ The words came out slowly, gave us all time to think.

  ‘Erm, no, Mick … actually, I mean, yes … everything’s fine.’

  I gave the security guard a tug of the forelock; he backed out the door like a trained spaniel. Knew inside of five he’d be back in his doocot scratching his balls and whistling through his teeth at the high nipple-count in the Star.

  I waited for the footsteps to fade from the corridor, let Calder be seated, said, ‘Now then, quite a sorry fucking mess we have here, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re referring to at all but—’

  I cut him off, slamming hands on the desk. ‘Don’t cunt me around, Joey Boy … or it might just be your scrawny neck in the noose next.’

  You get guys with out-there hairstyles, there’s usually a reason for it: mam did them a bowl-cut right through to their teenage years; maybe they got stuck on Bono’s Joshua Tree look, never got over themselves, or woke up to the fact that U2, and Bono especially, were such a bunch of wank that it was actually deeply embarrassing to contemplate. Joe Calder, it suddenly struck me, was wearing his hair long for much simpler reasons – if he didn’t, he’d be the spit of Louis Theroux. He had the selfsame gangly gait, the slightly lost look to the eyes, hiding behind double-glazed glasses that could do with a good wipe. He also had that stalled, almost addled, way of communicating; like a deeply self-conscious teenager who wanted desperately to stay a small child because it had worked so well for him in the wrapping-adults-round-their-little-finger stakes. He was a man-child; guessed he’d been spoon-fed through life. He’d probably came straight to academia from his own schooling and never left because he had found the perfect place to hide. I don’t think I’d ever met a man more deserving of a slap around … Christ Almighty, disguising the look of Louis Theroux with a fucking Michael Bolton hairstyle was seriously call-the-doctor time.

  ‘Right, Joey Boy … you and me are gonna have a bit of a chat here.’

  He fidgeted in his chair; the castors beneath him squeaked. He held schtum. Gave him this: he had marbles, knew when to keep his trap shut. There was nothing he could come up with that was going to dig him out with me. I had him pegged as up to his nuts in Ben Laird’s death and I wasn’t letting up on him. The sheer look of this streak of piss was enough to have me gantin’ for his scalp; fact I had him on the back foot was all a bonus.

  I eased back – felt like a leopard with a gazelle – ready to cane some big-time arse. ‘Yeah, make yourself comfortable, Joey … I’ll be taking my time here.’

  He got jumpy, arked up, ‘Look, I have plenty to be getting on with … without this.’

  I laughed in his face. ‘Trust me, laddo, you’ll have fuck all else to be getting on with for the foreseeable.’ I put the bead on him. Caught his eye; my own was steel, but he blinked and looked away to the bookshelves. Thought to tell him there were no answers there for him; he could keep his learning. Way I was playing it, there was no Dummies guide could help him. I kept it zipped, though, let him squirm a bit, wonder what in the name of fuck I was playing at.

  I strolled over to the window, stared out, removed a pack of Rothmans and sparked up. ‘Quite a spot you have here,’ I said. I turned head in time to see Calder shrug. Of course he had no idea how nice a spot this was, he’d known nothing else; slogging in a call centre or wheeling tyres at Kwik Fit wasn’t ever on the cards for this arsewipe. I drew deep on my tab, felt a heavy craving for something a bit stronger. My throat constricted with every twinge of desire. I was suddenly in the ballpark of hallucinations; don’t know where the feeling came from but it welled up in me, sent tremors through my bones. I wanted to shake myself, step outside my body, but there was nowhere to run. I was trapped. My hands started to tremble. I took a nervous glance at Calder – he was staring at his shoes, had seen nothing. The moment had passed off without incident, but I knew there was going to be a time when I wouldn’t be so lucky.

  I spat, ‘Is this fucking office dry or what?’

  ‘I don’t … you mean alcohol?’

  ‘What do you think? The middle classes not offer their guests a drop?’

  He raised himself from the creaky chair, crossed the rugged boards to a little wooden cabinet. ‘I actually don’t drink myself.’

  Great surprise indeed. ‘Yeah, well, I do.’

  That got me a glower. The balls on him.

  The bottle of Glenfiddich was a fair age – had seen the logo updated at least once since it was last on the shelves – but it was still three-quarters full. He poured out two fingers’ worth … Felt the frown creeping up my face. ‘Jesus, wet the glass, would you!’

  He poured in some more, smirked. If he thought this was the moral high ground he’d been clambering for, he was sorely mistaken. I was here to talk about a young lad’s death … not my predilections and peccadilloes.

  I grabbed the glass, said, ‘Cop on, Joey … it’s not me on trial.’

  ‘I don’t believe I am either.’

  I slugged deep. ‘Yeah well, not yet anyway.’

  Pushing past him, I went over to the cabinet and retrieved the bottle to top up my glass. I was a bit overenthusiastic: my hand trembled as the whisky reached the brim and tipped over. I clawed it back, took a good pelt and prodded Louis Bolton back to his chair. He was far too malleable; even in my condition I could see this. There was no way I should be pushing him about so easily. It unsettled me. He was hiding something, deffo. Only the guy’s social skills were so sub-Rain Man that he didn’t know how to conceal it. He was conforming to type: the real world was out there, beyond the quadrangle … not somewhere Joey Boy often set foot. This was either going to be very easy, or next door to impossible. I knew if I pushed this loser too hard that he was going to cave, completely fold on me, and that would be it: no more from him.

  The whisky settled my cravings, put my gut back a notch or two on the cement-mixer setting it had adopted earlier. I was functioning. Yep, that was the word, heard it all the time, I was a functioning alcoholic. Only, I knew it. I figured those jakeys on the street didn’t have a scooby the nick they were in; I had that going for me, I had the nous to know I was fucked. F. Scott Fitzgerald described a first-rate intelligence as the ability to keep two seemingly opposed thoughts in your head at the same time; never really sussed what he meant, until now. By God, I knew there were conflicting emotions and thoughts flying around inside me: I had the case to be getting on with, Hod to be dragged from the shit, and my insides crying to be put out of their misery, finished off … and, also in the pot, the deep knowledge that something wasn’t right here. That there were people, people I didn’t like much, covering up.

  I had no pretensions to a first-rate intelligence as Fitzgerald described it – fuck, if I did, I wouldn’t be in this kip – but I knew where he was coming from. I screwed the nut, tight.

  ‘Okay, Joe, let’s start in the low gears, eh?’

  His eyes widened. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘I think the phrase is … take it from the top.’

  ‘You’re talking about Benjamin.’

  I managed a wry smile. ‘That’s right, tell me about the night Ben … died.’

  He eased himself back in the chair; the castors squealed out. The noise seemed to unsettle him, forced his palms together. He laced fingers, unlaced them, then wrung his hands out. ‘I wasn’t here, of course.’

  ‘Of course …’

  His eyes came up to meet mine. ‘I mean I don’t live on campus.’

  I nodded, trying to appear calm, reassuring. �
��Go on.’

  He sighed. ‘There was a call in the night, can’t even remember who it was from … one of the security staff. They said the police were here and wanted to speak to someone.’

  I kept my tone calm. ‘That would be you.’

  ‘Yes, well … someone had to.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I came down and there was a phalanx …’ he drew a line in the air, ‘a wall …’

  Was on my mind to say I know what a bloody phalanx is, but went with, ‘The police?’

  ‘Yes, they’d sealed off the route to the Grand Hall.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s where they … found him.’

  ‘And then … what?’

  ‘Well, nothing … that was it, really. They told me there’d been a death, they had a name, and I identified him as one of the student body.’

  Sounded very clinical, if not perfunctory. Could just be plod jumping to conclusions, looking for a quick wrap-up, but then again, none of this looked good for them … or the uni, the city, anyone. Lifting the carpet and sweeping it all under was never more appealing. Said, ‘No one questioned you?’

  Calder looked as though he’d been hit with a brick, ‘Good God, no … Why would they … ? What do you mean?’

  I finished my drink, reloaded, moved round to the front of the desk, eased myself down. ‘A young lad was found dead … hanging from the rafters. You’d think questions would be asked … of someone.’

  He got out of the chair. ‘Are you implying … ?’

  I wasn’t implying anything. Wondered where the theatrics had sprung from. I pulled it back. ‘Sit down, Joe … we’re only talking here. A boy has died, smack bang in the middle of your manor. I’m guessing you’d like some answers as much as me … as much as his mother.’

  The mention of Gillian put some steel in his spine. He found some reserves of cool. ‘Yes, of course … it must be very difficult for the family.’

  It seemed a cold thing to say, like it was the first time it had even crossed his mind. ‘The woman has lost a son … she’s finding it a bit more than difficult. She doesn’t think Ben’s hanging was as straightforward as the police and you want to believe … She wants answers.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Do you, I mean do you really? … Gillian Laird is a very wealthy woman, she has influence and she has power, and that combination greases a lot of wheels in this town, Joey Boy.’

  He scratched his head, turning that lank hair of his behind his ear again. ‘I just don’t see what I can do. I mean, I’ve told you all I know … I just work here. I’m not privy to every aspect of human interaction that takes place, I’m just a lecturer! I mean, what do you want me to say?’

  He’d said plenty.

  I could see Calder wasn’t for caving on this first meet, but he’d said enough to let me know there was far more in the tank. He had something to say, and he’d be saying it, even if it had to be dragged out of him. I planned to stick around, keep a close eye on him. Knew he wouldn’t like that, but fuck him, he wasn’t the one with the hands on the levers. Said, ‘Gillian tells me she sits on the recruitment board.’

  He turned down his mouth. ‘I think so … yes.’

  ‘Say you were to appoint a new janitor … what would be the recruitment process?’

  ‘A new janitor?’

  ‘Well, let’s skip the interview and CV and that … I fancy getting closer to the action – maybe we could just pretend I was the new janitor.’

  He flustered. ‘That would be irregular, to say the very least.’

  I bolded it: ‘And fucking murder isn’t?’

  Calder closed his mouth. I watched his Adam’s apple rise slowly as he swallowed what looked like objections.

  ‘How about you go hunt out one of those dustcoats for me, Joey Boy.’

  Chapter 8

  HOD HAD SEEN FIT TO warn me about keeping the course. Staying on track. By that he meant: off the sauce. If he thought he had any sway with me on matters of general inebriation, my daily state, he was deluded. Knew he understood that he carried no such weight at all. Hod, for all the heart in him, had a hard enough head to take reality as it comes. Which, truth told, scared the shit out of me.

  I’d never seen the bloke so down on his luck; Hod was the archetypal hunter-gatherer. A survivor. Seeing his life unravel like this was a heartscald. Worse, being his only hope just turned the knife in me. This was about as close to a volte-face as you could get – Hod was usually the one bailing out my arse. If it wasn’t buying the Holy Wall off me, it was subbing me the readies to take Debs down the aisle … and putting me up when our marriage hit the skids. Hod had pulled me through a few scrapes – it played heavy on my conscience at the best of times – but I’d never countenanced the possibility that I’d be asked to pay him back. Bastard picked his moments. There were times when I was together, stable, in the neighbourhood of happy, even. Christ, I’d had a gym membership once. But right now, at this particular point in time, I was about as lost as lost gets. If I could manage to keep myself together long enough to see the week out I’d be doing well. Felt a shiver run through me. A black crow swooped on the pavement, cawed. In a second it was off, vanished. Wondered if I’d seen it at all.

  I schlepped past the Cameo, took myself into Victoria Wine and got in some essentials.

  ‘Half Grouse, half Black Heart,’ I said.

  Young girl on the counter smiled; was a wry, pitying smile. Made my heart flutter, don’t know why. Was well past hitting on chicks. That required far too much energy – something that was in very short supply right now.

  ‘Anything else?’ She wore an Avengers T-shirt, retro-style, covering quite a set too.

  My mind played a trick on me, said, ‘You know any good coffee shops around here?’

  She blushed, thought I was gonna ask her for a date. ‘Erm, well … there’s the big Costa.’ She couldn’t keep eyes on me now, ran fingers through her black hair, tucked some behind her ear. God, I felt stupid … what was I thinking?

  ‘Okay, cheers … will give it a look.’

  She turned to the till. Put that sympathy smile on again.

  ‘That’ll be—’

  I cut in, ‘Oh, better give me forty Marlboro, too.’

  ‘No worries.’

  She bagged the lot and I hoofed it up the street, cringing.

  You spend your days alone, drinking – hard-core drinking – the finer points of human interaction become lost to you. I’d jettisoned all small chat long ago. If there was ever a store of pleasantries, nodding-dog patter, or plain-old mannered chit-chat … I’d bumped it. What I did have was a mine of rants. Bitter? Me? Christ on the Holy Cross … was I ever. Funny thing was, I’d never really bothered about it before now. I dredged up a line from some fucking daytime TV agony aunt or uncle: ‘Sometimes you have to hit rock bottom before you can bounce back.’ Had I fallen so low? The bottom of the pit couldn’t be that far away; whether I’d bounce when I hit it, though, that was the question. Way I felt right now, figured I’d just keep on falling straight through to the flames of hell.

  Shook myself out of self-pity for long enough to order up a coffee in the big Costa. I saw what the chick in the offie meant, nice place indeed; but then, when you’ve driven every other coffee house within a country mile out of business, you can afford to be.

  ‘What can I get you, sir?’ said a lanky yoof, hefty bouffant giving off a bit of a New Romantic vibe there.

  ‘Coffee.’

  A sigh. Was that a sigh? Surely not.

  ‘Hmm, we have latte, cappuccino, espresso—’

  I held up a hand. ‘Whoa-whoa … spare me, eh? One white coffee, call it whatever you like, Prince Charming.’

  He twisted his head, stuck out his neck like a giraffe going for low leaves. ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘Look, you have to remember … ridicule is nothing to be scared of!’

  Handed over the cash, took a seat.

  Was firin
g up the mobi contacts when the coffee came. Got it just about thrown at me, could see there being a gob or two in there. Like I gave a shit, took a sip and topped the lot up with my half-bottle of scoosh.

  Found the number I was after. Wondered would it still be in use, figured it should, it hadn’t been that long since I’d spoken to Amy. With a bit of luck she’d be in the neighbourhood – her flat was around here – we needed to talk. Knew it would be the kind of conversation Hod wouldn’t approve of, but then he wasn’t running this show. Figured I could keep Amy’s involvement under the radar for a wee while at least until she’d proved useful … providing I could persuade her to help out that was.

  Ringing.

  A tightening in my chest – what was that? Conscience? Maybe. Perhaps Hod was right about keeping her out of this – the way she attracted trouble to herself. I needed the girl’s help, though. Told myself I’d keep a closer eye on her this time. Not let her get worked up with any radge ideas. That would do … surely.

  Ringing.

  ‘Hello?’

  She’d obviously cut me out of her contacts.

  Said, ‘Hello, Amy.’

  ‘Gus … what in the fuck?’

  I smiled into the phone. ‘Well, that’s quite the welcome.’

  Got a laugh. It was a start.

  ‘Hey, if there’s one person I didn’t expect to hear from again, it’s your bold self … How’s it hanging, auld yin?’

  This girl, I tell you, she had some moves.

  ‘To the left, yeah, that’d be right … Yerself?’

  ‘Just fucking peachy … Really good to hear from you, by the by, really good.’

  Well, this was going all right … maybe a bit too well.

  ‘Look, reason I’m calling, Amy, is … well, I was wondering if you were about today?’

  ‘About? As in out and about?’

  ‘Yeah, y’know … for a chat.’

  Silence on the line. Was that cogs turning? Had our Amy grown up a bit? Learned her lesson from hanging with me? I let the quiet gap stretch out, then heard: ‘A chat?’