‘So?’
‘So — these days, a wee lassie falls over and scrapes her knee and there’s cops running around kitted out like Dustin Hoffman from that Outbreak movie. But Billy’s taken out good style, and your lot sweep it under the carpet!’
He leant back, took a sip of his tea. Topped up the cup from the pot. I saw he was thinking things through.
‘What have you got?’
‘Uh-uh. First the file.’
‘Arrah, there’s no way. No way, Dury.’
‘Why not? You know I’m not messing about.’ I looked him in the eye. ‘Fitz, if you help me out, I could put you back on the K-ladder. This isn’t just about Billy, there’s been another murder, one of your countrymen as it happens.’
He took a slow sip of tea.
‘Think about it, Fitz. Do you want that DI’s badge back?’
He stood up, went for his coat. ‘Not in here.’
I followed him out. Lit up a Mayfair. It seemed to hit the spot.
‘Look, I can’t just remove a file. What world are you living in? It’s all computerised these days, a printout sends warning lights flashing. What exactly do you need to know?’
‘Who’s behind this?’
‘By the holy, Gus — is that something anyone would put on a file? All I can tell you is there’s a, shall we say, tacit agreement to lay off this one.’
‘From who?’
‘The top.’
‘Why? Do you know why?’
‘Let’s just say our Billy was dealing with some very unsavoury characters.’
‘Zalinskas.’
‘Vice are all over him.’
‘So, they hung Billy out to dry?’
‘Bigger fish to fry.’
I took my turn to deliver the goods. I told Fitz about the Latvians at Fallingdoon House. About Milo’s calls, and the fire. I left out Nadja’s involvement; she could still be useful to me.
‘That’s it? You wouldn’t be holding out on me here, Dury?’
‘Never. I get any more you’ll be the first to hear.’
‘I better be.’
‘But, Fitz, go back to that file. I’m not buying any of this.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘There’s more to it.’
‘Go way outta that.’
‘No, I mean it… someone’s feeding us a cover story. You need to find out who’s at the back of it.’
33
If you follow the London Road out from Meadowbank, you come to Portobello. Not as glamorous as it sounds, but, like every other district of Edinburgh — on the up.
When I come to Porty now, I always think of George Galloway. He said that when he was a kid his father had wound him up about a trip to Portobello, thought he was off to the Italian coast the way the name sounded. Bet he felt disappointed when he hit the beach and got a waft of the sewage outflows. Still, you have to love Gorgeous George. Have to love anyone who sticks it to Bush and Blair in such a high old fashion.
In parts, beyond the Bedsitland-by-the-Sea fringe, Porty maintains a moneyed air of old Victorian mansions. Hod’s place, however, is new money. A top-floor apartment in one of the front’s eyesores. Plenty of chrome, plenty of glass. Not one ounce of class.
I pushed the buzzer on the front door. The factor was nowhere in sight so I scanned the residents’ names. Went for Clarke.
A woman’s voice, said, ‘Hello.’
She sounded posh, it threw me. I didn’t want to come over like I’d an eye to burgle the joint.
‘Hello, there. My name’s, Dury, I’m er…’
‘Oh, you must be here to look at my box!’
I spluttered, ‘Excuse me?’
‘The television thingie.’
Suddenly things began making sense.
‘Eh no, I’m staying with Hod — Mr Dunn.’
She said no more. Think I’d embarrassed her into opening the door.
My friend had offered to put me up for a while. The combination to his flat’s door had always been a simple one: 1745. For a rabid nationalist like Hod, it could be nothing other than the date of the Jacobite Rebellion.
I took my boots off in the doorway. Hod’s anal fixation for tidiness struck me straight away. If he wasn’t a builder I’d have said some dumb doctor’s wife had been hard at work, filling her home time by polishing the ceilings.
The thermostat in the hall read 25 °Celsius. I scrunched up my toes in the deep, cream-coloured carpet and thought, ‘Now, this is the life.’
Seemed a shame to pollute the atmosphere, but I’d made a visit to the tobacconist on the Mile, stored up on some quality smokes. Gitanes, the ones with the dancing gypsy woman on the pack. They’re a dark baccy, too tough to get through a whole pack. How Bowie managed to chain them in his Thin White Duke days can only be admired.
For balance I’d picked up some Luckies. Said on the pack: ‘Lucky Strike means fine tobacco.’ I fired up, said, ‘Fine indeed!’
Hod had splashed out on a flatscreen telly, recessed into the wall. Must have been six feet wide; I’d seen smaller pool tables. I nosed around a bit but the ON button evaded me. Would be staying OFF for now.
I threw myself down on the couch. It swallowed me in an instant. ‘Oh yes, Gusie boy, could definitely get used to this.’
I praised Hod for letting me crash. Would definitely be making the most of my stay.
A few more belts on the Lucky and I found myself holding on to a handful of fag ash. I got up carefully, trying not to drop any on the carpet, and poured the lot down the cludgie.
The seat gleamed. ‘Christ the place is spotless!’
I looked around the bathroom, another telly had been fitted in the wall. He’d racks of lotions: Armani, Mugler, Gucci, even an old favourite, Fahrenheit by Christian Dior. I took off the cap, it smelled as I remembered it — just like Parma Violets. Took me back to the days of Pacers and Texan bars.
Splashed some on, said, ‘God, I love this stuff.’
There’s a scene from the Westerns. Must have seen it a million times. Some wizened old cowpoke, face as leathery as his saddle bags, dust-caked from the trail, gets into town. Before you know it, he’s hit the swing doors of the knocking shop, picked out a Bobby Moore and — bizarrely — demanded she fills a tin tub with bubble bath.
I turned the taps on full. Bliss, steam filled the room. I ferreted in Hod’s cabinets for some Matey. Found a remote doofer for the telly. Behind a pile of scented candles, some Radox, muscle-relaxing bath salts, thought, ‘Will do just dabber.’
Taps gushed like a power hose. Had me a bath in no time.
Got the 501s off. ‘Bucking the old eighties ads there, Gus!’
Was about to dive in when a thought grabbed me to light a few candles. Why not? I needed some serious relaxing, take that as given. Took the lighter from my jeans, had a bit of trouble getting the wick to take, then — ‘ Arrghh! Sweet mother of Christ!’
Candle wax splashed on my best mate.
‘Holy fucking hellfire! Christ! Jesus! Mother of God!’
I dabbed at the wax. It peeled off like Sellotape. Seemed to take the pain with it. Checked my old fellah — no damage done. Another lesson learned the hard way.
As I sank into the bubbles, I thought, ‘God this is good. Those Radox fellahs know their business.’
I hit heaven for all of ten minutes before boredom began to set in. I grabbed the doofer, switched on the telly. Scotland Today was on, with all the usual stories. Fishermen in Peterhead moaning about having to cut quotas. Thought, ‘Arseholes — get over it, you’ve cleaned out the seas.’
The parliament reeled out the usual numpty, the environment minister, who blamed the situation on Europe. ‘That’s the way, fellah, don’t isolate those voters.’ Another arsehole. God, wasn’t the world full of them? Though the parliament seemed to have more than their fair share.
I was ready to flick when a late item, just before the ‘and finally’, caught my attention.
Any sight of the home town on the telly tends to grab me, but this had an extra edge. A ruckus outside the High Court. The camera spun wildly out of control for a moment and I caught sight of a few press packers.