Tony Black - Long Time Dead

I immediately got it: was cheaper to fight a court action every other month than maintain the wages bill for the sub-editors. This corporate world we live in made me want to chuck. The lunatics had truly taken over the asylum.

We went into Rasher’s office, sat. He produced a bottle of Johnnie Walker. It had been well hit: hardly two fingers sitting in the bottom of it. I felt like necking the lot, but waved aside the offer; he filled his coffee cup.

‘So… you took yer time getting here,’ he said.

Did I explain the hospital visit, the Amy farrago, the trip to the countryside with Boaby Stevens’s crew? Uh-uh. I glossed: ‘Yeah well, busy man…’

‘You still working the same story?’ He leaned over, looked more interested than I’d seen him in a long time. He had his sleeves rolled up and it added to the air of ‘let’s get to business’ that he carried.

‘Oh, aye…’ Recycled a line: ‘Quality journalism doesn’t come cheap.’

He laughed. ‘Very good… very good.’

My left hand started to tremble slightly. I knew it as a sign that the other would be following suit soon if I didn’t take a drink. I removed the Guinness can once more, took a belt on it. Rasher’s eyes widened, he put on a ‘Christ, that’s a jakey look, Gus’ expression. Like I gave a fuck at this stage.

‘So, you got something for me?’

Rasher dug in his drawer, removed a pale blue folder, he opened it up. Inside were a lot of photocopied cuttings. He put a finger on the top one. ‘This is the Laird laddie’s court coverage. All in here: bit of Bob Hope possession, some dealing, argy-bargy with a polisman… few others. Like I say, a charmer, real charmer he was.’ I watched Rasher delve further into the files. He spoke again: ‘I have to say, the lassie did a grand job going through the library… better than I expected.’

‘Oh, yeah?… What did she turn up?’

A grin – wide one, kind he reserved for special occasions, said, ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ He slammed the folder closed.

This was a turn in events, Rasher playing cat and mouse with me. ‘What’s this?’

He stood up, drained his cup, said, ‘You really don’t know, do you? You really have no idea?’

I watched him closely. There was a full-on smile playing on his face now. That was rare enough, but this was a smile unlike any other I’d seen on him. He seemed genuinely delighted with himself.

Said, ‘Right, spill the beans, eh, Rasher.’

He went back to his desk, picked up the folder and started waving it in the air. ‘I wonder how much this is worth to you.’

If he thought there was a chance of money exchanging hands, he was deluded. ‘I have about five sovs in my pocket… bit change, and that’s me.’

He laughed that up. ‘I don’t mean money.’

‘Well, what do you mean?’

He sat down quickly, opened the folder and leafed through to the bottom of the pile. He produced a photocopy that, going by the fonts, was about twenty or thirty years old. ‘See this?… This is big time!’

He handed over the cutting, watched me read.

The story was dated 1979 and had the eye-catching header: CITY SHOCKED BY UNIVERSITY HANGING.

I read on.

Genuinely intrigued.

The story told of a boy about the same age as Ben Laird being hanged, in an almost identical manner, some thirty years previously.

‘Well, well, well…’ I said.

‘Indeed.’

‘This puts quite a different complexion on things.’

‘Doesn’t it just… What a fucking story!’

I’d been a hack too long to be shocked by the crassness of Rasher’s statement. ‘If there’s a link, you mean.’

‘Oh, aye… of course. But if there’s a link, you’ll find it, eh?’ What he was saying was, Go find the link so I can put it in the paper.

‘Why aren’t you working it?’

‘Ha!’ Rasher leaned back in his seat, looked out to the newsroom. ‘That lot out there are struggling enough with rewriting fucking press releases. There’s not one of them capable of chasing this, Dury!’ He snapped forward in his chair, put serious eyes on me. ‘But you go digging, and bring back that story… it’s a page-one exclusive!’

I stood up, leaned over the file, said, ‘Can I take this?’

Hands went up. ‘Be my guest.’

ELVIS COSTELLO WAS ON THE radio, ‘Accidents Will Happen’. Didn’t seem like an appropriate track. Not in the slightest. I walked into the doocot and took off my jacket, hung it on the back of the door. The dustcoat was flung over the chair, inky stains on the sleeves and around the pockets adding a hint of authenticity. Stevo and I hadn’t spoken since the bust-up. Well, if you could call it that; I’d be going with outburst. On his behalf.

I filled the kettle, took out a packet of Jammie Dodgers I’d bought, said, ‘Fancy a brew, Stevo?’ I was trying to break the ice; was glad I had. When he turned I saw he had a large Elastoplast above his left eye; his lip had been split too. ‘Jesus… what happened to you?’

He mumbled a bit, cleared his throat, ‘I walked into a door… It was on the nightshift, all the lights were out. I couldn’t get the flashlight to work.’

It was borderline believable. I’d broken the flashlight when I dropped it the night I found Calder swinging from a rope in the Grand Hall. The memory of his white face, his toes pointing to the floor, made me flinch. The fact that nobody seemed overly concerned about his hanging made me furious.

‘Aye, well… sorry about that. I dropped it the night I found Calder.’

He didn’t press me. I got the impression he was a bit more approachable than the last time we had spoken. He came over to where I was standing at the sink, gave me his cup.

‘I wanted to say… y’know, about that exchange of words we had,’ said Stevo.

‘Exchange of words’ – it was such a poor euphemism. I knew what he meant, but tried to look innocent. ‘What’s that, Stevo?’ Wasn’t that the way to handle these things?

‘You remember… you were asking about the hanging.’

I poured out the tea, motioned him to sit down. He was a good bloke, I could tell that. But he was stressed about something. I had a fair idea what. Sooner or later I’d have to apply some stress in Paul’s direction, see which way the little shit squirmed.

‘Which one?’

Stevo’s lips drained of blood. ‘Calder… Mr Calder.’

‘We could have been talking about Ben of course.’

His eyes blinked a spasm. ‘I suppose.’

‘Or,’ I amped it up, ‘I could have been talking about the kid that was hanged here in the 1970s.’

Stevo took up his mug of tea. He looked as though he wanted to hide behind it. I walked over to him, offered a biscuit. ‘You knew about that, didn’t you?’

He nodded, started to twiddle with the handle of the cup; stirred in more sugar. ‘H-how did you find out?’

There didn’t seem any point in keeping my hand from him: figured he either knew already or had guessed. ‘Stevo, Ben Laird’s mother hired me to look into his death… I’m a private investigator.’

‘I know that.’

I’d half guessed he did but the abrupt assertion blindsided me. ‘How did you find out?’

He coughed into his fist, ‘Paul… Paul told me.’

I put down my cup, stood up again, loomed over Stevo. ‘Was that the day I saw you arguing with him?’

His voice was barely a whisper. He couldn’t look me in the eye. ‘I didn’t know you’d seen that.’

‘Well, now you do.’

Stevo stood up to face me. His breathing had stalled, his face ashen as he faltered on his words. ‘Gus… I’m…’

‘You’re what?’

He looked away, trying to find something to distract him outside the window, ‘These people, Gus…’