Tony Black - Long Time Dead

I knew exactly what my mother had meant about the dark place. It was the Black Dog. It had leapt from him onto me and I had never been able to shake the bastard. Debs knew it was there, and that’s why she had left. I knew I had no chance of a reconciliation with her, like my mother had hinted at; I knew I didn’t even want that now. More and more my mind was turning to Amy. I had been worried about her at first, but now she was becoming a full-time concern. Hoped I wasn’t substituting her for Debs – that would lead to no good, guaranteed.

I changed tack, kept my mind focused on the job at hand. Tried to weigh up the news Rasher had delivered. A previous killing at the university was something worth covering up for sure, for obvious reasons. The uni was big business these days, and no big business wants to attract bad publicity – presuming the weakened media could deliver some. It was the same situ with Shaky, but on a lower scale. However, as a motive for murder, it didn’t sit well with me.

I knew the Craft were up to their necks in this too, but I got the impression their involvement was more crisis management – covering tracks. The reason for their intervention was still to be confirmed but I had an idea Fitz could check that out. When you weighed it all up, I was still missing the bigger part of the puzzle and I needed to get to it. And soon.

I was on my second pint when the bold Fitzsimmons strode in. His face was flushed red, the collar of his white shirt open at the neck. He ordered himself a whisky at the bar then scanned the room, made for my table. He looked over his shoulder as he walked, his gait unsteady, like he was breaking in new shoes.

‘I don’t like this, Dury… not one feckin’ iota I don’t.’ He seemed edgy.

‘It’s a nasty business all right.’

‘Jaysus, I’m not on about that.’ He pressed his index finger into the table. ‘I mean meeting in here. First crack I hear about taking it up the Gary, I will swing for ye, Dury!’

I let out a laugh. ‘Yeah, well… I need to keep a low profile for now.’

Fitz riled, ‘So what’s feckin’ new?’

I told him about being hoyed up by Shaky, the trip to the country-side, the threats. I stretched out all the juicy bits, made him fully aware of how seriously he should take it. After all, there were implications here that he needed to consider too. Shaky might not be the kind of criminal that he spent his days chasing after any more, but he understood how they operated, knew every one in his manor and liked to think he could keep them under control.

Fitz rubbed his fat cheek as he spoke. ‘I’m not getting this. Why’s Stevens so concerned with the Laird Boy?’

‘Simple. The kid owed his man money. Gemmill has form for GBH and a serious record. If it was to be known that he had been helping the lad set himself up as a dealer it wouldn’t look good for Shaky, would it?’

Fitz sipped his whisky, savoured the taste a little, showed his bottom row of teeth, then spoke: ‘There’s that, I suppose. But then, why doesn’t he just cut Gemmill loose?… Be the answer to all his problems.’

‘Gemmill’s too deep into that organisation. If he went he could sink him, or worse, set up on his own, and nobody wants a bloody drugs war.’

Fitz sighed, waved a hand at me in a ‘slow down’ motion. ‘Okay, okay… whatever his reasons, what we have is Stevens putting the frighteners on you to keep away from the Laird boy’s murder investigation. Let’s stick to those facts for now.’

‘All right… so where does that get us?’ I played wingman to Fitz; sometimes it paid to let him think he was the smartest man in the room.

‘Way I see it, with the Craft involved, and the uni’s boyos… this investigation is as dead in the water as our Laird laddie. At least, they think it is… if Stevens was connected to that mob, he wouldn’t be shitting himself about you poking yer nose in.’

I put the tick in the box, let him see I was paying attention: ‘So he’s running scared without any cause…’

‘Correct! Or should I say… up to a point.’

I saw where he was going with this now. ‘What you mean is, it doesn’t matter to the Craft who killed Ben Laird; they just want it swept under the carpet. But if it was Gemmill who killed him, and he’s trying to cover his own tracks, in fucking clumsy fashion, then he might just blow this whole thing open.’

Fitz raised his glass, slugged deep. I watched his Adam’s apple move up and down. He licked his lower lip, put down the glass, ‘You leave young Gemmill to me, and fucking Shaky as well… By Christ, I’ll give the fucker a shake, so I will.’

I liked the sound of that. ‘You’ll keep me out of the picture?’

‘Jaysus, of course. I’ll be watching him closely, though. He’ll know he has serious police interest and if he puts a foot wrong he’ll be hauled in… Should free you up a bit to get down to brass tacks.’

There was certainly plenty to be getting on with. ‘Well, there’s some progress.’ I produced the folder from Rasher, opening it at the cutting with the headline about the seventies killing. I pushed it towards Fitz.

‘What’s this?’ His face drooped as he took in the header, and the implications.

‘Read ’em and weep.’

Fitz scratched his head as he scanned the cutting. He was a slow reader. I watched his brow crease up as he digested the piece. Once or twice he looked up from the print, shook his head a bit, then his eyes returned to the cutting. When he was finished he sat back in his chair and pinched the flabby skin under his chin, said, ‘Christ Al-fucking-mighty… they’ve got form for this caper.’

‘Oh, yes.’

He held up the cutting, winced. ‘Where did you get this?’

I finished off my pint, said, ‘The paper… they’re all over it. I have to tell you, they’re looking to go big on this, mate.’ I went back to the file, produced another cutting that I’d found tucked away at the bottom of the pile. ‘This makes especially interesting news. I was looking through the file and I found this.’ I handed over a picture of the class of ‘79 that the paper had reproduced. ‘I don’t think the hacks have cottoned on to this, but that one I’ve circled… recognise him?’

Fitz squinted, ‘No… who is it?’

‘It’s Joe Calder. He was a classmate of the boy that was hanged. This goes way back, Fitz… years back. If this gets blown up, there’s people with lots to hide that’ll be thrown into the spotlight.’

‘Oh, the feckin’ Craft will love this discovery.’ Fitz rubbed his hands together, laughed it up. I saw him register the way this might play out – old scores settled for him; top brass shed from the force. And his nephew in the clear. It was a pretty payday ahead for him… if he worked it right.

I smiled, wiping the froth of Guinness from my mouth. ‘Thought you might say that. You need to check out if any more of those faces are matched to names in the force… and especially the Craft.’

Fitz leaned forward, rested on his elbows. ‘I’m all over it.’

I HADN’T SEEN AMY SINCE her ordeal with Danny Gemmill and Shaky, but she didn’t seem to be too worse for wear. Pacing about the flat in a pair of flared white hipsters and a flowery top that tied around the back. She was blasting Hod as she went.

‘You old fart,’ she yelled, ‘since when were you appointed my father?’ Hod looked wrecked, standing at the end of the sofa with his fist resting on his chin. ‘Gus, thank fuck!’ He reached for his jacket. The chair it lay on nearly went with him. ‘Your turn, mate… you can do some babysitting for her.’

Amy stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other in a single-digit salute directed at Hod.