Tony Black - Long Time Dead

‘What’s up with you now?’ I said.

‘Did you have to noise him up?’

‘Hod, the guy’s a tool.’

‘I’m only saying… Can we be professionals here.’

‘Professionals… You think we’re playing Bodie and Doyle, fuck off.’

‘Gus, just cool yer jets, eh. At least till we’ve got her signature on that contract.’

I shook my head, turned eyes to the corniced ceiling, said, ‘Whatever.’

There’s a phrase, through you like a dose of salts , could tell from the off this chick was ready to put it into action. The heels came clacking on the tiled floor like sniper fire. She had a hard, drawn face that was softened only slightly by what looked like a Hermès scarf. You write the odd magazine feature in your time, you get to know the kip of the pricey gear.

Gillian Laird stopped a couple of yards from us. She wore long black trousers and a black cashmere top. When she put her hands on her hips she looked like a very familiar work of art. Fuck me, was I a bit star-struck? Told myself to calm down – she’d done River City after all.

She looked me in the eye, seemed to register disbelief, then her gaze quickly darted to Hod. She was weighing us up, no question. Said, ‘Gus Dury…’ then thrust out the card. Was I supposed to take it back? Leave?

Stepped up to the plate, nodded, ‘That’s my name.’

She took a deep breath, her cheeks pinching as she looked me up and down. Got the distinct impression she thought I was taking the piss. Her expression yelled: There’s a pikey in my house . I inwardly cursed Hod for making me wear the tweed – felt like a Terence Stamp caught shoplifting.

‘Should it mean something to me?’

Hod interrupted, ‘Mrs Laird, we believe we might be able to help you with-’

She opened her mouth a little, lowered the card, then quickly folded her arms. It was a defensive stance. Her gaze flitted left to right as she barked, ‘Help me with what?’

I could see Hod’s anxiety rising. If I let him start yakking he’d be like a dog eating chips. I took the reins: ‘I have some experience in dealing with the particular situation you find yourself in, Mrs Laird.’

An improbably tall blonde appeared at her back. She had a rack Jordan would have been intimidated by and a pair of lips set in a permanent pout. She looked groomed to within an inch of her life as she sidled up to the actress and put an arm around her waist. When she placed her head on her shoulder she reminded me of the models I used to see coming into the paper to shoot fashion spreads. They all looked like unattainable goddesses, until they opened their gobs and you realised they were schemies.

Gillian spoke: ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

She handed the card to the blonde. She stared at Gillian for a moment and then said to me, ‘I know you… Yer the reporter guy.’

There it was, the schemie inside… Who says you can’t polish a turd?

Hod blustered, ‘Mr Dury specialises in investigative work now.’

I could have given him a slap. The woman was on the verge of kicking us out; could this have gone any worse? What had I been thinking, taking Hod’s word that this was a goer?

‘ Does he now?’ said Gillian.

I watched her weigh up what looked like several possibilities. One was obviously calling the filth, but there was a flicker of desperation in there – as though she couldn’t rule out anything, however weak. Or maybe she just thought I looked the part: rat catchers don’t dress in pinstripes. She turned her head, spun on her heels, a shrill tone in her voice as she commanded, ‘Follow me.’

Hod winked as we set off behind her. The blonde bit turned once or twice, drew a few daggers at us, but I figured her approval we could live without.

In an immaculate white drawing room, the black silhouette of Gillian Laird cut an incongruous figure. She looked bullet hard as she perched on the edge of a giant sofa, crossed her legs, patted the cushion beside her. ‘Sit down, Tina.’ Her friend did as she was told. I thought she was out of her league – what the Scots call all fur coat and nae knickers . But her face was her fortune; throw in the figure and she was commanding a tidy sum. Maybe Gillian thought she could knock off a few rough edges here and there, or maybe rough was a nice change.

‘Okay, what’s the story, Mr Dury?’ said Gillian.

I felt as if I was put in the spotlight; an urge to rifle her shelves for a whisky bottle flashed. Calmed it, took hold again: ‘I believe there’s some case to doubt the official verdict on your son’s death.’

‘You do?’

She was hardballing me. I didn’t buy that she was all granite, though. There was an artist lurking in there and that required some sliver of sensitivity.

‘I believe… you do.’

She looked at Tina. I noticed their fingers had laced. ‘My son was killed, Mr Dury.’

‘The police said it was death by misadventure .’ I’d spat it out, came too harsh and I immediately regretted it.

‘They called it breath-control play !… Bullshit. I know my Ben, he would never… He was far too sensible, too smart to…’ Her resolve dropped, eyes misted; but she pulled it in. ‘Mr Dury, why are you here? I mean… what do you think you can do for me?’

‘It’s fir the money,’ said Tina. She had a heavy accent, sounded Leith. Christ , sounded Leith Links.

Hod butted in: ‘We’re professionals, Mrs Laird. We have a track record that can be verified. We don’t enter into any undertaking of this nature without serious consideration to the known-’

I stood up. ‘If your son was killed, I’ll find his killer.’

Tina put a long pale arm around Gillian’s shoulder. I saw some bruising on her wrist; it was dark against the skin. She spoke loudly: ‘You sound right confident, so you do.’

I held schtum. Wasn’t getting into a barney with this bint. Felt my chest cry for nicotine. A finger went up to my collar.

‘Gus is the best there is,’ said Hod.

Gillian’s eyes darted to him. ‘The best?’

I walked towards the couch, crouched down in front of them. I was close enough to see the red edges of the actress’s eyes, the tears welling. She needed help; I knew the territory. For the first time since I’d arrived my sympathies sparked. I knew I could bring some ease to that deep suffering. Made me feel useful – if not entirely capable. Hoped my health would hold out. I reached inside me for the right words. ‘If you like, I could look into this for you. I promise you this: things are never quite as they seem… If there’s an answer that can ease your pain, I’ll get it.’

She turned to Tina, nodded to her.

We all rose, stood in the middle of the floor facing each other like an AA meeting.

‘Perhaps we can discuss terms, Mr Dury.’

Hod reached for the contract in his pocket.

I spoke up: ‘There are one or two things I’ll need to know first, Mrs Laird.’

The door to the drawing room opened. It was the butler again, showing in a young lad of about eighteen in a checked sportscoat. He had red hair that, despite a heavy application of gel, burned the eyes. He looked shocked to see Hod and I, but fought it. I looked him up and down – he turned away.

‘Hello, Paul… Do you mind hanging on a minute? I’m just seeing to something,’ said Gillian.

The lad fumbled his words: ‘Oh, no… not at all.’ Some sheets of paper fell from a folder in his arms. I watched him collect them up. He bumped his shins on the coffee table as he went about it. ‘Sorry, I’ll just get this tidied up.’

‘Paul is a… was a friend of Ben’s.’

The lad halted, a few more sheaves of paper fluttering to the floor. ‘Ben was my best friend,’ he said. ‘We were on the same course.’