Tony Black - Long Time Dead

‘Oh, really,’ I said. Thought about telling him he might want to change course in that case, but got the impression a wisecrack might snap him in two.

Gillian took Paul by the arm, led him back out and asked her man to get him a drink in the kitchen; she closed the door behind him and sat back down. I made a mental note to have a word with young Ginge at some point in the future.

Was a mother the best person to go to for the rundown on her only son? Seriously doubted it. Christ on a bike, my own mam would paint a rosy enough picture of me, and I was pretty far south of any kind of respectability. Gillian Laird had shifted into default gear to tell me about her deceased boy, Ben. I knew she was hurting. I’d lost loved ones, knew the manor, but I got the impression our actress was laying on the histrionics a bit too thick.

‘My boy was an angel.’ She rose from the sofa, crossed the immaculate carpet to raise a silver photo frame from the dresser. ‘He never had a bad word to say for anyone; never heard a cross word leave his lips.’

I caught Hod creasing his brows, rolling eyes up to the ceiling. Was one of those moments calling out for an elbow to the ribs; let it slide. Went with, ‘Gillian… Do you mind if I call you Gillian?’

‘No, that’s fine.’

‘Was there anyone who might not have… shared your opinion of Ben?’ I said.

She looked startled, flustered. A pale hand rose to her cheek, then was clasped tightly in the fingers of her other. She looked rattled by the thought, genuinely thrown at the notion.

‘No… no one… Ben was the most adored child.’

Her son was nineteen; that made him a man in my books. I was still young enough to remember what I was up to at that age – none of it was something I’d be opening up to my mother about. Late teens carry more secrets than the Masons. Had she never watched The Inbetweeners ?

‘Your son, Gillian… he was at the university?’

‘Yes,’ my words had hit her like arrows, ‘he was a good student,’ a laugh, feint one, ‘… when he put his mind to it.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

Her eyes were wide, trailing some distant memory. They misted momentarily then dimmed. ‘Ben liked to be the centre of attention… always had, since he was a child. My husband… ex-husband, always said he inherited my dramatic tendencies.’

I knew the type: show-offs. Class clowns. Needy kids. The boys and girls so lavishly danced attendance upon by Mammy and Daddy that the real world always fails to deliver a big enough audience. Edinburgh was crawling with them. Always had been. Throw in a leisured class, proliferation of public schools and the brats come ten a penny. Couldn’t say I was warming to our Ben.

‘He was popular?’ I chose my phrasing carefully.

‘Oh, yes… very popular.’

‘With whom?’

That bit. She slit eyes, went hellcat on me: ‘With everyone, of course!’

‘Gillian, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you and I both know that’s seldom the case outside of maybe Gandhi and Elvis Presley.’

She arked up; her eyes became needlepoints, the thin slit of a mouth widened to a cavity ready to spew forth enough bile to blow me into the middle of next week.

‘My boy was adored!… By everyone!’

Okay. Registered that one.

Was time to move on. I made a mental note to keep all emotive questions away from her; I couldn’t rely on getting any kind of truthful answer anyway. This was a downer for sure, but there were many other ways Gillian Laird could make herself useful.

I pressed on. ‘He was at university… What year?’

‘Erm, second… he was in his second year.’

‘Studying?’

‘Media and arts.’

A typical pisspot subject for a spoilt little rich kid. Still, was one up on windsurfing and Beatlemania, I suppose, although a BSc in either would be as much use as a nun’s tits in the current job market. I’m sure it worried neither of them.

‘I’ll need to see his timetable… and can you supply a list of his friends?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I am about to be made rector of the university, I don’t know if that’s something you know – it’s not been released yet…’

I hadn’t heard. This was a turn-up for the books. Edinburgh Uni rectors had come down in standing compared to previous post-holders – the country’s celebrity obsession had seen to that – but the job still carried some clout. Not least affording the appointee a nice profile. Sure that had nothing to do with her throwing her hat in the ring, though. Actors going for more press? Never.

‘You are? When was this decided?’

‘Erm… just now, well, within the last few days.’

Ben had died nearly a week ago now. I didn’t think the two incidents were related; not in any obvious sense, anyway.

‘Who told you about the… appointment?’

‘Mr Calder… Joe, the head of form. He was coordinating my campaign with… Ben.’ She gave in to emotion; her chin sunk onto her chest and she returned to the couch, head in hands. The blonde put a hand on her leg. She had very big hands; I figured she was the one playing the quasi-male role in this relationship. I almost sniggered at my lack of political correctness. Knew Hod was storing up a power of strap-on jokes to come.

‘Ben was working on your campaign?’

‘Yes… why?’

‘No reason. Just trying to form a picture.’

‘Surely the two incidents aren’t related.’

I coughed on the back of my hand. ‘Probably not.’

‘Then why ask?’

I felt my lungs call for nicotine; my stomach was calling for something else. ‘Gillian, if I’m to get to the bottom of this case, there will be a lot more questions… some of them pretty uncomfortable.’

The blonde patted her back, clasped her hand tightly. As she leaned in closer I saw her belly button was pierced with a silver bow.

‘I understand, I understand,’ Gillian nodded.

‘To that list… can you add all the campaign contacts, university staff especially.’

She nodded again.

‘Of course. I’ll let you have all those details, Mr Dury.’

Hod rose at my side; we’d covered all the ground we could, for now.

On the way to the door I had a Columbo moment: ‘Oh, one more thing…’

‘Yes?’

‘How much clout at the university does this post of yours carry?’

‘I’m sorry… what do you mean?’

‘I mean, is it honorary, or can you throw some weight about?’

She flustered, ‘Erm, I have some core responsibilities… It’s mainly for profile, but I do get to sit on a few committees.’

I buttoned up my tweed, said, ‘That might be very useful to me.’

I TOOK MYSELF OFF FOR a tab whilst Hod presented the paperwork to Madam; had a feeling this wasn’t going to be one of his better working relationships. Something about being lorded over by a snooty-nosed actress that got his goat. Call him picky.

The tweed was uncomfortable, had me shuffling shoulders to try and make the bastard wearable. I imagined a cloth-capped trail of my ancestors queuing up to chuck in the road. Christ Almighty, I’d be in brogues next, or worse, imperial collars and a dickie bow. What was I doing mixing it with posh twats? How little a fuck did I give for the loss of one more chinless rugger bugger with a trust fund and a silver spoon up his arse?

Thought: Not the attitude, Gus. I’d seen the look of hurt, real grief, on Gillian’s face and it touched me. The woman deserved justice – however much she had in the bank. Blood was blood, and the loss of it wounds us all.

Hod was hurting too. This was a payday for the man who had saved my arse more than once. I needed to screw the nut, put aside all my class prejudices and go to work. One thing was for sure: something wasn’t right here. And that did have my attention. Call me creeped out by the whole lesbo affair thing, but that dirty blonde in there was hiding something. Pound to a pail of shite she’d sussed I was on to her as well.