Tony Black - Long Time Dead

At the uni I had a deep sense of unease; felt ready to go off like a ten-bob rocket. Had already had enough of the type of brat who frequented this joint. Was relieved beyond words to see the place virtually empty. I fronted a tabard-wearing old girl with a mop. ‘Hello, there…’

World-weary eyes rolled skyward. ‘Aye?’

‘I was wondering, who’s running the show right now? Looks like the Mary Celeste in here.’

Didn’t register. I got pointed to the stairs, ‘Office is up there, might find some folk knocking about… Might no’, mind.’

I thanked her, gave a grateful nod, went for the stairs. I could feel the alcohol oozing through my pores. There was a cold sweat rising on my brow and an icicle forming on my spine. I knew it was time for a heart-starter, blast on the Grouse to melt the frost; knew that was an unlikely shout for the foreseeable. My stomach griped, threatened to start greetin’. I clenched fists in my pockets and tried to stamp the craving out on the marble steps. At the top landing I headed for the door. The office was empty save some tweedy Morningside lady with a teapot, mid-pour. Said, ‘Hello there.’

The biddy looked startled. The spout trembled; some tea escaped onto the saucer. ‘Oh, dear, dear.’ She started to move some papers away from the spreading spill.

I walked over, gave her a hand. She pressed out a weak smile, showing some yellowed teeth. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’m looking for Mr Calder.’

‘Oh yes… he’s in today.’

Playing it cool: ‘He is. Grand.’

She took a box of man-size tissues from a desk drawer. ‘He’s been in the whole time. Pretty much gave up his vacation since the, well, y’know…’

I watched her mop up the tea. ‘Since the…?’

‘Incident.’ She spoke sharply, I missed all intonation. Thought: Pity – would like to have noted that.

‘You mean the Ben Laird… incident.’

She straightened her back, eyed me full-on. ‘Yes.’ She walked away with the pile of wet tissues, dropped them in a bin on the other side of the desk, said, ‘If you’re looking for Joe, he’s in his office.’ A hand went onto her hip. She pointed to the door, continued, ‘Down the corridor, second door on the left… His name’s on the front.’

I smiled, thanked her. Something about her manner, about the way she dismissed Ben’s death as no more than an incident , like it was all just an inconvenience, troubled me. I wanted to press her but I knew this wasn’t the time. Probably wasn’t the place either, but I’d be fucked if I was giving Joe Calder the same consideration. The man at the helm needed his buttons pressed right away. There was something about this case that reeked of cover-up – of those with the power abusing it.

Turned for the corridor; took the oak boards all the way down to the white-painted door with the brass nameplate on it. The prick had been pretentious enough to have the string of letters engraved after his name too. Cut no ice with me. Thought about knocking but it’s not my style.

Strode in, took a look about. Calder was fifty-odd, but could have passed for ten years shy of that mark. He had a lot of hair, swept back over a high forehead and tucked behind his ears, sitting in tight curls above his shoulders. From a certain angle it looked like a very bad mullet, the kind that sat over a Klem top on Hibs casuals of the eighties. Didn’t rate my chances of getting along with him. Maybe it was the ox-blood brogues. He sat upright, seemed to focus on my tweed, calmed some, said, ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

I strolled to the bookshelves beside his desk, eyeballing the titles. Lit on some Foucault, Sartre, Derrida… maybe he wasn’t a total arsewipe after all. I wasn’t betting on that, though. He got out of his chair, started to stroll over to me. ‘Excuse me, but is there something I can help you with?’

I turned, gave him the once-over, head to toe, said, ‘Might just be, Joe… might just be.’

His brows lifted. A loose curl of dark hair unfurled from his fringe, he swept it back with a very weak wrist movement, went, ‘Do I know you?’

‘I don’t know, Joey Boy… do you?’

The puzzled look turned to panic. ‘Look, what the hell is this? You come into my office and-’

I raised a hand to my mouth, motioned shush . He stilled, stepped back, it has to be said, nervously.

I went, ‘I’ve been speaking to… your new rector.’

‘What… I mean, what do you mean?’

‘Shouldn’t that be a why… or perhaps even a when?’

He ran fingers through his hair, straining to produce a dim smile. ‘Right… this is some kind of joke, is it? Has Gillian put you up to this?’

I moved past him, sat on the edge of his desk. Stubbed a finger into the thick layer of dust, blew it away. ‘Joke… do you think Gillian’s in the mood for jokes after her son’s been murdered?’

Calder’s face drained of all expression. If there was any colour left it was in his lips… and they were blue.

‘Don’t forget to breathe, Joey Boy. I hear that can seriously impair your health… Y’know, like a fucking noose round your neck.’

He raised his hands to his ears, splayed fingers, then shot past me, ran for the other side of the desk and picked up the phone. He bashed a few digits, said, ‘Margaret, Margaret… is that you?’

I followed his steps slowly, faced him.

Calder said, ‘Good, can you please get that security guard up here, I have-’

I reached over the desk, cut off the phone. Calder stood with the receiver in his hand, looked at it, looked back to me, said, ‘I want you out of here right now… whoever you are, I want you off the premises right now or I’m calling the police.’

I started to chuckle; couldn’t remember putting the shits up another grown man with such ease. ‘Look, Joey Boy, who the fuck do you think you’re kidding? We both know the last person you want round here is plod.’

He lowered the phone, placed the receiver in its cradle. As he did so the door behind me swung open. A borderline obese fifty-something with a Ray Reardon slick came puffing in and nodded breathlessly towards us. ‘Everything okay here, Mr Calder?’ The words came out slowly, gave us all time to think.

‘Erm, no, Mick… actually, I mean, yes… everything’s fine.’

I gave the security guard a tug of the forelock; he backed out the door like a trained spaniel. Knew inside of five he’d be back in his doocot scratching his balls and whistling through his teeth at the high nipple-count in the Star .

I waited for the footsteps to fade from the corridor, let Calder be seated, said, ‘Now then, quite a sorry fucking mess we have here, eh?’

‘I don’t know what you’re referring to at all but-’

I cut him off, slamming hands on the desk. ‘Don’t cunt me around, Joey Boy… or it might just be your scrawny neck in the noose next.’

You get guys with out-there hairstyles, there’s usually a reason for it: mam did them a bowl-cut right through to their teenage years; maybe they got stuck on Bono’s Joshua Tree look, never got over themselves, or woke up to the fact that U2, and Bono especially, were such a bunch of wank that it was actually deeply embarrassing to contemplate. Joe Calder, it suddenly struck me, was wearing his hair long for much simpler reasons – if he didn’t, he’d be the spit of Louis Theroux. He had the selfsame gangly gait, the slightly lost look to the eyes, hiding behind double-glazed glasses that could do with a good wipe. He also had that stalled, almost addled, way of communicating; like a deeply self-conscious teenager who wanted desperately to stay a small child because it had worked so well for him in the wrapping-adults-round-their-little-finger stakes. He was a man-child; guessed he’d been spoon-fed through life. He’d probably came straight to academia from his own schooling and never left because he had found the perfect place to hide. I don’t think I’d ever met a man more deserving of a slap around… Christ Almighty, disguising the look of Louis Theroux with a fucking Michael Bolton hairstyle was seriously call-the-doctor time.