Tony Black - Loss

Mac was in favour of more direct action. ‘Why don’t we just burst this Radek? All these hard nuts are pretty tinpot once you get the pliers on their pods.’

‘And what if he holds out, or we go too far? He might just be the only one who knows who did off Michael. Trust me on this, Mac, I have to find my brother’s killer, not just any killer. And when I do, there’ll be plenty of opportunity to bust heads.’

Hod slapped the table. ‘Count me in.’

I looked at Mac, said, ‘Well?’

He nodded. ‘Aye, fucking right I’m in.’

I told Mac and Hod to keep their mobiles on and be ready to nash when I called. I didn’t know when the opportunity I needed would present itself, but if it didn’t, I’d have to make it happen. And soon.

As I crossed the road I caught sight of a newsagent’s bill. It screamed at me: CITY BUSINESSMAN MURDERED.

Rasher had got his headline.

I went into the shop and picked up the Hootsman, read the byline first — old habits die hard. It was one of the new batch of college interns, I didn’t know her. I thanked Christ I was no longer a hack: her intro read like shit. A worn cliched comma-splice. If I was still holding down a desk, I’d be chucking up in one of its drawers about now.

The paper had obviously very little to go on. They’d run a few inches on the murder in the Meadows earlier but now the police had released Michael’s name and the fact that he was a prominent local businessman. The wannabe reporter speculated wildly about the investigation, great swathes of editorialising that made me wince. But the thrust of the tale was factual. Fitz had given them a bland statement that read: ‘Police are following a definite line of inquiry.’

Thought: Boilerplate. Is there a file they cut and paste this pish from?

No one had bought the mugging-gone-wrong cover story; it had backfired on the force for sure. Fitz knew by now he was going to be taking pelters from the Hootsman if he didn’t have a suspect soon, someone in custody, charges laid.

I read on, shaking my head, said, ‘Fucking hell.’

The bloke on the counter looked up, went, ‘You buying that? If you’re no’ then the library’s down the road.’

I folded it up, whacked it down, said, ‘How much is it?’

‘Seventy-five pence.’

I frowned: the cover price went up as the standard of reporting nosedived. Another casualty of our tragic times.

I handed over a quid, got my change thrown at me with a sarcastic ‘Have a nice day.’

The mid-Atlantic drawl was beginning to get on my tits, big time. Someone was going to get slapped in the puss giving me those imported tropes. I turned quickly, headed for the door.

‘Wait a minute,’ the shopkeeper said. I looked around — the place was empty. He called me back.

I turned, said, ‘What you want?’

He bent under the counter and took out a shoebox, removed the lid. ‘Want to buy some cheap razors?’ He held up a pack, obviously knock-off, Gillette Mach 3.

‘How much?’

‘Fiver for ten.’

These things went for three times that. I took a box, passed over the cash, said, ‘Where’d you get them?’

He touched the side of his nose. ‘Ask no questions.’

It seemed policy.

As I got my razors in a brown paper bag, the shopkeeper said, ‘Hang about.’ He dipped under the counter again, produced another shoebox. Inside sat pairs of ladies’ stockings. ‘Want some tights?’

I looked at him. ‘You wha’?’

‘Nylons…’

I shook my head. ‘Has the Luftwaffe been back?’

He looked scoobied. ‘Eh?’

I said, ‘Have we reversed all the way to 1944?’

He put the lid on the box, curled his mouth at me.

I left the shop with my newspaper tucked under my arm and my razors shoved to the bottom of my pocket.

Outside a glimmer of sunshine winked through the clouds. It threw me. I felt more comfortable with the grey skies and the freezing-cold winds battering. The hint of warmth made me anxious, as though there was a trick being played. The snow on the roofs had started to melt and every so often it came crashing in great lumps to the street. Drainpipes overflowed and flooded the pavements. I knew if the temperature dropped again it would bring a freeze, folk saying, It’s like an ice rink out there.

As I crossed the road to the car, a maroon bus sprayed black slush at me. It splashed on my coat and trousers. I shot a finger at the driver but he missed it, or pretended to. The wetness was seeping through to my legs already.

At the car I expected Usual to be jumping up and down, barking at me. But he was nowhere to be seen. I thought he must be sleeping so I crept up to try and surprise him. He never stirred. As I looked in the window I couldn’t see him at all. My heart rate ramped up, thought: Christ, he’s been taken.

I looked in the back and saw no sign of him, then I went to the driver’s window — it was smeared with blood all along the edge where I had left it open an inch. The blood had dripped down in thick streaks and dried on the glass. I couldn’t get my head around what might have happened. Fuck, where was he? I suddenly caught sight of Usual’s back legs sticking out from under the front passenger seat. He lay flat on his belly, a position I’d never seen him in before.

I rooted in my pocket for the keys, my hands trembling as I sprung the lock, opened up.

‘Usual… Usual… come here, boy.’

He didn’t move.

I wondered if he’d been wounded.

‘Fucking hell, have you been hurt, boy?’

I crouched down, tried to pull him out from under the seat as gently as possible. My mind raced with all kinds of thoughts.

Had he been knifed?

Had he been shot?

Holy shit, someone had got to him.

As I eased the animal off the floor his head fell limply over my arm. He had blood all round the edges of his mouth.

‘Usual, what’s happened to you, boy?’

I tried to rouse him, but he was cold.

I slapped the dog on the back, but got nothing. I put my ear to his nose and felt sure he was breathing, but only just. My mind whirred with dark thoughts. I lifted Usual onto the passenger seat and his mouth dropped open, his tongue flopped over the edge. As I panicked, tried to get my head working, I caught sight of something sticking to the carpet by the door. I reached for it. It was a piece of raw steak, half chewed.

‘You fuckers.’

Someone had fed the poor animal a piece of dodgy meat. I knew at once I had to get him to a vet. The nearest one was a mile away.

‘Hang in, boy… we’ll get you help.’

I slammed the door and over-revved the engine so much that a cloud of smoke came flooding from the back of the car. The tyres spun on the slippery road as I gunned the gas pedal hard. I saw people pointing at me as I clipped the kerb with my back wheel but I didn’t care. I had the car up to sixty on Easter Road and took the junction in a handbrake turn. The Punto skidded into London Road, near taking out the traffic lights. An old giffer on the pedestrian crossing raised his shopping bag and mouthed abuse.

I took the bus lane and flashed my lights at anyone else who got the same idea. I had one hand on the steering wheel and the other on Usual’s back. ‘Hang in, boy. Hang in.’

My mind filled with all I had been through with this dog: I had rescued him from a shower of yobs who’d been torturing him on Corstorphine Hill. They had tied him to a tree, were firing air-rifle pellets at him when I stepped in. A frenzied dash to the vet had been called for then. He’d survived his ordeal; I hoped he would be as lucky again. There had never been a more devoted dog than Usual. He had grown into our little household and he worshipped Debs. She would be devastated if anything happened to him. Fuck, she would never forgive me.