Tony Black - Gutted

We had buildings going up all over the city; there was never a better time to pour a bit of concrete over some inconvenient stiff.

‘This is fucking madness.’

I poked some more with the twig. It was the body of a man, what they call skelky in Scotland, or sometimes eight stone dripping wet. His hands were cut to ribbons on the palms. Looked like he’d fended off some fierce swipes from a sharp knife. I turned them over. The knuckles were smooth.

‘You didn’t put up much of a fight, mate.’

He hadn’t been here long, I’d say it was a matter of hours more than days. He had, however, been soundly slit from — as the saying goes — neck to nuts. Deep wounds had shredded his shirt and jacket to nothing; he was to all intents naked save his sleeves and trousers. How he’d got here, and who’d put him here, I’d no desire to find out. But old habits die hard. I lifted up the flap of his jacket with the twig. There was a wallet in the inside pocket; I pulled my shirtsleeve over my fingertips, fished it out.

Two tenners and a twenty. A flyer for a sauna in Leith. An RBS bank card. A driving licence that read: Thomas Fulton.

The name meant nothing to me, it was too common. But the face in the photograph sparked some dim recollection; of whom, though, I’d no idea. I put the wallet back.

That I’d been rolling around in Tam Fulton’s claret was something I could have done without. From my experience plod tends to take a dim view of such occurrences around a murder scene. Something like self-preservation kicked in, told me to play it by the book. A stretch for me, but the only option.

I replaced the branches, pulled out my mobi and dialled 999.

Got ‘Emergency. Which service?’

‘Police.’

I took a last glance down at the corpse, caught an eyeful of dark viscera and spilled entrails. Felt another heave. Figured this image was staying with me for a while.

As the operator connected me I stamped out my misgivings, my urge to run, told myself I was doing the right thing.

A firm voice: ‘Police, emergency.’

‘Yes, hello… I, eh, seem to have stumbled across a…’ — it was clearly murder, but I chose my words carefully — ‘dead body.’

A gap on the line, then, ‘Are you sure the person is dead, sir? Do you require an ambulance?’

‘I’m pretty sure he’s dead… The blood’s everywhere and there’s a lot of stuff that should be inside him lying about on the ground.’

Another silence.

‘Sir, can I take your details?’

I felt my pulse quicken. What was I getting myself into? Said, ‘My name’s Gus Dury.’ My address and the location on Corstorphine Hill followed.

‘There are officers on their way to the locus now, Mr Dury… Can you keep an eye out for them?’

Trembling: ‘Erm, yes.’

‘The officers will take your statement when they arrive.’

‘Fine, yes.’

I hung up.

As I clicked the mobi off there was a rustle in the distance. It put the shits up me. I froze. I’d definite company. Sure as shooting, I wouldn’t be too charmed to meet our man’s acquaintances.

Another rustle. Same spot. I felt sweat form on the back of my neck.

My head buzzed, thoughts going round faster than a mixer. None gave me a get-out.

My jaw clenched, fists followed, both on auto.

Fight or flight?

This scenario: I’d take the latter.

Since the yobs had legged it in the Corrado visibility was blacker than my thoughts. The moon had escaped the cloud, though, and the clearing caught more light now. Could I risk being spotted if I made a dash for it? What would plod have to say about that?

I felt another bucket of adrenaline tipped in my veins. I got ready to mush, then: a whimper. It came from the same spot as the rustle.

‘The dog… Fuck, the dog.’

I can’t say the wee fella was glad to see me. He cowered, back against the tree, and put his big black eyes on me.

‘It’s okay, boy… it’s okay.’

He looked like a Staffie. I wasn’t sure, but he ticked all the boxes: stocky, deep-chested, your average tinpot hard man’s hound. I’d have expected more of a put-up, snarling. Some teeth-baring maybe. Biting. But got none of it.

‘That’s it, that’s it… the good guys are here, boy.’

As I untied him from the tree he trembled. He’d been traumatised. I lifted him and he yelped, as near to the noise a baby makes as I’d reckon a dog could manage.

‘Sorry, fella, that hurts, huh?’

I tucked him under my coat and he curled into a ball, laid his chops on my shoulder. I swear he was docile. Me, I’d have been ready to kill the first bastard who came my way after what he’d been through.

‘Think we’ll have to get you to a vet,’ I said.

I made for the clearing.

The sky’s edges started to bleed blue. A violet glow began on the horizon. I could hear the sirens of the police cars bombing it up Corstorphine Road already. In no time this place would be swarming with filth.

The hack in me — or was it the bad bastard? — forced out another call: I dialled my sometime employers, hoped there was still money in the budget for a late shift.

The number rang three times.

An eager voice: ‘Newsdesk.’

‘If I remember what nights are like in there, I’m dragging you away from a crossword.’

‘Sudoku, actually.’

Well, it was 2009.

‘Gotcha. You’d like a tip-off for tomorrow’s page-one splash, then.’

I heard the reporter’s chair creak as he sat upright. ‘Tell me more.’

I sat tight. Wished I could say the same for the dog. He squirmed under my coat and whined and whimpered with every movement.

‘Come on now, you’re not doing yourself any favours,’ I told him.

He looked at me with wide eyes, his fat tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. He did not look a well beast; if I didn’t get him some veterinary attention soon, he wasn’t long for this world.

I felt my heart blacken at the sight of him. ‘Those little fuckers.’

The police cars had stopped and a trail of searchlights made their way up the hill to the clearing.

I had, I guessed, time to make one last call. If this dog was to have any hope I needed to get moving soon.

I dialled Mac. He still owed me after all I’d done for him of late.

‘Mac, it’s Gus.’

‘How goes it? You done with the badgers?’

Oh yeah, that was the job: stake-out on the hill, to catch badger-baiters. These days, I was big time. My late friend Col had left me his pub, but it wasn’t doing too well. We had more debts than punters. I’d been picking up what extra work I could, in any line. Going back to hack work was looking like a more tempting offer than ever.

‘Fuck the badgers, Mac.’

‘Gus, what are you saying? Are you off the job?’

‘I don’t have time for this…’

‘Gus, those Badger Protection boyos are paying top whack… Are you pissed?’

‘Mac, just listen the fuck up!’ Where I found the balls to speak to Mac the Knife, with all his form, like that, I’d no idea. ‘Give them back their fucking deposit.’

A pause, then, ‘I’m listening, Dury.’

‘Good. Now get in your car and drive to the foot of Corstorphine Hill… Right now.’

‘Gus, I’ve got the pub to look after.’

‘Fuck the pub… Shut the pub.’

A moment of silence, the radgeness of the idea registered, then: ‘Okay. I’m on my way.’

‘And bring towels, lots of them. And some water if you can manage it.’

‘What the… are you delivering a baby?’

‘No, I’ve just had a fucking cow. Now shift your arse, Mac.’

I hit ‘end call’. My phone smelled of Regal — made me want to spark up. As I fished in my pocket for my smokes the dog yelped.