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  ‘Do you see this?’ said Mac. He pointed to Kerr’s hands: not a mark on them, save two matching bruised and bloodied holes in the centre of each, just below the knuckle where he gripped the arms of the chair.

  ‘Holy fuck.’

  He’d been nailed through the hands.

  ‘Didn’t want him running away . . . Probably used a nail gun for that.’

  ‘This is fucking medieval,’ I said. My thoughts raced, darted on to Michael and how he’d met his end. I wondered who and what the hell we were dealing with here. Kerr’s sound-off at the factory played before me again.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense . . .’ I said.

  Mac had a tight hold of the dog as he spoke: ‘Some folk get off on this shit, get a taste for blood . . . Maybe they got carried away.’

  ‘But in his own fucking house. And to just leave him here . . . This is a warning, Mac. Someone wants this to get out; there’s no point to it otherwise.’

  Mac nodded. The dog struggled again. ‘We better fucking nash. Plod won’t be chuffed to find us here.’

  I was all set to agree when the door we’d walked through a few moments ago was suddenly edged open again. In the living room stood the old gadgie from next door. ‘Och, no,’ he said, ‘what in the name of God . . .’

  I looked at Mac, could tell he was contemplating lamping the bloke, making a run for it. It was an idea. Had I less to lose, I might have went for it, said, ‘We better call the police . . .’ The thought didn’t exactly tickle me, but we were up to our nuts in it. I took out my mobi, called Fitz. As I did so, I caught sight of Mac edging the neighbour out the door. I kept the call businesslike – could tell Fitz was raging. An arse-caning was coming my way. I’d take that standing, just hoped there wasn’t worse to follow; had known the filth to hang worse on me.

  When I rang off, I joined the other pair on the back step. The old giffer was shaking; I offered him a tab.

  ‘Thanks, son . . .’

  I sparked up myself. ‘You all right?’

  ‘The blood . . . Fuck tae fuck. I never saw blood like that.’ I thought I was going to have to take hold of his hands to help him get the cigarette in his grid. He managed it, just. ‘I never imagined . . . The noise, last night, y’know.’

  I pressed him: ‘You said there was a bit of a barney . . .’

  He coughed over his palm. ‘Aye, aye . . . a bit ay shouting and that. I thought he just had a good bevvy in him . . . I didn’t, I mean, if I thought . . .’

  ‘I know. I understand.’ What I understood was that he was obviously blootered drunk himself; I could see he was gantin’ for another bash at the bottle now. He wasn’t alone. ‘Did you see anyone?’

  He shook his head. ‘I didnae get up . . . sometimes I take a deck oot the window, but I didnae even get up to batter the wall last night. You know how it is, you just get used to it . . . Big Ian was a right washoot lately, he was getting tanked up every night after the job went and the missus left and all that.’

  I took a pelt on the Marlboro, caught Mac sighing. He took the dog to the corner of the garden. I said, ‘Did he say anything about his job?’

  Head shakes, still trembling. ‘Naw, we never spoke much.’

  I knew I was onto a loser, but tried anyway: ‘Look, you must have saw some coming and going at the house . . . any, y’know, funny business?’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, aye . . . every fucking night. All Big Ian’s, mind – he was a radge.’

  I could hear sirens, the police were on the way. Moving fast too – not a good sign. I left the waste of space to himself. He tried to tap me for some folding; I ignored him.

  ‘Last laugh!’ shouted the gadgie.

  I turned, looked at him.

  He was tucking his hands into his jacket pockets, thin shoulders trembling in the cold. ‘That’s what he said to me . . . He was gonna have the last laugh.’ Tyres screeched, the filth were just about on us. ‘He was pished, said something about being fucked over but he was gonna have the last laugh . . . Said he had nothing left to lose.’

  I had my mouth open, words waiting as the divvy van suddenly shot into view. A pack of uniforms made a rush for the house. There was no sign of Fitz. The first of the woodentops into the yard grabbed the gadgie round the neck; two came straight for me. The cuffs were on before I could draw another breath.

  Chapter 9

  AT THE COUNTER SAT THE standard-issue Lothian and Borders battleaxe: peroxide-blonde hair and kebab-meat complexion, topped off with a hefty dose of attitude. Your perfectly balanced Scottish woodentop – a chip on both shoulders.

  ‘Hello, there,’ I said.

  Eyes rolled, a twist of the gob. ‘Oh, please.’ She shuffled over to the phone, gave me an eyeful of an arse you could turn an artic on. A few moments later and she shuffled back; I wondered why she wore her bat belt, one with the cuffs and the spray and mini-nightstick. ‘Empty your pockets, gimme your belt and shoelaces.’

  I could see my last run-in with Fitz had got his goat. This wasn’t so much going to be a matter of swallowing pride, but of burying it altogether.

  ‘If you could just tell Fitzsimmons I’m here.’

  She had a Bic biro in her mouth, took it out to point at me. ‘Shut up, eh.’ She scribbled some more. Thought: Can be few so content in their job; she was really getting off on this. I wanted to leap the counter, run past her and through to Fitz’s office, but I didn’t rate my chances of getting that far without a few pairs of size tens bouncing on my napper.

  ‘Look, I think there’s been a mistake . . . I actually called you in, I’m not a suspect.’

  The biro got slammed down. ‘Are you telling me how to do my job?’

  A bulb went on above my head – filth do not like that – said, ‘No, I’m not.’ Fitz’s warning about leaving things to the force flooded back.

  I got a cell to myself. Knew Mac would have one too. He wouldn’t be chuffed – with his record, plod goes in hard. Still, there was no way they could hang anything on us. I knew this was all for show. For Fitz to make a point, the point being that it was his case, not mine.

  I paced about a bit, rubbed my wrists where the uniform had tightened the cuffs. The thought of being back in the nick really boiled my piss; the filth could make it difficult for me to get to the bottom of things if they wanted. If I was looking at being tore up every step of the way, things were going to get messy. I was only just beginning to draw some conclusions, but I was still a long way off the point where I’d like to be.

  My lungs were calling out for nicotine; a few other cravings chased them. I tried to figure in my mind what it was that Ian Kerr might have known, might have been able to put a threat on someone with, but nothing sparked. All I could see was his gouged eyes and battered face; figured the image was staying with me for a while. I’d seen blood and gore before, but there was something about the brazenness of this that unsettled me; these bastards didn’t care who they noised up.

  After an hour or two I was taken from the cell. I walked holding up my beltless jeans to an interview room. A dippit-looking uniform, drooping lower lip, pushed me into a plastic chair. As he closed the door behind him he stared at me through the crack, glowered, said, ‘Don’t get out that fucking chair.’ I had a wee laugh to myself – fucksake, I’d had worse warnings.

  When he finally showed, Fitz the Crime wore the same suit that he had on the time I saw him with Davie, but his expression had changed completely. He shone red, forehead and cheeks. The tie was loosened and the shirtsleeves rolled up. He barked orders at a pug who scurried to the wall and stood silently.

  Fitz ignored me, slammed down an envelope and a note file. He cursed and scratched at the edge of his temple; a heavy vein beat on the opposite side of his brow. When he’d read the closely typed note, his head jerked back, he tapped his shirt pocket, seemed to have forgotten something. ‘Oh, Jaysus feck . . . my smokes.’

  I knew this was theatre. He took a quick sketch at the pug on the door. ‘Nip up for my tabs, bo
yo.’

  The pug was sold, rushed out.

  ‘Hold it . . . and get this cunt a coffee.’

  Nods, bowing and scraping.

  Fitz rose, walked to the edge of the desk. His fat thigh seemed ready to burst from his trouser leg as he raised himself to sit on the desk. He rested there, silently, for only a moment, then he punched a fist into the air before me.

  ‘I ought to crack yer feckin’ nut, Dury,’ he yelled.

  Did that require an answer from me? I doubted it, went, ‘Cut the shit.’

  He riled up: ‘A man’s been clubbed to death on my feckin’ watch, Dury. I’m answerable for this case, you know. Just what the feck are ye playing at?’

  I played it cool. Slowly, I turned my head towards the wall, spoke: ‘Funny, I don’t remember you being this worked up about my brother’s death.’ I turned to face him.

  He touched the tip of his nose. ‘I don’t like having you in here, Gus . . . after your loss.’

  I tutted.

  Fitz removed himself from the desk, walked round to the other side and sat down before me. ‘Look, Gus . . . you have no idea how bad this looks.’

  ‘What the fuck . . .? Do you think I give a shit about appearances, Fitz? My brother’s been killed, and now there’s another body to add to the count.’

  Fitz ran a large hand through his greying hair. He exhaled slowly, said, ‘What the feck were you playing at with Kerr?’

  I knew where he was going with this. ‘You know what I was doing there: Ian Kerr worked for my brother.’

  Fitz’s eyes went Ren and Stimpy on me. ‘Are you telling me you’re working this feckin’ case?’

  I shot back, ‘Of course I fucking am. My brother’s been murdered, man.’

  He squeezed the edge of the table in his hands, let it go. ‘Well, that’s where we have an issue . . . Don’t think for a second, a millisecond even, that I won’t haul your arse in if I catch you bollixin’ about.’

  I wasn’t listening to any more of this. He knew I wasn’t about to back off. He could have my help, or he could fumble about on his own. Fitz knew I was more use to him onside. ‘Look, this Ian Kerr boy, he was at the factory five minutes after you left the other day . . . He was kicking off big time.’

  He played coy: ‘And, so?’

  ‘Well, if you’ve done your checks you’ll know he was on the wagons, but got punted. He thought he was due wages and he was none too chuffed about losing his job. When I saw him he was going scripto . . . And the bloke living next door to him says he was set to take matters into his own hands.’

  Fitz sighed, pulled out a chair, dropped himself. ‘That feckin pisshead. I wouldn’t rate what he says too highly.’

  I raised my tone: ‘He was going to have the last laugh, so he said . . . I saw how they dealt with him at the factory, a couple of pugs hard-armed him out the back. Now, you’re not gonna tell me he invited them round to his gaff to redecorate the place in his own claret, are you?’

  ‘Dury, for fecksake, you’re reaching.’

  ‘No, Fitz, something’s not right. Who works over a bloke in his fucking own front room? It’s insane . . . unless they want to send a strong message.’

  Fitz played with the knot on his tie. ‘Dury, it doesn’t stack up.’

  I became agitated, stood up, leaned over him. ‘Look, I know Kerr wasn’t killed because he got lippy; he got killed because someone’s got a lot to hide, a lot to lose.’

  Fitz ran fingers over his sweaty brow; he looked suddenly tired. He had a fresh murder on his hands and was clearly wondering how much grief that was going to create for him, without my adding to it. I knew he was under no obligation to help me out, especially after I cracked it with him at the factory.

  I said, ‘Fitz, we go back.’

  ‘Ah, go way outta that . . .’

  I winced inwardly – it was a weak play. ‘I know you don’t owe me shit, Fitz. But that’s my brother you have on a slab.’

  He looked at me. I saw the flecks of red at the edges of his eyes; something told me he knew the territory, if not personally then he’d seen the effects of it enough times to sympathise. Now I saw a side to Fitz I wouldn’t have believed existed. He looked away, exhaled heavily.

  I sat down, said, ‘What did you get from your visit to Davie Prentice?’

  He shifted his weight, a large gut pressed on the table. ‘He’s a queer fish.’

  ‘Got that right. Tell me what you found out.’

  He shot me a glower. ‘I can’t give you anything, Gus.’

  It freaked me out when he used my first name. ‘Why?’

  ‘Let the force do its work . . . We’re on the case.’

  ‘Fitz, this is me you’re speaking to. Just fucking spill, eh.’

  He tapped his fingertips together, looked to the door. Clearly wondering where his lackey had got to with the tabs and coffee. Said, ‘There’s some . . . irregularities.’

  I felt my mind ping. ‘What do you mean?’

  Fitz laced his fingers, then quickly pulled them apart. ‘You’ll have to trust me, Dury, I can’t tell ye anything. How the fuck would that look to the folk paying my wages?’

  I could tell he was coming around; I pressed him: ‘Give me a hint.’

  ‘I have no hints for ye, man. Jaysus, wouldn’t ye only go off on one, getting into feck knows what. Let me spell it out for you: this is a police investigation, a very serious one and you are not exactly mascot material round here. Do ye really want to feck the force off again, Dury? . . . Well, do ye? Think about it, man – you know what it’ll lead to.’

  I was beyond threats or intimidation. I’d made all the calculations, knew I was onto a loser, but when was I never? I had one card to gamble on. I lowered my tone, tapped on a nerve: ‘This is to do with the Czechs.’

  Fitz’s head jerked. ‘Czechs?’

  ‘Oh, come on, fuck off . . . The whole workforce has been laid off and replaced by cheap labour. Lot of ill feeling floating about.’

  I was feeding him a line – I had nothing solid on the Czechs – but he was feeding me a line too. ‘I don’t know about any Czechs. All I will say to you is this . . .’ He shifted forward, spoke softly: ‘Be very careful who you tussle with, Dury. Our man Davie Prentice is connected . . . to some very serious people.’

  I’d got Fitz’s attention, maybe even got him back onside, said, ‘When you say connected, do you mean the type of connections that might get me into trouble if I was to, say, stamp on fat Davie a bit?’

  Fitz watched me as I spoke, then leaned back in his chair. ‘I’d say that was a fair bet. In fact, I’d give you better than evens.’

  I felt my voice drop low in my chest. ‘Well, it’s already too late for that. I’d place your bets, Fitz.’

  Chapter 10

  SHE LOOKED THE SORT THAT I didn’t run into a whole lot. Going by those I did run into, maybe this meant we’d get along just fine.

  ‘So should I call you Dr Naughton?’

  ‘Would you like to call me Dr Naughton?’

  I figured pretty quick that this was the way it was gonna play out: she’d be big on questions, short on answers. ‘Well, I suppose.’

  Somewhere in my mind, I’d formed an impression of what a psychiatrist should look like. I blame television. She fitted none of the clichés, was too relaxed in a black linen shirt, grey-to-black cords and Kicker boots. Looked like she’d walked out of a Gap advert. Only the candy-stripe neckerchief bust the image, brought her back into the professions.

  Dr Naughton sat to the side of her desk, explained she didn’t want the object to be a barrier. I saw a young child’s drawing in a picture frame hanging behind her, wondered: One of hers, or a client’s maybe?

  She eyed me over a clipboard. ‘I usually ask new patients to tell me what they’d like to achieve with their first session.’

  I laughed. ‘Sorry . . . until recently I was going for a whole other type of session.’

  She didn’t say anything, gave me that over-the-glasses
stare as a prompt.

  ‘A session . . . y’know, a few bevvies.’

  She smiled, an indulgent one, wrote something down on her clipboard. There was a cycling helmet and a Karrimor rucksack in the corner of the room; figured an outdoorsy type wouldn’t approve. ‘Is that me down there as a drinker now?’

  ‘Is that what you want me to put down?’

  Sighed, ‘Wouldn’t be wrong.’

  She placed the clipboard to one side, took off her glasses altogether. She had very grey eyes. They unsettled me, reminded me of a caged wolf I’d once seen; but I was prepared to admit I was imagining things, making life difficult for myself. That was my usual modus operandi.

  I scanned the pine bookshelves behind her. They looked pretty light on books.

  Another question: ‘Can you tell me a little about yourself?’

  ‘Not much to tell.’ I sounded defensive. Maybe it was just nerves but I didn’t want a bad report to go back to Debs; tried to play along. ‘Well, can you give me some pointers? Yourself covers a multitude of things.’

  She returned to the clipboard and glasses, read from a list, ‘Patient. Ambitious. Sensitive . . .’ She stopped, looked at me again, continued, ‘Temperamental. Pedantic. Domineering.’ She put aside the notes once more. Removed her specs again and folded them in her hands. I noticed a wedding band and a very large rock sat above it.

  Said, ‘Yeah, that sounds like me.’

  ‘You identify quite a few aspects of yourself in there?’

  I nodded. ‘At one time or another I think we all have the potential to be sensitive or patient or . . . temperamental.’

  ‘When have you been temperamental, Angus?’

  ‘Gus, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . Gus.’

  She waited for my answer.

  I sighed. ‘Temperamental . . . I’m pretty temperamental now, have been for a few days . . . Look, my brother just died, you must know that.’

  ‘Yes. It’s in your file. How many siblings do you . . . did you have?’

  The answer bit me: ‘One. I’ve one left.’

  The doctor looked to be weighing possibilities; something formed behind those grey eyes. ‘What position were you in the birth order?’