Gutted (7 page)

I moved to the kitchen table, sat down and lit a Marlboro.

Rasher had sent on the cuttings from the Crawford child killing story. I’d been having difficulty reading them. Normally I have a strong stomach for this kind of thing but for some reason, lately I’d been going soft. Call it age; it certainly wasn’t maturity.

Little Christine Crawford had only been a tot, three years old. There were so many pictures of her splashed over the pages it was impossible not to become attached. I was press, I knew we always chose the cutest shots. The girl they called Chrissy was a sweetheart: blonde hair, blue eyes, the apple of every parent’s eye.

As I tried to read about Chrissy’s death my throat froze.

She had been in the Meadows – one of Edinburgh’s most popular parks – with her mother. Walking, just walking and playing on a bright spring day, when she’d run off behind a tree. Minutes, just seconds perhaps, out of her protector’s sight.

Passers-by described a scream, high-pitched, the kind only a very
young
child makes. No one saw the moment of death. Thank God. The first on the scene, a male passer-by and the child’s mother, were greeted with a sight of immense bloodletting.

Chrissy hadn’t stood a chance.

The dog’s owner, Thomas Fulton of Sighthill, was traced.

He’d claimed not to know that the dog, an illegal pit bull terrier, had escaped its enclosure.

I shut the folder. Kept a cutting out, one with an address in Sighthill.

My coat was hanging by the door. I knew what Mac and Hod would say about what I planned to do next, but it was something I just had to pursue.

ON GORGIE ROAD
the bus driver was forced to hit the anchors. A shower of crusties with placards had taken over the road, marching five to ten deep.

Hands went up in the cab, palms slapped on the wheel. ‘Get off the road, y’bloody hippies!’

I had a laugh to myself. Driver was flat-topped, giving off more than a hint of redneck vibe. I said, ‘What is it . . . ban the bomb?’

He turned, squinted at me. ‘They’re hippies.’

Like that was supposed to explain it all. Never ceased to amaze me, this attitude. Bit of an out-there hairstyle, to some it’s worse than carrying a flaming trident. How did Shipman get away with whacking all those old ladies for so long? Short back and sides. Deffo.

As the bus driver found the high gears again, I caught a glimpse of some posters being tied to the gates, pictures of animal vivisection. Monkeys with huge metal rods stuck in their heads, great sores weeping, blood, guts. Just horrific. My stomach tightened; in the last few days I’d had more than my fair share of blood and guts. I looked away. Thought: Who
can
look at that?

The second I got off the bus in Sighthill, I was looking for syringes on the ground. In the All Stars trainers there was no way I was risking a puncture. Made a note to get the Docs cleaned up sharpish.

I followed a trail of Tesco trolleys, bashed, rusted and wrecked. Suppose a few trolleys go missing up here – who’s gonna come after them without Delta Force back-up?

The scene was a
Mad Max
movie: burnt-out cars, boarded-up windows, more trash than the tip, blowing all ways.

In the city, down the East End, Leith, you see poverty, but nothing like this. This was Third World. Sure, we’d spared them the need to build their own shanty town, but only because we’d done it for them. Welcome to high-rise hell.

I grew unnerved by the lack of bodies; a place like this, it’s a sign. But then I saw an old woman, struggling along with an Aldi carrier bag. She was ancient, at least eighty. Looked to be all hard years too. Wondered what she’d done to deserve being dumped out here. Christ, we look after our oldies, eh? As she approached I smiled – put the frighteners on her and she grabbed up her bag, held it to her chest.

‘Good morning,’ I said.

She stood still, eyes wide, trembling. I didn’t know what to say. Chose the easy option: nothing. Left her be. At the end of the road she was still clutching the bag to her chest, staring.

As I turned around, an anorexic Vicky Pollard put her nose in my face. I looked her up and down, thought: When the widest part of your leg is your knee, you’re in trouble.

‘What you fucking after?’ she spat.

‘Come again?’

‘You’re no’ from around here . . . You looking for business?’ She blew a pink bubble at me, looked like the old Bazooka Joe.

‘No, er, no thanks.’

‘How? You no’ fancy me?’

I tried to walk around her. She jumped in front of me and lifted her tight black sports vest, flashed her tits. ‘How’s that then?’ Her ribs stuck out further than those gnat stings.

I pushed her aside. ‘Put that away, I’m not interested.’

‘A blow then, or a chug for a tenner?’

I didn’t answer. Felt a hail of abuse showered at my back as I
walked
off. Was beginning to wonder if it had been a good idea coming out here without an AK-47.

I had Moosey’s address from the cutting; it wasn’t too hard to find. There were so many houses boarded up in the street that I could pick out the inhabited ones from a mile off – they had glass in half of their windows. There was a gate to the yard but it was lying in the middle of the lawn, poking through grass about half a foot high, flattened in part by a burst mattress that had recently been flopped down in the middle. I stepped over a car tyre with, what was that, teeth marks? It looked like it had been half chewed by Godzilla. As I banged on the door I heard the likeliest cause, barking and scratching on the other side.

‘Shut it!’ was yelled. A female voice, gruff.

I stepped away, looked down the street. A couple of beer guts with trackies tucked into their socks had stepped out to see what I was up to.

‘Shut the fuck up, y’wee cunt!’ came from the other side of the door, then there was the sound of a lash. The barking turned to a whimper in an instant.

The letter box slid open. ‘Who’s that?’

I knelt down. ‘Eh, hello there . . . I’m looking for Vera Fulton.’

‘Y’can fuck off if it’s money yer after . . . I told those other cunts he left nowt!’

‘No, I’m not after money. I’m here about your late husband.’

A spray of words came through the letter box: ‘What about him?’

I sensed this was going to be tougher than I’d imagined. She sounded edgy. ‘I’m a journalist, I’m looking into the death and . . . well, I’d like to talk to you about the way Tam passed. Mrs Fulton, I really think we should talk.’

A long pause stretched out between us. I heard whispering, then, ‘I can’t be blethering through the letter box. You better come round the back, this door’s nailed shut.’

As I left the yard one of the beer guts stood in front of me in the path. He was a big biffer. As I sidestepped him I spotted the
Regal
King Size pack tucked into the sleeve of his T-shirt. I took out my own smokes, sparked up.

Round the back was surprisingly ordered compared to the tip out front. Half of the yard was given over to a row of huge kennels with heavy criss-crossed bars holding in five or six snarling dogs, bull terriers and cross-breeds that looked ready to go. On the other side of the yard, a skinny old bloke with massive
Two Ronnies
glasses and a ponytail, had one of the dogs on a treadmill, a two-and-a-half-kilogramme weight dangled round the beast’s neck. The dog put eyes on me as I appeared and the old geezer gave it a smack with a belt across its back. I didn’t want to get too close, figured any objection wouldn’t go down well.

‘Well, what is it?’ A woman in her bad forties, bloodshot eyes and a wine-stained smock greeted me at the back door.

‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Fulton.’

She huffed, folded her arms and looked over my shoulder. The bloke with the hardy dog approached, said, ‘Who the fuck’s he?’

I eyeballed him, looked him up and down. There were creases in his denims that could cut butter; thought him worth ignoring. He slunk around me, stood behind the widow. She said, ‘You wrote that bit in the paper, didn’t you?’

I nodded.

Her eyes looked far away. She said, ‘I recognised you.’

‘Do you think we might go inside? There’s a few questions I’d like to ask.’

The skelky guy bridled, but Vera said, ‘It’s okay, Sid. Come in, son.’

Inside the house we were greeted with a hail of barking; about five or six small dogs let rip. The place was dark and stank of piss. Most of the windows and doors had been boarded up. The carpets had been torn to shreds, I was guessing dug up by dogs. I wondered how people could live like this. The joint needed hosing down, with a fucking flamethrower.

I took a chair, threw myself into it too violently and a cloud of
dust
was evacuated. A small terrier stuck its nose in my crotch; I pushed it away. Guessed a coffee wasn’t going to be on offer.

Moosey’s wife watched me look for a place to put out my cigarette, spoke: ‘Just put it there.’ She motioned to the floor. ‘Have you any more?’

I offered round my tabs; both were takers. I felt too nauseous to join in. The place was rank.

I wasn’t sure if Vera was playing the grieving widow or this was her usual state, but she seemed tranced. Sid perched beside her on the couch and watched me closely.

I said, ‘I wanted to ask if Tam had any enemies, anyone who might want to harm him?’

Sid creased up. ‘That’s a good yin . . . Do you a fucking list?’

I was a bit lost for words. A man had just died, brutally.

‘Who would be on this list?’

I looked at Vera but Sid answered. More laughs. Huge belly laughs this time. ‘You’re a comedian, mister,’ he said. ‘They were queuing in the street to kick Moosey up and doon it every day of the week!’

‘And why would they be, Vera?’

She turned away. Sid answered again: ‘Moosey was a right cunt, mister . . . You’ll no’ find much sympathy for him round here.’

This guy was pissing me off. I hit him with, ‘I hear he had some friends, though . . . like Rab Hart.’

Sid’s smile vanished. I watched the cocky expression melt from his face, then the streak of piss pointed a nicotine-stained finger at me. ‘If you’re coming round here to noise folk up, you’re liable to go the same fucking way as Moosey, boy.’

I was getting somewhere. ‘Was that his problem? Did Moosey noise somebody up?’

Sid rose, pointed again. ‘Now, I’m fucking telling you—’

I stood up to face him. ‘What,
Sid
, what are you telling me?’

I had half a foot on him. He backed down, went for the door.

Vera was still sooking on her tab, still looked out of it. I produced
my
mobile, brought up Hod’s pictures of Mark Crawford, showed them to her. ‘Have you seen this kid, Vera?’

Her moist eyes took in the image. ‘He’s one of the young crew . . . from the scheme.’

‘Did you ever see him with Tam?’

She stared on at the picture, shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Do you know who he is, Vera?’ I said. ‘He’s the brother of the little one that they say Tam’s dog killed.’

Vera’s gaze left the phone. She pressed it back on me. I watched her stare out the back door. Her cigarette was burnt down to the filter tip.

‘Vera, did you know that he’s the Crawfords’ boy?’

Quieter: ‘No. I didn’t know that.’

As she got the words out, the beer guts from round the front came in. Sid was behind them, with the mad-looking dog on a choke chain. He shouted, ‘Take a warning, y’cunt: keep your nose out our fucking business . . . or you’ll get it broken.’

I CAUGHT THE
first bus out of Sighthill. Kept looking for the signs that read ‘You are now leaving the jungle’. I was in a hurry to flee this dumping ground. It was strictly for the dispossessed. The druggies. The dangerous. The dole moles. The beyond help. I worried if I stayed there too long I’d begin to fit in. I knew that with less luck, less support, I’d be there myself. Holed up in some one-room rathole, downing Special Brew every night of the week, waiting for the next giro to arrive.

As the bus pulled out my mobi rang. Got some looks. Put on my ‘like I give two fucks’ face.

‘Hello . . .’

‘Hi, it’s me.’

Most folk have a few close people in their life who can get away with that introduction. Me, I’ve got one. And it had been close on six months since I’d heard her voice.

‘Debs, hi . . . How are you?’ Sounded weird, struggling for words with my ex-wife, but there it was. No matter what kind of closeness you once shared, life has a knack of getting in the way of it.

‘I’m well, y’know . . . You?’

I lied: ‘Never better.’

Bit of a gap on the line.

A false start, like banging heads together.

‘I was meaning to call earlier.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ I said.

‘No you weren’t. You would have let me fade to black.’