Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) (11 page)

I could feel the hit taking hold, laughed out, ‘Oh, gotcha – he get turned over?’

Stevo stood up. He didn’t seem to see the funny side. ‘Something like that. Look, I should get off. You’re the night-man, and I don’t get any OT from that prick Calder.’

I waved away the hash smoke, said, ‘That Calder fellow’s a bit of a stuck-up old git, is he not?’

‘Calder!’ He spat the name out. ‘Total bastard more like.’

It didn’t take much to press him for more: ‘Oh aye?’

‘Got me kicked off the course. Could have swept it under the carpet but wouldn’t have been the thing to do for a mere pleb like me.’

It seemed to me Stevo had done okay. ‘What do you mean,
mere pleb
?’

He took another heavy blast on the joint. ‘Calder is part of, you might say, a cabal … I didn’t really notice until, well, recently, but there are some people in here could get away with murder and not even get their wrist slapped.’

I kept calm, slid the word out slowly: ‘Murder?’

He looked rattled, turned away and stubbed the joint. He didn’t say it, but I knew he wished he could retract his last statement. ‘I don’t mean literally. I just mean there’s a few in here more equal than others.’

This wasn’t the time to press him. ‘You going Orwell on me, Stevo?’

He came back to himself, laughed. ‘Oh, God no …’

‘Glad to hear it.’

I watched him put on his jacket, retrieve his rucksack from the ground. ‘Right, you cool with the rounds and what have you?’

I nodded. ‘Check the windows and doors … after
X Factor
, right?’

A smile. ‘Aye, then again before you knock off.’ He looked as if he was about to say something else but stopped himself.

‘What is it?’

‘Oh, nothing …’

I took a chance, played it dumb as, letting the query sound casual, mere interest. ‘That hanging … the actress’s boy … were you in that night?’

He gripped the strap of his rucksack tighter, his knuckles turning white, his lower lip curling over his teeth. His eyes shifted left to right in search of some kind of answer. ‘You heard about that?’

‘Only what I read in the paper.’

He brought his other hand up to the strap and gripped just as tightly. ‘Yeah, I was here … It was me that found him.’

Jackpot. I thought young Stevo might turn out to be a mine of information. He did look genuinely upset at the recollection, though, and I didn’t want to press him, but knew I must. ‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing. I mean … I phoned Calder, that was it.’

‘You didn’t call the police?’

His lips parted. Slowly the words came: ‘Oh, no …’

‘Why?’

Stevo’s face widened in a rictus smile. ‘I should think that’ll be obvious once you’ve been in here a wee while.’

I wasn’t following him. Wanted to press for more answers but he was gone, out the door and off to his room with his store of information largely intact. I was left alone with the smell of turps and disinfectant. The place was eerily quiet. I didn’t fancy staying until after midnight, but had no choice. I decided to take a stroll around the campus, get the fumes out of my head. I played over what I’d just witnessed – seemed to me everyone with a connection to the uni got more than a wee bit jumpy at the merest mention of Ben Laird’s death. There couldn’t be a conspiracy – would be way too Dan Brown – but maybe there was something at the back of it. Fear, perhaps. But who or what were they afraid of?

I was emptying some bins when I caught sight of a group of students heading for the staff block. They looked to be on a mission. I remembered their sort from my own failed attempt at academia – all piss and wind: read a few books, memorised a few quotes and thought they were Oscar Wilde. I shook my head.

‘You missed one!’ I turned to see a
University Challenge
escapee in a flannel shirt pointing to a bin at the far side of the square; it was overflowing. A crowd of his mates arked up beside him. They looked hyper … fucking rugger buggers probably just back from drinking beer out of each others’ cracks.

‘Excuse me?’ As I watched the lad approach I got a closer look, clocked the ginger hair, the coat-hanger shoulders: it was Paul, Ben’s old mate whom I’d met earlier at Gillian’s place. He hadn’t recognised me in janny garb.

‘Isn’t it your job to empty the bins? Well, you missed one.’ He pointed again.

‘Y’wha’?’

He looked shocked now; the watery eyes thinned. He obviously wasn’t used to back chat from the help.

Some indignation played on his quivering lips. ‘I think you’ll find it’s your job!’

I stepped towards him. ‘Now, this is a different Paul to the last time we met. This how you talk to the working classes?’

He backed off. Gave me a few glances up and down. The penny dropped; made quite a clang. ‘What are you doing here?’

I let him figure that out himself for a few moments, but he looked as though he needed help, said, ‘Calder appointed me.’

Paul’s powdery-blue eyes widened. ‘Oh, I see.’ He either didn’t approve, or was genuinely terrified at the prospect of what I might find. Both options got stored away.

‘Is that all right with you, Paul?’

The lad stumbled, a carrier bag he’d had pressed to his hip dropped to the ground. He seemed to have a habit of dropping things when he was rattled. ‘Yes, of course.’ His brain-dead mates started to get antsy, grouped around him and tried to look threatening; he sent them on ahead.

‘We need to have a little chat, Paul.’

He picked up the bag. ‘Do we?’

‘I think it might be a good idea … don’t you?’

He straightened up, looked towards the road. His friends were a fair distance away now; he was ready to either smack me or bolt. It was pure fight-or-flight instinct. ‘I have to go.’

He shrugged past me, walking at first but soon dipping into a jog. ‘See you around, Paul.’

He turned, started to run, looking over his shoulder as he went.

Back in the doocot I played over what I’d just seen. Wasn’t happening: I needed to let some time pass before I could look at it with any sense of detachment. I dipped into some Hemingway,
True at First Light
, that Stevo had left behind. It was a newish edition, but the book was published posthumously and had been edited by Hem’s son Patrick. I had read the book once, but never was able to find the story. Perhaps it needed more editing, or should have stayed locked away in the bottom drawer. I wondered what other lost laundry lists of Papa’s his family was planning to publish.

I smoked the last of Stevo’s reefer; took a few pelts on a bottle of Grouse I had in my hip pocket and settled down to watch the snooker. There didn’t seem to be much to this job, if you could call it that. Before long I was knocking out the Zs. I dreamt of
Debs and happier times for what seemed like an age until I was woken by a loud clanging.

‘The fuck’s that?’

It sounded like a window banging. I got up and grabbed the flashlight. Had a thought to fashion a chib from one of the broom handles, but there was enough weight in the torch to be effective if it came to that. As I went out the door, I checked my watch. It had gone 1 a.m. The campus was desolate, not a murmur, except for that banging. I followed it, checking windows as I went.

The corridors smelled of the same disinfectant as the doocot, but much less potent. There was also a dampness creeping into the mix that no amount of scrubbing was going to dislodge. As I shone the torchlight on the floor I could see the myriad scrapes of shoe soles that had scarred and pitted the floors over the decades. Although the place felt empty, seemed empty, I got the distinct impression I wasn’t alone.

When I reached the entrance to the Grand Hall I paused. This was where Ben Laird had died. I didn’t want to get too close to whoever had brought him to that end, but it wasn’t something I was backing away from. My hand trembled as I pushed at the door. On entry I heard scuffles but when I tried to direct the flashlight, I dropped it on the floor.

‘Who the fuck’s there?’ I shouted.

Footfalls. Scuffles at first, then quick steps. Running.

A window slammed shut. I could still hear the shuffling of bodies nearby.

I got down on my knees and tried to locate the flashlight. It had gone out on impact with the floor. ‘Fuck … shit.’

I tried to guess at the number of people in the hall; I couldn’t count them. It was more than two or three for sure; maybe a lot more.

‘Who’s there? Show yourselves, y’fuckers …’

I flailed about for the flashlight, found it; pressed the button but it wouldn’t come on again. I tapped the head of the torch in my hand, tried to get it working. Not a flicker.

I had a bad feeling as the room fell silent. Manoeuvred myself over to the wall. I kicked at the high skirting with my Docs, felt the oak panelling and slid along to the light switches. As I turned them on I was almost too scared to look. My breathing halted. In the silence of the night I could feel the cold breeze blowing from the banging window. It was nothing compared to the cold line of sweat that formed on my spine as I stared ahead.

In the centre of the stage, above a toppled stool, was Joe Calder. He was hanging by a thick rope.

‘Oh, Christ …’

I looked about, saw the window flapping in the night air. I ran over, looked out. Saw nothing in the darkness. Whoever had been here was well and truly out of sight now. I walked back to the stage, looked up at the hanging figure.

Calder looked smaller, more pathetic than I remembered him.

His grey flannels indicated he’d vented his bowels and bladder as the rope had tightened. His face was pearl grey and contorted. He didn’t look like a man who had died a happy death.

PLOD’S RESPONSE FLOORED ME. If I saw one flashing blue light, I saw a hundred. They swarmed on the uni, had the grounds floodlit and taped off before I could blink. A power of uniforms spread out, taking orders from a small coterie of pot-bellied detectives in the sort of coats BHS specialise in. Wife-bought, no doubt. The hall was sealed off and all the exits guarded by barrel-chested thugs in high-visibility jackets. I watched one playing with the handle on his baton; it sat in a quick-release holster; he looked primed to crack a few heads. None of the campus bods messed: a couple of stragglers in dressing gowns floated about, approached the odd WPC and got pelters for their trouble. The word had obviously went out from on high: batten this one down, fast.

‘Right, eh … Dury?’ It was a balding fifty-something with a Magnum P. I. tache and a roll-neck that had been worn to shreds by his stubbly jowls.

‘Yeah, that’s me.’

I didn’t expect a hand to be extended, so I wasn’t disappointed. ‘Aye … you match the description.’

‘
Eh
?’

A grunt; some tea-stained teeth put on show. ‘You’re the talk of the station.’

My rep preceded me. Was hardly surprised; a chill passed through
me, though. I could recall being fitted up by these fuckers one too many times before. Three cold beads of sweat ran down my back like a cat’s claw.

‘Look, I gave my statement to the young lad in uniform. What is it you want from me?’

His dark eyes widened above heavy bags, stretched so much I could make out the cholesterol rings on his irises. ‘I’ll ask the fucking questions.’ He licked the tip of a pencil, brought it down to hover above his notepad. He was still staring at me, waiting for a tell, a twitch, any excuse to lamp me one, introduce me to the slippery steps, when a Daimler pulled up. The vehicle was flagged through the cordon. Thought: Must be top brass. I watched the car roll towards the main building, then glide to a halt a few steps away from us. As the door opened, I caught sight of a star and a crown on an epaulette. Wasn’t an expert on the filth but felt sure that kind of flash was reserved for the chief super.

‘Oh, fuck …’ said Magnum tache.

I looked back at him. He pressed the pencil tip into the notepad; the lead snapped.

The super made his way towards us with a purposeful stride. Silver-grey hair had been carefully parted on his head. He covered it with his cap. The badge shone in the flashing lights. Though it was the middle of the night, he was immaculately turned out; couldn’t do much about the furrows on his brows, though. He looked like a man ready to bust heads under his carefully polished police-issue shoes.

‘Detective.’ His clipped voice sounded out of place in this century.

‘Chief Super.’ I half expected to see bowing and scraping, genuflexion.

The boss man started to put on brown leather gloves. They clashed with the black uniform, but I wasn’t about to tell him. ‘What’s the SP, Detective?’

‘Erm, well … no’ much change since the briefing.’ He turned to me. ‘This is the bloke that found him.’

The super put steely-blue eyes on me; I felt frozen in his gaze.
For a moment I thought he might speak, but he merely sussed me out, drew what he could from my appearance – by the kip of me, I dreaded to think what that might be.

The super took the notebook from the detective, flicking back a few pages. He halted on one or two points. I watched him wet his lips with a flash of grey tongue. The piercing eyes seemed to be recording every detail; he unnerved me.