Gutted

Chapter 31

The times I’ve cursed Edinburgh buses for clogging the roads and spewing out fumes, but Christ, I was grateful for this one. As I caught the doors they were closing. Driver said, ‘I should put you on the street!’

‘Do me a favour — I’m just about there as it is.’

He took the fare from me and crunched the gears, grunting and moaning as though I’d jumped his bus with the sole intent of pissing him off.

I planted myself at the front and copped looks from the folk who’d avoided the seats reserved for the elderly and disabled. I was tempted to say, Look, I’ll move if anyone wants it… but kept it to myself. I was still panting after the run and needed to conserve my energy for the next stop on my journey to the bottom of the heap.

I wanted to see what Mark Crawford would have to say for himself when I hit him with the fact that I knew the dog that he was using for target practice on the hill the night Moosey died was registered in his name. The vet’s little revelation put a whole new perspective on things; well, did for me anyway. His legal-minded father, I’m sure, would have some way of wriggling out of it. Things had gone from weird to weirder on this one; I just didn’t get the boy from Ann Street straying so far from the straight and narrow. For sure, he’d lost a sister, he had the motive, but something wasn’t stacking up.

I left the bus and took a slow schlep through the better end of town. I sparked up a Bensons and had a quick check that there was no filth on me. I seemed to have dropped them — at least, I couldn’t spot any obvious contenders for the role in the street behind me.

Ann Street’s front gardens are what can only be described as elegant. Whenever I see this kind of finery in the city I always think of Stevenson, the creator of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He grew up round this way and managed to weave a story that summed up Edinburgh’s dichotomy nicely: beautiful on the outside, rotten on the inside.

I felt a twitch begin on my shoulder blades as I took the gate of the Crawfords’ home. The working-class programming told me I should be doffing cap and trudging to the rear of the property. The twitch migrated, set itself up in my chest as my heart rate increased.

I pushed the buzzer, chucked my tab into the rose bushes.

No one answered. I pressed again.

Movement.

Slow footsteps towards the window. I could see a white shape flit behind the glass, then the door was opened an inch or two.

‘Hello, Mark,’ I said.

‘You can fuck off.’

‘Nice words… Bet the neighbours adore you.’

He widened the gap a little, spat at me. I watched him step back and try to slam the wood in my face but I was ahead of him, had my shoulder in place to take the weight and propelled myself forward. The door slipped from Mark’s hands, slammed into the wall.

‘Butterfingers,’ I said.

He watched me for a moment then backed up the hall, balling fists.

I stepped inside. Closed the door behind me, sang at him, ‘I think we’re alone now…’

He lunged. I saw the swing of his heavy right hook and stepped in to block it with my forearm. I had my own right at the ready, sledged him in the gut. He dropped to the floor, gasping. The young yob curled up, taking a fair share of Persian rug with him. I grabbed him by the collar, raised him.

‘Get in there, y’daft wee cunt.’

He found it impossible to straighten. He walked like Groucho Marx into the living room, wheezing and spluttering. I put the sole of my boot on his arse and forced him onto the couch. He curled up again, still gasping for air.

‘What the fuck are you playing at, laddie?’ I said. ‘That was the most pathetic put-up I’ve ever seen…’

‘Fuck off.’ He could only manage a whisper.

‘I mean, running with the Sighthill massive and that’s the best you can do? I’m ashamed for you.’ I took out another Bensons, sparked up. As I walked about the place Mark kept his eyes on me. ‘I mean, what did you think you were up to there, Mark? Playing the hard man, eh? Running with the young crew to get closer to Moosey, and maybe, just maybe, the chance to pay him back for what he did to… Christine?’

The mention of his sister forced him to sit upright, spew words: ‘You don’t know a thing, nothing. You’re just a washed-up fucking alkie who’s got nothing better to do with his days than go about noising other folk up.’

I laughed. ‘Been doing your homework on me, Mark… Wise. I’ve been doing mine on you too. It turns out that dog on the hill, one I rescued, it’s registered to you.’

He said nothing.

I pressed him. ‘Is that an official “no comment”? Doesn’t look very good, Mark. How do you think the police would take that news?’

He rose, shook his fist. ‘The police think you’re the one.’

I drew on my tab. ‘Now what would give them that idea? Your father, perhaps?’ I let that suggestion sting, watched him for a reaction. There was none. He stood before me, trembling.

‘What were you doing up there, Mark? The night Moosey was killed. The man who they say killed Christine, little Chrissy, your sister.. ’

He ran at me with his hands out. I stepped aside and booted him in the knees. He clattered into the fireguard, brought down an ornamental poker. He curled on the floor again, clutching his legs.

‘Mark, I’m not fucking messing with you… Two men are dead, there’s money missing, and some serious people are unhappy about the whole fucking situation. Now, believe me, I might just be the best friend you have. Come clean and tell me what you know or you’re gonna be going the same way as Moosey and Tupac.’

He gritted his teeth. They were among the whitest teeth I’d ever seen — made me realise just how young this lad was. I knelt down, put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Mark, I mean it… tell me what you were doing up there. Did you lead those lads on? Did you tell them about the money Moosey was carrying, was that it?’

He writhed on the floor, teeth still gritted. ‘You don’t know a fucking thing — you’re just a dumb fucking alkie.’

‘Mark, I know about the fifty grand. I know Moosey was carrying it that night and I know what the kind of crew you were running with will do for fifty grand.’

‘You don’t know fuck all.’

He started to get up. I rose with him, supported his elbow; he snatched it away. ‘Moosey got what he fucking deserved, he killed my sister.’ He bawled at me, ‘He killed my fucking sister!’

His nose was inches from my face. I could see the tears spilling from his eyes as he roared, ‘That man killed my fucking sister!’

I grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him. ‘Mark, tell me what happened on the hill. Who killed Moosey that night?’

I was shaking him hard as the door to the living room was flung open and Katrina Crawford walked in. She was holding two heavily laden carrier bags in each hand, swung them before her and dumped them on the couch. She crossed the distance between us and forcibly snatched her son from my clutches.

‘Leave him be,’ she yelled, ‘he’s just a boy.’

I felt my brow roll up to the ceiling; I flung up my hands. ‘I have this boy of yours on the murder scene… He was so stupid he registered his bloody dog!’ I grabbed him by the collar, spun him to face me. He was still gritting his teeth. ‘Tell her, tell her about the dog… Tell her how you didn’t even have the marbles to register it under a false address. Makes me think you’re just not cut out for the life of crime, Mark.’

His mother manhandled him out of the room, led him upstairs. I followed. When she got halfway up the wide staircase, Katrina Crawford turned. ‘I bought that dog for him… and I want it back.’

I laughed, ‘You bought it…’

Mark looked at his mother, wondering where this was all going. She spoke: ‘I bought the dog, it’s my property. Are you going to give it back?’

I smiled. ‘Not a fucking chance.’ I turned for the door, said, ‘Tell the police. Maybe they’ll haul us both in for a chat, Mrs Crawford.’

She turned her head slightly, removed a hand from her son’s shoulder and tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear. I thought she might say something but she merely opened her mouth, almost imperceptibly, then closed it again.

‘Och, you don’t like that idea,’ I said. ‘Wonder why.’