GOT OFF THE BUS AT North Bridge. Had managed two steps before some skanky yoof with a lip piercing started to seriously agg me, walking backwards waving fliers for a comedy gig. Got to love Festival time. I tried to walk around him, went left, then right. Wasn’t happening. Skinny jeans and Converse All Stars working overtime to keep up.
‘What’s your comedy passion, geezer?’
Did he just call me geezer? ‘Comedy passion… Go away and find sense, lad.’
Undeterred: ‘You look like a serious man. Political satire, I’m guessing?’
‘What’s that… Harpo Marx?’
Still undeterred, those matchstick legs doubled their pace. He wasn’t giving up. But he was new to this patter, I had that sussed early on. Turning my stride towards the edge of the pavement, I subtly steered Student Grant at the pile of cardboard boxes outside Argos. His legs actually managed to fly in the air at the same time as he hit them. His arse thudded into the boxes like an anvil falling on Wile E. Coyote. Managed a laugh; almost felt grateful to him for that. Not grateful enough to help him pick up the fliers that floated into the gutter though.
At the uni I had a deep sense of unease; felt ready to go off like a ten-bob rocket. Had already had enough of the type of brat who frequented this joint. Was relieved beyond words to see the place virtually empty. I fronted a tabard-wearing old girl with a mop. ‘Hello, there…’
World-weary eyes rolled skyward. ‘Aye?’
‘I was wondering, who’s running the show right now? Looks like the Mary Celeste in here.’
Didn’t register. I got pointed to the stairs, ‘Office is up there, might find some folk knocking about… Might no’, mind.’
I thanked her, gave a grateful nod, went for the stairs. I could feel the alcohol oozing through my pores. There was a cold sweat rising on my brow and an icicle forming on my spine. I knew it was time for a heart-starter, blast on the Grouse to melt the frost; knew that was an unlikely shout for the foreseeable. My stomach griped, threatened to start greetin’. I clenched fists in my pockets and tried to stamp the craving out on the marble steps. At the top landing I headed for the door. The office was empty save some tweedy Morningside lady with a teapot, mid-pour. Said, ‘Hello there.’
The biddy looked startled. The spout trembled; some tea escaped onto the saucer. ‘Oh, dear, dear.’ She started to move some papers away from the spreading spill.
I walked over, gave her a hand. She pressed out a weak smile, showing some yellowed teeth. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’m looking for Mr Calder.’
‘Oh yes… he’s in today.’
Playing it cool: ‘He is. Grand.’
She took a box of man-size tissues from a desk drawer. ‘He’s been in the whole time. Pretty much gave up his vacation since the, well, y’know…’
I watched her mop up the tea. ‘Since the…?’
‘Incident.’ She spoke sharply, I missed all intonation. Thought: Pity – would like to have noted that.
‘You mean the Ben Laird… incident.’
She straightened her back, eyed me full-on. ‘Yes.’ She walked away with the pile of wet tissues, dropped them in a bin on the other side of the desk, said, ‘If you’re looking for Joe, he’s in his office.’ A hand went onto her hip. She pointed to the door, continued, ‘Down the corridor, second door on the left… His name’s on the front.’
I smiled, thanked her. Something about her manner, about the way she dismissed Ben’s death as no more than an incident, like it was all just an inconvenience, troubled me. I wanted to press her but I knew this wasn’t the time. Probably wasn’t the place either, but I’d be fucked if I was giving Joe Calder the same consideration. The man at the helm needed his buttons pressed right away. There was something about this case that reeked of cover-up – of those with the power abusing it.
Turned for the corridor; took the oak boards all the way down to the white-painted door with the brass nameplate on it. The prick had been pretentious enough to have the string of letters engraved after his name too. Cut no ice with me. Thought about knocking but it’s not my style.
Strode in, took a look about. Calder was fifty-odd, but could have passed for ten years shy of that mark. He had a lot of hair, swept back over a high forehead and tucked behind his ears, sitting in tight curls above his shoulders. From a certain angle it looked like a very bad mullet, the kind that sat over a Klem top on Hibs casuals of the eighties. Didn’t rate my chances of getting along with him. Maybe it was the ox-blood brogues. He sat upright, seemed to focus on my tweed, calmed some, said, ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
I strolled to the bookshelves beside his desk, eyeballing the titles. Lit on some Foucault, Sartre, Derrida… maybe he wasn’t a total arsewipe after all. I wasn’t betting on that, though. He got out of his chair, started to stroll over to me. ‘Excuse me, but is there something I can help you with?’
I turned, gave him the once-over, head to toe, said, ‘Might just be, Joe… might just be.’
His brows lifted. A loose curl of dark hair unfurled from his fringe, he swept it back with a very weak wrist movement, went, ‘Do I know you?’
‘I don’t know, Joey Boy… do you?’
The puzzled look turned to panic. ‘Look, what the hell is this? You come into my office and-’
I raised a hand to my mouth, motioned shush. He stilled, stepped back, it has to be said, nervously.
I went, ‘I’ve been speaking to… your new rector.’
‘What… I mean, what do you mean?’
‘Shouldn’t that be a why… or perhaps even a when?’
He ran fingers through his hair, straining to produce a dim smile. ‘Right… this is some kind of joke, is it? Has Gillian put you up to this?’
I moved past him, sat on the edge of his desk. Stubbed a finger into the thick layer of dust, blew it away. ‘Joke… do you think Gillian’s in the mood for jokes after her son’s been murdered?’
Calder’s face drained of all expression. If there was any colour left it was in his lips… and they were blue.
‘Don’t forget to breathe, Joey Boy. I hear that can seriously impair your health… Y’know, like a fucking noose round your neck.’
He raised his hands to his ears, splayed fingers, then shot past me, ran for the other side of the desk and picked up the phone. He bashed a few digits, said, ‘Margaret, Margaret… is that you?’
I followed his steps slowly, faced him.
Calder said, ‘Good, can you please get that security guard up here, I have-’
I reached over the desk, cut off the phone. Calder stood with the receiver in his hand, looked at it, looked back to me, said, ‘I want you out of here right now… whoever you are, I want you off the premises right now or I’m calling the police.’
I started to chuckle; couldn’t remember putting the shits up another grown man with such ease. ‘Look, Joey Boy, who the fuck do you think you’re kidding? We both know the last person you want round here is plod.’
He lowered the phone, placed the receiver in its cradle. As he did so the door behind me swung open. A borderline obese fifty-something with a Ray Reardon slick came puffing in and nodded breathlessly towards us. ‘Everything okay here, Mr Calder?’ The words came out slowly, gave us all time to think.
‘Erm, no, Mick… actually, I mean, yes… everything’s fine.’
I gave the security guard a tug of the forelock; he backed out the door like a trained spaniel. Knew inside of five he’d be back in his doocot scratching his balls and whistling through his teeth at the high nipple-count in the Star.
I waited for the footsteps to fade from the corridor, let Calder be seated, said, ‘Now then, quite a sorry fucking mess we have here, eh?’
‘I don’t know what you’re referring to at all but-’
I cut him off, slamming hands on the desk. ‘Don’t cunt me around, Joey Boy… or it might just be your scrawny neck in the noose next.’
You get guys with out-there hairstyles, there’s usually a reason for it: mam did them a bowl-cut right through to their teenage years; maybe they got stuck on Bono’s Joshua Tree look, never got over themselves, or woke up to the fact that U2, and Bono especially, were such a bunch of wank that it was actually deeply embarrassing to contemplate. Joe Calder, it suddenly struck me, was wearing his hair long for much simpler reasons – if he didn’t, he’d be the spit of Louis Theroux. He had the selfsame gangly gait, the slightly lost look to the eyes, hiding behind double-glazed glasses that could do with a good wipe. He also had that stalled, almost addled, way of communicating; like a deeply self-conscious teenager who wanted desperately to stay a small child because it had worked so well for him in the wrapping-adults-round-their-little-finger stakes. He was a man-child; guessed he’d been spoon-fed through life. He’d probably came straight to academia from his own schooling and never left because he had found the perfect place to hide. I don’t think I’d ever met a man more deserving of a slap around… Christ Almighty, disguising the look of Louis Theroux with a fucking Michael Bolton hairstyle was seriously call-the-doctor time.
‘Right, Joey Boy… you and me are gonna have a bit of a chat here.’
He fidgeted in his chair; the castors beneath him squeaked. He held schtum. Gave him this: he had marbles, knew when to keep his trap shut. There was nothing he could come up with that was going to dig him out with me. I had him pegged as up to his nuts in Ben Laird’s death and I wasn’t letting up on him. The sheer look of this streak of piss was enough to have me gantin’ for his scalp; fact I had him on the back foot was all a bonus.
I eased back – felt like a leopard with a gazelle – ready to cane some big-time arse. ‘Yeah, make yourself comfortable, Joey… I’ll be taking my time here.’
He got jumpy, arked up, ‘Look, I have plenty to be getting on with… without this.’
I laughed in his face. ‘Trust me, laddo, you’ll have fuck all else to be getting on with for the foreseeable.’ I put the bead on him. Caught his eye; my own was steel, but he blinked and looked away to the bookshelves. Thought to tell him there were no answers there for him; he could keep his learning. Way I was playing it, there was no Dummies guide could help him. I kept it zipped, though, let him squirm a bit, wonder what in the name of fuck I was playing at.
I strolled over to the window, stared out, removed a pack of Rothmans and sparked up. ‘Quite a spot you have here,’ I said. I turned head in time to see Calder shrug. Of course he had no idea how nice a spot this was, he’d known nothing else; slogging in a call centre or wheeling tyres at Kwik Fit wasn’t ever on the cards for this arsewipe. I drew deep on my tab, felt a heavy craving for something a bit stronger. My throat constricted with every twinge of desire. I was suddenly in the ballpark of hallucinations; don’t know where the feeling came from but it welled up in me, sent tremors through my bones. I wanted to shake myself, step outside my body, but there was nowhere to run. I was trapped. My hands started to tremble. I took a nervous glance at Calder – he was staring at his shoes, had seen nothing. The moment had passed off without incident, but I knew there was going to be a time when I wouldn’t be so lucky.
I spat, ‘Is this fucking office dry or what?’
‘I don’t… you mean alcohol?’
‘What do you think? The middle classes not offer their guests a drop?’
He raised himself from the creaky chair, crossed the rugged boards to a little wooden cabinet. ‘I actually don’t drink myself.’
Great surprise indeed. ‘Yeah, well, I do.’
That got me a glower. The balls on him.
The bottle of Glenfiddich was a fair age – had seen the logo updated at least once since it was last on the shelves – but it was still three-quarters full. He poured out two fingers’ worth… Felt the frown creeping up my face. ‘Jesus, wet the glass, would you!’
He poured in some more, smirked. If he thought this was the moral high ground he’d been clambering for, he was sorely mistaken. I was here to talk about a young lad’s death… not my predilections and peccadilloes.
I grabbed the glass, said, ‘Cop on, Joey… it’s not me on trial.’
‘I don’t believe I am either.’
I slugged deep. ‘Yeah well, not yet anyway.’
Pushing past him, I went over to the cabinet and retrieved the bottle to top up my glass. I was a bit overenthusiastic: my hand trembled as the whisky reached the brim and tipped over. I clawed it back, took a good pelt and prodded Louis Bolton back to his chair. He was far too malleable; even in my condition I could see this. There was no way I should be pushing him about so easily. It unsettled me. He was hiding something, deffo. Only the guy’s social skills were so sub-Rain Man that he didn’t know how to conceal it. He was conforming to type: the real world was out there, beyond the quadrangle… not somewhere Joey Boy often set foot. This was either going to be very easy, or next door to impossible. I knew if I pushed this loser too hard that he was going to cave, completely fold on me, and that would be it: no more from him.
The whisky settled my cravings, put my gut back a notch or two on the cement-mixer setting it had adopted earlier. I was functioning. Yep, that was the word, heard it all the time, I was a functioning alcoholic. Only, I knew it. I figured those jakeys on the street didn’t have a scooby the nick they were in; I had that going for me, I had the nous to know I was fucked. F. Scott Fitzgerald described a first-rate intelligence as the ability to keep two seemingly opposed thoughts in your head at the same time; never really sussed what he meant, until now. By God, I knew there were conflicting emotions and thoughts flying around inside me: I had the case to be getting on with, Hod to be dragged from the shit, and my insides crying to be put out of their misery, finished off… and, also in the pot, the deep knowledge that something wasn’t right here. That there were people, people I didn’t like much, covering up.
I had no pretensions to a first-rate intelligence as Fitzgerald described it – fuck, if I did, I wouldn’t be in this kip – but I knew where he was coming from. I screwed the nut, tight.
‘Okay, Joe, let’s start in the low gears, eh?’
His eyes widened. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.’
‘I think the phrase is… take it from the top.’
‘You’re talking about Benjamin.’
I managed a wry smile. ‘That’s right, tell me about the night Ben… died.’
He eased himself back in the chair; the castors squealed out. The noise seemed to unsettle him, forced his palms together. He laced fingers, unlaced them, then wrung his hands out. ‘I wasn’t here, of course.’
‘Of course…’
His eyes came up to meet mine. ‘I mean I don’t live on campus.’
I nodded, trying to appear calm, reassuring. ‘Go on.’
He sighed. ‘There was a call in the night, can’t even remember who it was from… one of the security staff. They said the police were here and wanted to speak to someone.’
I kept my tone calm. ‘That would be you.’
‘Yes, well… someone had to.’
‘Go on.’
‘I came down and there was a phalanx…’ he drew a line in the air, ‘a wall…’
Was on my mind to say I know what a bloody phalanx is, but went with, ‘The police?’
‘Yes, they’d sealed off the route to the Grand Hall.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s where they… found him.’
‘And then… what?’
‘Well, nothing… that was it, really. They told me there’d been a death, they had a name, and I identified him as one of the student body.’
Sounded very clinical, if not perfunctory. Could just be plod jumping to conclusions, looking for a quick wrap-up, but then again, none of this looked good for them… or the uni, the city, anyone. Lifting the carpet and sweeping it all under was never more appealing. Said, ‘No one questioned you?’
Calder looked as though he’d been hit with a brick, ‘Good God, no… Why would they…? What do you mean?’
I finished my drink, reloaded, moved round to the front of the desk, eased myself down. ‘A young lad was found dead… hanging from the rafters. You’d think questions would be asked… of someone.’
He got out of the chair. ‘Are you implying…?’
I wasn’t implying anything. Wondered where the theatrics had sprung from. I pulled it back. ‘Sit down, Joe… we’re only talking here. A boy has died, smack bang in the middle of your manor. I’m guessing you’d like some answers as much as me… as much as his mother.’
The mention of Gillian put some steel in his spine. He found some reserves of cool. ‘Yes, of course… it must be very difficult for the family.’
It seemed a cold thing to say, like it was the first time it had even crossed his mind. ‘The woman has lost a son… she’s finding it a bit more than difficult. She doesn’t think Ben’s hanging was as straightforward as the police and you want to believe… She wants answers.’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Do you, I mean do you really?… Gillian Laird is a very wealthy woman, she has influence and she has power, and that combination greases a lot of wheels in this town, Joey Boy.’
He scratched his head, turning that lank hair of his behind his ear again. ‘I just don’t see what I can do. I mean, I’ve told you all I know… I just work here. I’m not privy to every aspect of human interaction that takes place, I’m just a lecturer! I mean, what do you want me to say?’
He’d said plenty.
I could see Calder wasn’t for caving on this first meet, but he’d said enough to let me know there was far more in the tank. He had something to say, and he’d be saying it, even if it had to be dragged out of him. I planned to stick around, keep a close eye on him. Knew he wouldn’t like that, but fuck him, he wasn’t the one with the hands on the levers. Said, ‘Gillian tells me she sits on the recruitment board.’
He turned down his mouth. ‘I think so… yes.’
‘Say you were to appoint a new janitor… what would be the recruitment process?’
‘A new janitor?’
‘Well, let’s skip the interview and CV and that… I fancy getting closer to the action – maybe we could just pretend I was the new janitor.’
He flustered. ‘That would be irregular, to say the very least.’
I bolded it: ‘And fucking murder isn’t?’
Calder closed his mouth. I watched his Adam’s apple rise slowly as he swallowed what looked like objections.
‘How about you go hunt out one of those dustcoats for me, Joey Boy.’