Hod was due for release from hospital. I waited for the call. Mac had told me that Hod had some information to give me; apparently he’d come good. I’d already decided what my next move was going to be: if Hod had come up with the goods then it was time to do some serious head-stomping.
I sat in front of the tube, flicking, when I caught Gordon Ramsay calling a chef an arrogant twat, thought: Has the man no sense of irony? It was some ‘reality’ shite, couldn’t watch more than a second. Had the notion to suggest Tyson as one of Gordon’s next star turns — like to see him try the rough stuff on Iron Mike. Might even tune in for that.
Flicked some more, found an infomercial for a lateral thigh trainer. Kept going through the channels, hit the twenty-four-hour news. Some academic banged on about the end of capitalism, said we’d be binning globalisation and going back to small-scale economies. A bloke in the street had said something similar to me the other day: ‘We’ll see the horse making a comeback yet!’
I knew who I believed.
News said the oil price had slumped and Scotland was facing a whack to its offshore development. We’d lost our banks — some that were older than our dodgy Treaty of Union — our businesses were going to the wall by the hour, but I found something to smile about: the man who had been the country’s one and only billionaire had lost his title as Scotland’s richest man. His fortune had been slashed, he was even forced to sell his?50 million Cap Ferrat mansion. If I had any tears left I spent them laughing that he had to sell his?2 million yacht as well.
‘Welcome to reality,’ I said. Could see the day when some of the plutocrats that had been pushing the trickle-down economic model would be trickling down to the job centre. And it wouldn’t be long.
My mobi started to ring.
‘All right, my son,’ said Hod.
‘It’s John Wayne!’
‘I’ll be fucking John Wayne Bobbitt if I have to spend another night in here surrounded by nurses.’
I laughed that up, said, ‘Thought there was only two sure things in life — death and a nurse.’
Hod guffawed, ‘Aye well, no’ in uniform, that’s for sure. The food’s fucking awful as well; my belly thinks my throat’s been cut.’
I saw where this was going. ‘You checked out?’
‘Aye, oh aye… Want to come and collect me?’
‘I can hardly say no. When?’
‘Now, mate… sooner if you can make it.’
I flicked off the TV, said, ‘I’ll get in the car.’
I left the dog behind, chucked him some Bonios.
The roads were still iced up. No sign of a gritter the entire route. I drove in the teeth of a fierce wind all the way to the hospital. When I arrived Hod was out front in a short-sleeved shirt, three buttons open. The dash said it was about two degrees above freezing, but he looked unfazed. His second skin poking out his collar did the job. He smoothed down the corners of his tache as I pulled in — still couldn’t get used to the sight of it. ‘You want to drop round Wyatt Earp’s gaff to give him his mozzer back?’
‘Shut it, man. You’re just jealous of my manliness.’
‘Ah-ha, of course, your manliness… that’s what it’ll be. And I thought I was just embarrassed to be seen with someone who looks like he’s one of the Village People.’
He gave me the finger, said, ‘Fuck off, I can take it.’ We pulled out laughing. I was glad to have my mate back in one piece; didn’t think I’d ever been happier to see him. We headed for the Wall but got stuck in a static lane of traffic.
‘These roads are murder,’ said Hod. He winced, went on, ‘Sorry, didn’t mean… you know.’
I put him straight: ‘Don’t be daft, I’m not that far gone.’
‘Look, why don’t you pull off the road, we’ll grab a coffee and a roll in there.’ He pointed to a caff with a big open window. In front of it a bloke in a Honda indicated he was leaving his parking space.
I nodded, stuck the car into first.
The caff was a bit of a dive, peeling linoleum on the floor, peeling Formica on the tables. But it was a good solid Edinburgh scran house, and it suited us down to the ground.
Hod ordered up some rolls on sliced sausage. ‘You put onions on them?’
The waitress was tipping sixty, a frame so delicate a sneeze might knock her to the ground. Her face looked broken by the years, her eyes watery. She was no heartbreaker, but one of a thousand like her in the city. She was what the Scots call soulish. ‘You want sauce with yer onions?’
‘Oh aye, brown sauce.’ Hod rubbed his hands together, a bit too energetically: his ribs twinged and the pain played on his face.
The waitress left us, but her forlorn presence lingered.
I spoke: ‘Mac said you’d made a few calls in the hospital.’
He nodded. ‘Got on to some of the builders still in the game. Had big Brian Ingram pay me a visit as well — had lots to say.’
I was glad to hear of some progress. ‘Well, spill it.’
‘Your Pajero geezer… name’s Radek.’ He put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a note. It was an address overlooking Leith Links, written in carpenter’s pencil on the back of a torn-up pack of Regal King Size. ‘That’s his kip.’
I smiled, waved the address about. ‘This is good work, Hod.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve got my uses.’
‘So, what’s this cunt’s story?’
Hod leaned in. ‘Well, he’s no fucking saint.’
Surprise, surprise, said, ‘We knew that.’
‘In fact, he’s a bit of a nut-job by all accounts. Big Bri said he started out on the sites about a year and a half ago, was labouring, doing it hard as well. Double shifts on more than one site about the town. Was pulling a fair whack in poppy, but never happy, y’know the type?’
I nodded. ‘Eye to the main chance, enough never enough.’ No wonder he got on so well with fat Davie.
‘He’s got a bit of a rep as a boxer as well, going bare-knuckles and that. Got into a few scrapes on Bri’s crew and he punted him. Mad bastard only went and pulled a blade.’
This all sounded very interesting. ‘Mad indeed.’
There was some kind of commotion up the street, horns blowing. I looked out but couldn’t see anything. The waitress reappeared. She crept towards the window and stationed herself there like a wobbly sentry. I watched her shake her head, bony fingers worrying at the front pocket of her nylon tabard.
Hod reeled me back in. ‘Anyway, so Radek set himself up, got a few homeboys around him, was pulling in some gigs here and there and the rest is, well, you know the rest.’
The horns got drowned out by a belt on a police siren. A blue light flashed into the caff. ‘Aye, aye, it’s the woodentops. What’s going on here?’ I said.
Hod looked like he was about to speak, his mouth began to form the words then closed like a trap as the door to the caff swung open.
In walked a couple of uniformed plod. ‘On your feet, Dury.’
I turned. ‘Wha’?’
I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘Now come on, don’t have us haul you along the street… On your feet. We’re going down the station.’