‘Do you want to tell me what this is about?’ I said.
Obviously he didn’t: the uniform put his hand to his belt, took off his cuffs. I was spun by the shoulders and thrown onto the table.
‘For fucksake!’
Hod was on his feet. ‘This is out ay order.’
‘Shut it,’ said the flatfoot. ‘I can easy take you in as well.’
Hod raised his hands. I saw the old waitress come back from the window to join the rest of the folk in the caff staring at me, mouths open, heads shaking. I thought, What the fuck have I done?
On the street I got passed to another uniform, heard the first one talking on his radio, ‘Yeah, bringing him in now, guv.’
My head got pushed down as they forced me into the meat wagon. I protested and arced up, ‘What the fuck is this about?’
‘Shut yer fucking yap, Dury.’
It concerned me how well known my name had become, in all the wrong circles.
We took the ride to Fettes with the blue lights on. I thought this was a bit much, but there was no doubting their effectiveness on the Edinburgh traffic. I was thrown about in the back of the wagon; the cuffs dug into my wrists and stretched my arms from their sockets.
At the nick they hauled me in. ‘Look, you gonna tell me what this is about?’ It was ten minutes before the bastards took the cuffs off me, shoved me in an interview room.
Minding me was what looked like one of the force team’s rugger buggers: flat nose, beefy chest, and thighs that meant his trousers required the special attention of a tailor. He didn’t even glance at me, stared off into the middle distance, a dream of Murrayfield glory dangling before him.
I rubbed my red wrists as the door opened, a waft of air hitting me in the face. It was Fitz; he looked proper furious. The spruced look had gone — his collar open, the tie hanging like a noose. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and he was unshaven. I saw some burst blood vessels in his eyes when he looked at me.
‘Dury, by the fucking cringe.’ He slapped a folder down on the desk. I watched it fall; some pages escaped its edges.
I wasn’t biting. ‘Why the fuck am I here?’
He saw me rubbing my wrists. ‘Did they try the rough stuff?… Sorry, I told them to go easy.’
It made little difference to me, the situation hadn’t changed. ‘Do I have to ask you again?’
Fitz pulled out the chair in front of me. It stuck on a table leg. He cursed it, yanked so hard the table shook. I leaned back and fixed eyes on him. He was aware of my glare but didn’t respond. He ferreted in his pocket for a pack of Dunhill, found them, realised he didn’t have a light, said, ‘Ho, bonnie lad, you got a light?’
The uniform shook his head, pulled out his empty pockets.
Fitz said, ‘Ah, a feckin’ fitness freak.’ He opened a drawer and located some Swan Vestas, sparked up. He offered me a smoke; I declined.
‘Are you going to tell me?’ I said.
He drew in. ‘You don’t know?’
This was insane. ‘My telepathy’s on the blink, Fitz.’
He peered into me, over the smoke; I knew I’d been tested. Maybe I was still being sussed out. Either way, Fitz’s tone changed. He turned it up: ‘Ye feckin’ reckless young heller!’ He jumped out of his seat and slammed the table.
I’d seen bursts like this before, some in this station. It didn’t faze me. ‘Sit down, man.’
He paced, turned to me again. ‘You are one daft fecker, Dury. Daft as feck… Running about all over the shop, wrecking my investigation.’
Was this going somewhere? ‘Look, do you want to fill me in?’
‘I’d feckin’ love to fill ye in, Dury!’ He drew fists, ash fell from his cigarette. ‘Nothing would give me more feckin’ joy.’ He stamped back to the desk, grabbed the folder and opened it up. He plugged his tab in the corner of his mouth, muttered as he turned pages to find what he was looking for. The folder held photographs. He picked them up, one by one he flung them at me. ‘Feast yer eyes on that little lot… Jaysus, if it doesn’t make ye throw I don’t know what will.’
Fitz stamped away again, walked over to the wall. I watched him running his hands through his hair, then he hoisted up his trousers by the belt loops. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as he turned to watch me pick up the photographs.
‘Oh, fuck no…’
The images were horrific. They’d been taken at a crime scene; nothing had been missed out. I saw a face robbed of its features, black bruises and deep-drawn wounds where you would expect a nose or an eye. The pictures were in colour, but seemed to lack the full spectrum: everything appeared black or white, the death-mask skin so pasty, the blood so dark. The only hint of colour I found was on the collar of the old Lord Anthony ski jacket.
Fitz stood over me, ‘You recognise him?’
I nodded. ‘It’s Andy… from the factory.’ I kept turning the pictures. There were wider shots, had taken in the length of his body. A particularly gruesome image showed Andy lying spreadeagled, on wasteland. There was a dark pool of blood behind his head, down his front it looked like another bucket of the stuff had been tipped over him. Something was pinned to his chest — I saw the hilt of a blade.
I pointed. ‘What’s that?’
Fitz leaned in, drew on his tab. ‘That there… that would be the poor bastard’s tongue.’
I felt a heave in the pit of my gut. ‘They cut his tongue out?’
‘I don’t think the fecker did it himself.’ Fitz stubbed his cigarette, moved round the other side of the desk, sat. ‘I know ye spoke with Andy Gregory earlier in the week.’
I looked up from the photos, pushed them towards him. This was quite a turn of events. ‘Have you been trailing me?’ I knew he hadn’t; I’d never met the plod who managed that trick without making it as obvious as a donkey’s cock.
Fitz pointed a finger at me. ‘Dury, don’t feckin’ quiz me on this investigation. Ye have already gone and bollixed it up.’ He moved his finger to the photographs.
‘You blame me for that?’ The accusation jabbed me. Andy was a good man. He had helped me out, because he knew there were wrongs being done and because he respected the memory of my brother. I felt enormous guilt to have endangered him. All I could think about was what I had said to fat Davie on the Craigs, about having a snitch. Mac had held me back — I knew I’d fucked up. Had I caused Andy’s death?
Fitz kept still, then spoke slowly: ‘I don’t know the exact circumstances… Andy Gregory was obviously in over his head.’
It was time to tell Fitz what I knew.
I revealed everything I’d learned from Andy about the Undertaker’s involvement. He seemed to know all about it, sounded like the factory had been under surveillance for some time, which told me how they knew I’d met with Andy. I told Fitz that I knew Davie Prentice was up to his nuts in it and that got nods. He didn’t know what fat Davie had told me about Michael meeting with the Undertaker the night he died, and he knew nothing about the Czechs — or pretended not to.
‘What else did you question Andy Gregory about, Dury?’
‘The factory, y’know… what was going on in there.’
‘And what did he tell you?’
‘The Czechs had pushed out McMilne and he wasn’t happy.’
Fitz reached for another smoke. I took one too this time.
‘This is getting feckin’ tribal,’ he said.
I lit my cigarette. It tasted too mild after the Marlboros. ‘It’s only going to get worse. The Czechs are…’ I was going to tell him about the visit to Michael’s home the night he died, about the bloke with the black Pajero, but Fitz shot me down.
‘Don’t tell me how to do my feckin’ job, Dury.’
I saw he had a boner for the Undertaker. Fitz was glory-hunting, he was imagining the headlines, knew he had a press favourite on his hands. It made me mad as hell. Another man had died — how many more would there be? ‘If you did your fucking job I wouldn’t need to tell you. And I wouldn’t have a dead brother.’
That wounded him. Fitz rose from his chair, swept up the pictures and closed the folder. He walked to the door. Before he went through it, he turned. ‘Leave this to the professionals, Dury, or sure as there’s a hole in your arse you’ll be joining your brother soon.’