Last Orders (a Gus Dury crime thriller) (3 page)

She sighed into the receiver, 'Okay. I'm all ears.'

'Great. I was hoping you'd say that because I could
really do with your help.'

'Sounds ominous.'

'I wouldn't ask if there was anyone else.'

'Sounds even more ominous.'

I could see I'd caught her in one of those moods, played
the placatory hand. 'How about a drink ... tomorrow?'

'Where?'

It wasn't going to be in my manor and I didn't fancy the
trip out to Lothian Road where she was. 'How about Deacon Brodie's, around
mid-day ...'

'Christ, if you're going that touristy why don't we just
go to the Sherlock Holmes?'

'It's smack-bang in the centre ... I was thinking of the
ease and convenience.'

She laughed me up. 'Holy shit, Gus, you'll be buying Hush
Puppies next!'

'Yeah, whatever.'

'And putting a door in the bath.'

'Yeah, good one.'

'Getting a fucking stairlift and a Big Slipper ...'

She was on a roll. I cut her off, said, 'See you there,
Amy.'

Hung up.

* * * *

I spent the night supping Sweetheart and staring at the
wall. I only interrupted this pattern of events to delve into a book and chug
on the odd Silkie. I could hardly manage a decent draw so told myself the fags
couldn't be doing too much damage. The reading I wasn't so sure about. I'd once
had a houseful of paperbacks but was now reduced to doing all my reading on the
screen of a Kindle. I'd been resistant at first — books were like vinyl to me,
each one had history: a time and a place they were purchased, a memory of the
first play or read to regale with — but now I was swept along with the
convenience of a mobile library in my pocket.

I started to devour works I'd never contemplate in
paperback:
War and Peace
,
Parts One and Two
;
The Communist
Manifesto
; classics by the barrel-load. They were all free, but I couldn't
help but wonder how, or why?

When vinyl went, we lost the musos. They were replaced
by boy-bands and talent-show shite. It was as if the world didn't have a place
for the artist anymore. Or at least, didn't want to pay for them.

We'd just about lost journalism — my profession — to a
kind of corporate PR. I wondered what was next? If we lost all the artists
among us — those point men for the human race — we were truly fucked. Except
the corporations, of course. Jesus, it was like
The Player
all over
again: '
If we can just do away with these actors ... I think we'll really be
onto something
!'

I had no thought for breakfast and the last of the tins
of stout lay crushed and empty on the floor. The coffee craving was on me,
though, so I climbed into my Wranglers and looked for something to wear with
them that wouldn't have Amy in stitches of laughter. Opted for an old Super-Dry
flannel over a crisp white T-shirt. With the Crombie and the Docs I could have
passed for a student — a very mature and misguided one. Perhaps just out of a
marriage and trying to recapture some misspent youth. I didn't exactly want to
run with the analogy.

In The Manna House I got myself a large black and felt
my stomach turning at the thought of the sugary Danish on offer. Caffeine was
all I needed, at this point of the day I would have mainlined it if I could.
The friendly Italian at the counter knew better than to put chat on me, handed
over my cup and change and smiled.

'You have a good day now,' he said.

'Cheers.' No matter how mid-Atlantic we all became, I
couldn't resist a cringe sometimes. Would always be more comfortable with Scots
insults dressed up as patter.

On the way to Deacon Brodie's pub on the Mile I checked
my phone for any messages from Fitz: nothing. It was still early, and I'd only
asked him yesterday, but I still felt a twinge of disappointment. It was a
long-shot that he'd find anything on Caroline Urquhart and I knew it, but I had
to ask. My
modus operandi
was always, turn over all the stones in the
hope that you find the one with the gold key underneath.

The coffee was awakening the cold recesses of my brain
that had been put out of action by the stout and the distraction of reading. I
knew better than to brood on a case, you turned it over to the subconscious and
let it work its own way out. All my actions seemed to have turned up, though,
was more nagging uncertainties. I was missing something, not a piece of a puzzle
exactly, more like the whole picture was blurred. I felt like I was approaching
Caroline's disappearance from the wrong perspective but I had no clue what the
right one was.

The Mile was as steep a climb as I remembered. The
entire way sprinkled liberally with tourists dipping in and out of the
tartan-tat stores. It had once been quite a thriving, lively place — for an
open-air chocolate-box lid — but had now been turned into one, long outlet for
cheap plastic trash from Chinese warehouses. Someone at the council must have
been getting a good drink out if it, mind you, they seemed to open a new outlet
every week.

At the pub I traipsed to the bar and ordered a pint of
dark. I was a little bit early for Amy, which gave me just enough time to
settle my nerves with a few pints. Before I got my jotters from the paper, Amy
had been my Girl Friday. She was work experience, had a thing for old movies
with journalists cracking big stories. Had a thing for old journalists too, but
that's another story altogether. We never worked out because she couldn't comprehend
my ties to my ex-wife.

I don't know what I expected from Amy, she had too few
miles on the dial to understand. Christ, I was only coming round to the
realisation that Debs losing the baby was such a big deal because it was also
my one chance to right the wrongs with my father. And now I wasn't going to get
another chance to prove I was nothing like him.

I wired into the Guinness and took up a copy of The Hun,
which seemed to be replacing the Daily Ranger as the pub's paper of default.
There was a story about Maggie Thatcher being sick.

'And that's fucking news is it?'

'Come again, mate?' The barman lit.

I rustled the paper at him. 'Says Thatcher's been in
hospital ... nothing frivolous I hope.'

He mopped the bar top, grinned. 'She'll have been in for
an oil-change, they took her heart out in the eighties.'

It was the only explanation I'd heard that made sense. I
smiled and ordered a chaser, turned over to the sports pages.

On any given day of the week Amy will be dressed to
impress. She sauntered in, white mules, white jeans (skin-tight) and a
pillar-box red crop top that showed a stomach so flat you could eat your dinner
off it. The diamanteé stud in her navel, you could argue was over the top, but
who'd listen?

'Gus boy, how do?'

'Mair to fiddling.' That's a Scots spoonerism for you,
does it have a meaning? Does anything?

Amy settled herself at the bar, ran her fingers through
long black hair. She was a show stopper, men's eyes lit up like Chinese
lanterns about the place.

She looked relaxed, any animosity for me was on the
down-low. I was delighted because I had no desire to rake over that old ground.
One of my few remaining sources of pride was the fact that I'd trained Amy well
at the paper. I was likely being overly-generous on myself, she was a natural.
Amy had ways of getting to the bottom of things that I couldn't even fathom.
And that's why — despite our recent history — I'd called her.

I said, 'I need your help?'

She leaned over the bar and ordered a rum and coke. She
got the fastest service I'd ever seen. 'Yeah, help with what?'

'A case.'

A smile. Wide, a from-the-heart job. 'You're working on
something ...'

'In a manner of speaking.'

'Well, that's great!'

'Calm down, I wouldn't get too excited about this one.
Let's just say, I'm not overly optimistic of getting a result.'

'Work's work ... it beats staying at home and watching
Cash
in the Attic
.'

'You've a better chance of scoring cash there, it has to
be said. And I warn you, I don't see much scope for excitement.'

She sipped her drink, leaned towards me and planted a
hand on my thigh. 'I'm an excitable girl! Try me.'

I removed her hand, she curled the red-talons round her
glass again, threw her head back and laughed. It was Amy being Amy. When I gave
her the details of the case, she mellowed and put on her serious face. I
spelled out for her that I had some niggling concerns about just what was
behind Urquhart's tale.

'You think he's hiding something?' she said.

'That I don't know.'

She shrugged at me, the immaturity of her years writ
large on her face. 'He's a minister, though.'

I nearly laughed. 'There's no sin but ignorance.'

'Is that another quote?'

'Yes. It definitely is.'

I could see my point had registered. Amy was off her
stool and tipping back the last of her drink, setting ice-cubes rattling on the
side, before she slammed the glass down.

'Right, I'm on this,' she said. Amy was heading for the
door as she spoke again. 'I'll be in touch,' she tipped her head and winked. 'I
still have a few moves, you know.'

There wasn't a man in the pub she didn't convince with
those words, as she clacked heels and turned for the door.

* * * *

I set off down the Royal Mile, towards Abbeyhill.
Downhill was a far easier schlep, I even got to fancying I might make some
sense of things as I went. After all, hadn't Nietzsche said 'all truly great
thoughts are conceived by walking'. He might even have been right. But I got as
far as the Tron Kirk before I realised my only thought was for coffee to clear
my head.

Time was, drinking on an empty stomach had been 'fries
with that' to me but these days my body was waving the white flag. I abandoned
my principles and ducked into Starfucks. A little protest group — one beardy
student in a great-coat and flip-flops — stood outside with a banner blasting
the firm for tax avoidance. I shook my head at the absurdity, but inwardly
hoped he'd be picketing Jimmy Carr at festival time.

I put in my order and stood at the counter, waiting for
them to ring up.

'Can I take your name, please?' said the yoof on the
till.

'Y'what?'

Eyes rolled skyward, then a plastic smile. 'Your name
...'

I looked around, the queue was stretching to the door
now. 'It's not a mortgage application, son ... it's a coffee.'

I felt a hand on my elbow. 'They write it on the cup,
and call out your name.' It was a woman in a Boots uniform, she had the
courtesy to pin down the corners of her mouth and shrug shoulders as she broke
the news.

'Oh do they? ... I missed that meeting.'

The counter lad was frowning now, 'Sir, we're busy.'

I smiled, my best headlamp rictus. 'Please, call me Gus!'

I was stepping back from the counter, joining the 'collect
your order here' queue as my mobi started ringing.

I recognised the caller ID.

'Fitz ...'

'How do?'

'Yeah, never better ...' He seemed unmoved by the
politesse.

'Well, hold that thought because I'm about to piss on
your parade.'

That was the thing with Fitz, he didn't do soft-soaping.
'I take it you ran a check on Caroline.'

He bit. 'Jesus, Dury, watch what yeer saying!'

He was always over-cautious about talking on the phone,
there was no reason for it, apart from him having seen too many Bourne movies.

'Okay ... sorry. What have you got for me?'

'Do you want the good news or the bad?'

The way he was going, I wouldn't have predicted a
choice. 'Well, I always like to get the bad news out the way first ...'

'Urquhart hasn't filed a missing persons for his
daughter. That's the first hurdle right there. But on top of that, we've no
trace of her ... Caroline isn't on our books for anything.'

With all my suspicions about Urquhart this didn't
surprise me. What confused me no end was why he wanted me to find her at all. 'So,
we've only his word to go on that she's even here ... It doesn't make sense.'

'Oh, she's here.'

'
What
?'

I felt a shove on my back and the queue edged forward, I
was pressed against a large man in a sheep-skin coat who, from the back anyway,
could have been a distant relation of the late Giant Haystacks.

'Christ Almighty ...' he said, his voice a low girlish
teeter that didn't fit his scale.

'I'm sorry ...' Like I was arguing the toss.

'Gus ... Gus ... one large latte.'

I felt a wince inside me as an American accent mangled
my name from behind the counter. A large paper cup was plonked down in front of
me.

'Hope you enjoy your coffee, Gus.'

I didn't know whether to smile or chuck up at the
sentiment. Went for a nod, paired with a conspiratorial wink that said I wasn't
buying into all this false-bonhomie bullshit.

'Dury ... you still there?' Fitz sparked up on the end
of the line.

'Yeah ... just grabbing a coffee.' I manoeuvred my way
back onto the Mile, headed down for the crossing. 'Go on ... you were saying.'

'Caroline Urquhart is in Edinburgh ... or at least,
someone her age and going by the same name is.'

'How do you know this if she's not on your books?'

He sighed, sounded like a lengthy explanation was beyond
him. 'Because I ran her details with the Health Board as well ...'

'Jesus. That's a bit of a result.'

'It is and it isn't ... I don't have an address. She
gave a homeless hostel as her address, but I checked with them and she's moved
on.'

I stopped in my tracks. 'Shit.'

'Well, you'd think.'

'I hope you're going to tell me otherwise.'

'No, Gus, I have no idea where Caroline is.' He let a
gap on the line stretch out between us and I felt my hopes evaporating, then, 'But
if you have nothing better to do, I have an idea where you might, just might
mind, catch a hold of someone who does.'