Free Gutted by Tony Black Page B

laughed, full-on belly laughs, then sat down. As he dried his eyes he let out a slow trail of words: ‘Dury, Dury, Dury . . . why, oh why would I waste my time joking with you about fucking your mother when in actual point of fact I am fucking your ex-wife?’
    That got my attention. I took my hands out of my pockets, met his eyes across the table. I mustered all my reserves of cool to stop me lunging out of my seat.
    He spoke again: ‘And may I say . . . what a mighty fine fuck Debs is.’
    That was it – I reached for his throat. Instantly I was grabbed from behind, dumped back in my seat. I was winded, breath taken out of me.
    Boss Suit paced, sniggered.
    I went with, ‘She always had some bad taste: she chose me . . . Shit, there goes your advantage. Gonna have to look for some other leverage.’
    ‘Enough badinage, Dury,’ said Johnstone. He leaned over the desk, flipped open the file. ‘Take a look at those.’
    Inside the folder were photographs of the corpse I’d stumbled over on Corstorphine Hill. The corpse I knew to be Tam Fulton; it looked worse than I recalled. In the full flash-glare, worse even than my nightmares. Two eight-ball eyes where the blood vessels had ruptured. Lots of sliced-up flesh. The pictures showed him at the crime scene and then some had been taken at the morgue, which had yet more detail. Camera close-ups on the actual knife wounds, pink flesh spilling over bright orange fat deposits. Made me want to hurl my guts up.
    I pushed the folder aside, said, ‘Are you trying to gross me out?’
    ‘Don’t jerk me off, Dury.’
    I pointed a finger, said, ‘Jerk you off . . .? Don’t you think I’ve had enough sick images for one day?’
    He slapped his palms on the table again – it was becoming a habit – then scooped up the pictures and started to flick through them one at a time. ‘Murder, Dury, is not something we like to joke about in the police force.’
    He was too close to me, so close I could smell the expensive aftershave, the breath fresheners. I leaned back.
    ‘Oh, it’s unpleasant, isn’t it?’ said Johnstone.
    ‘What I find unpleasant is being in the same room as some jumped-up little prick in a shiny suit, and being presented with puzzles. If you have something to say, say it . . . otherwise, let me the fuck out.’
    He cooled, closed the folder, fastened the clip. ‘What were you doing on Corstorphine Hill on the night of May fifteenth, Mr Dury?’
    ‘I’ve already told you.’
    A long slow trail around the room, hands in pockets, then, ‘You’d be better to come clean with me now, Dury . . . It could all get terribly messy if you leave it too late. All those deals you see on the telly are bullshit. Real police work is a lot more . . . intense.’ He illustrated the last word, raised his hands and splayed fingers out either side of his head. If this was the international symbol for ‘intense’ I’d missed the memo.
    I wanted to give him the full intensity of my boot in his arse. I felt my mouth go dry, my teeth stick to my lips. Johnstone had nothing on me – it was all histrionics. All strutting. If he hoped I’d bottle it under the harsh lights, so he’d have a nice wee story to go back home and tell Debs, he was going to be disappointed.
    I said, ‘For the record – and can you make sure this is noted down? I wouldn’t want you to bollocks your proper grown-up police procedures – for the record, I have no clue what in Christ’s name you’re on about.’
    A grin. ‘All right, all right.’ He turned to the pug on the door. ‘Constable, the case, please.’
    Johnstone pulled a laptop from a black briefcase and placed it in front of me. It booted up quickly. Few clicks later, I was shown some footage. I sussed at once that it was the security reel from the twenty-four-hour BP garage at the foot of Corstorphine Hill. Some white lettering in the corner of the screen told me the date it was taken was 15 May.
    The reel started shakily, then jumped