Free Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) by Tony Black Page A

Felt my lips cracking as the whisky punched back some of the moisture that the air-con had taken.
    ‘So, to what do I owe the privilege?’ said Rasher.
    I put down the cup, crossed my legs and made a steeple of my fingers above my knee. It was a practised look: canny. Rasher failed to raise an eyebrow. Instead he clocked me head on. I said, ‘I’m working a story.’
    ‘You are?’
    ‘Laird kid.’
    He looked nonplussed, barely altered his breathing; if he did it was a sigh, ‘Oh, really.’
    ‘No interest there? You surprise me. I thought Gillian Laird was big news.’
    Now an eyebrow went up. ‘Aye, you’re right … was .’
    He was trying to say there’d been too much print given to her already, that the public can only stomach so much before it starts rebelling.
    ‘The lezzing-off’s old news, granted … but this isn’t,’ I said.
    Rasher took up his cup, supped, smacked a white tongue off his lips, said, ‘Folk have had enough of her coupon on the front page, Gus. You know how it is.’
    What he meant was they’d given her a hard enough time of late; the lawyers had likely urged they ease off.
    ‘Aye, sure … but this is a new line. I’m telling you, there’s a tale in there that no one’s got to yet.’
    ‘Go on, then.’
    Was that interest? Doubted it. Had seen him more enthusiastic for the Spot the Ball solutions. Christ, they’d went overkill on Gillian’s coming out, understood, but this case was worth looking at; I felt that in my gut. Did that mean I still had the stomach for this racket?
    ‘She’s convinced the kid was murdered.’
    ‘We’ve ran that line.’
    ‘Yeah, but no one’s probing it, no one’s looking into the facts. That’s what I’m on about.’
    Rasher stood up, drained his cup. He wasn’t buying. He picked up the bottle of Teacher’s and put it back in the filing cabinet. I watched his every move closely. Could feel my grip slipping, felt played out. Knew I’d failed to impress. He thought I’d wasted his time.
    ‘Dury, if you have something … say.’
    I had squat.
    ‘Well …’
    ‘Exactly. Look, it’s hard to ignite public sympathy for some posh brat that got tanked up and stretched his scrawny fucking neck … Nobody cares. Even if you do turn something up, it’s a tough sell.’
    There was more to this than he was letting on. I pressed: ‘Okay, what’s the Hampden Roar here – you got a spoiler story?’
    Rasher arked up, ‘Shit no … Look, you’ll find out soon enough, suppose. Ben Laird was no good … into all sorts he was.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Trust me, everything bar a shit sandwich! He was the campus wide boy, go-to guy for grass and brass.’
    Ben was obviously more of a piece of work than I’d thought – even going on Amy’s assessment. Not quite the mummy’s little special, then. ‘How do you know this?’
    ‘Filth was all over him. Got some fucking record, tell you wide as a gate, that boy. No story there, though, family far too connected, nobody saying a word that doesn’t come through press officers or a fucking lawyer. Trust me, it’s a non-starter … unless.’
    I knew what that ‘unless’ meant. I knew every permutation of ‘unless’ he was after. It was scandal, preferably of a sexual nature. If I could crowbar in a tug at the reins of power, maybe some corruption, or any old dirt involving some city figures, I’d be in with a shout.
    ‘Okay, I hear you. Look, this is early days. I’ve only just took the job, but if you’re prepared to extend me a bit of help …’
    Rasher kicked the filing cabinet’s drawer shut with the heel of his cheap plastic shoes. ‘Help? … And what might that translate into?’
    I drained my cup then stood. ‘Get one of your copy boys to print me out the scoops on Gillian Laird. Do me a file of interest on Ben and—’
    ‘Jesus, y’know how fucking short-staffed I am? That’s taking someone off the job for a day or two, Dury.’
    I held schtum. He sighed, a loud one.