Wrecked, page 1
WRECKED
A Gus Dury Novel
Tony Black
PRAISE FOR WRECKED
“Wrecked is my novel of the year.” —Ken Bruen, bestselling author of the Jack Taylor thrillers
PRAISE FOR TONY BLACK
“Tony Black is one of those excellent perpetrators of Scottish noir…a compelling and convincing portrayer of raw emotions in a vicious milieu.”—The Times
“If you’re a fan of the Ian Rankins, Denise Minas and Irvine Welshes of this world, this is most certainly one for you.”—Scotsman
“Black renders his nicotine-stained domain in a hardboiled slang that fizzles with vicious verisimilitude.”—The Guardian
“Ripping, gutsy prose and a witty wreck of a protagonist makes this another exceptionally compelling, bright and even original thriller.”—The Mirror
“This up-and-coming crime writer isn’t portraying the Edinburgh in the Visit Scotland tourism ads.”—The Sun
“Comparisons with Rebus will be obvious. But that would be too easy…Black has put his defiant, kick-ass stamp on his leading man, creating a character that deftly carries the story through every razor-sharp twist and harrowing turn.”—Daily Record
Copyright © 2019 by Tony Black
First Down & Out Books Edition January 2021
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by Zach McCain
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Wrecked
About the Author
Books by the Author
Preview from Code Four by Colin Conway and Frank Zafiro
Preview from Final Cut by Colin Campbell
Preview from Madness of the Q by Gray Basnight
Among them, as always, were good men and straight,
men honestly without work,
victims of a society ravaged by avarice, sloth, stupidity,
and a God made wrathful by Babylonian excesses.
—William Kennedy, Ironweed
Chapter 1
Things were on the up.
Sort of.
Couldn’t say I was closing in on the Seven Series Beemer, but at least I had wheels. How long they stayed attached to the motor was a whole other story.
‘So what’s the problem?’ said a beer-gut, shoving a wedge in his sky-rocket that could settle a few rounds at Bilderberg.
‘It leaks oil, by the bucket. I drove it here with the temp in the red the whole time.’
Hands.
I got shown palms—and they looked suspiciously clean for a man claiming to be a grease-monkey. ‘Never leaked when it left here, mate.’
Did I tell him I wasn’t his mate? No. Better to keep something in reserve at such a delicate stage in negotiations.
He leaned on the wing of my new Golf—well, new to me, Jimmy Savile was wining and dining with Prince Charlie and Sir Cliff when this one rolled off the line. ‘Look, mate, you got a nice little run-around there. If it’s a bit greedy for oil then you should keep it topped up.’
‘It’s a leak. If I pump any more Castrol in there it’s going on my boots.’
A shrug.
I got shrugs and a shake of the head—guys like him, it’s as if they think life’s a contest for the world’s biggest bell-end. He sprung off the car, turning to walk away.
‘Well, that’s what they call “buyer beware,” son.’
I didn’t like the son bit at all. And it came with a sneer.
‘Caveat emptor…that’s what you’re giving me?’ I shoved it back at him, he looked perplexed. ‘It means buyer beware.’
He stopped, weighed me with his eyes but had no answer. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving me. He kept about an inch of air between his beer gut and myself, but I wasn’t playing ball, said, ‘Have you ever heard of caveat rectum?’
‘What?’ That look of the scoobied, the thrown.
‘Caveat rectum—that’s where the buyer investigates the seller’s arsehole with his Doc Martens because he’s so fucked off with his purchase.’
Swear, I felt that beer gut retract—maybe he sucked in a breath.
He pulled back his shoulders. I saw that he thought about it, having a go, like, but retreated. I heard Michael Caine saying, “You’re a big fella, but outta shape”. This was far from a full-time job to me, but when the radge was on I could do a good impression of the bold Carter.
‘You got the paperwork?’ he said.
‘Sure have. And pay close attention to the date I drove it away.’ I handed over the document wallet and watched him flick through.
‘And you’d be Gus Dury?’
‘That’s my handle, don’t wear it out.’
He closed the wallet and crossed hands. His expression was inquisitive now. ‘Why do I know that name?’
‘Because you recently offloaded this piece of shit on me, perhaps?’
He watched me, his stare cold.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Just wait here a moment, please.’ His demeanour changed. He turned, began to traipse back to the portacabin. If he was trying to rattle me, he’d succeeded.
There was a big window on the cabin, barred over and plastered with sale signs, but I could still see him inside. He checked over the details in the document wallet again and then started tapping at a keyboard. I kept watching as I sparked up a red top. This lad was hunting for something—I thought it might be a get out, a way of spiking my claim, until he picked up the phone and looked even more pensive.
I turned away from the portacabin, concentrated on my tab and a manky seagull sitting on another rusting VW, a Polo this time, and I bet it came with quite a few holes. I kept a guard on beer-gut. The hardy stance had gone now. He was staring at me, clearly reciting my vitals down the line to an interested party. So now he was sussing me out, but who with? The DVLA? Plod? The Leith Massive?
The thought made me shudder—my rep hadn’t improved much lately, I’d only seen more loss of cred. I was shocked to see his grimace slide as he returned the phone to its cradle. He almost skipped down the steps towards me, a wide smile pasted over his face.
Maybe I still had some friends. Maybe it was just the Leith address. Maybe I was fooling myself.
‘Sorry, mate,’ was his opener. A forced laugh erupted. ‘I saw the name and thought I recognised it…’
‘You did,’ I nodded. I wanted to talk about the car, but the conversation had clearly moved on in his mind. I was intrigued but my dander was still racing about the Golf burning oil and, along the way, my coin.
Said, ‘Look, can we talk about the motor?’
‘What?’ He appeared genuinely stunned. ‘Maybe you could just follow me into the office.’
‘For a refund?’
‘God, no. I have a very interesting proposition for you, Mr Dury.’
And that is how it always starts.
The road to bruised knuckles and heartache. The sob-stories and the bad turns taken by people who should really have known better. We should all know better, shouldn’t we? I certainly should have in the past but things were different for me now. Christ, I had my job back. I had a measure of the fabled sobriety for once. Did I really want to go back over the past?
‘No, you look…and don’t call me Mr Dury, I hear that and I think you’re confusing me with my father, which is not a flattering comparison. I’d sooner talk about this bloody oil leak before we go any further.’
‘Sure. Of course, just consider it sorted. I’ll put the Golf on the ramp today and the lads will soon have it purring like a pussy cat.’
I had my doubts, considered asking for it in writing.
‘This way, come on, Mr D—I mean, Gus.’ He indicated the portacabin door, he’d left it open and the grubby, yellowed venetian blind was rattling in the breeze, scaring more manky seagulls into flight. ‘Come on, come on.’ He set off, mumbling, ‘Fancy you walking in here today when I’ve been after a man with just your particular talents since…well, we can get into that.’
Knew I would do just that. And more besides. But my focus was slipping towards the craziest about-turn I’d ever seen on a car lot. Salesmen usually only put on the charm when they want your money. This one was definitely after something but I had no clue what it was.
I crushed the cig under my boot and went inside.
‘Take a seat.’ He cleared a plastic chair of a pile of mouldering Auto Traders and pointed downward.
I dusted the base of the chair with my hand and sat. He was rubbing his palms together as he stood before me.
‘Coffee…er, tea?’ he said.
Declined. My shots weren’t up to date, so thought it best. ‘Can you get to the point?’
‘Of course, yes.’ His fat arse slid onto the desk, dislodging a lava flow of windscreen sale stickers. He was clearly nervous, perhaps even
a little perturbed. I found myself glancing at the door but wondering all the while when my car was going on the ramp.
‘Okay. Okay. So, it’s like this Mr—’
‘Gus,’ I cut in.
‘Yes, Gus. I’ve lost something.’
Your mind, perhaps? I held schtum, he still had all the cards after all.
‘Go on.’
‘I looked around…’
‘But couldn’t find it?’
‘That’s right.’
Was going to be pissed if it was a set of car keys after this build up.
He went on. ‘A friend of mine, well, I asked him what to do. And he said, what you need is someone who does this kind of thing, y’know, professionally.’
‘A professional finder?’
‘A detective.’ He almost whispered the word, like it was too politically incorrect to utter.
‘And so you priced them up and thought, fuck that! Which is where my name came in.’
‘Oh, no. No, no.’ He slid off the desk, his lardy arse still wobbling as he shuffled nearer to me. ‘You’ve got me all wrong. It’s not that kind of thing I’m looking for, not a…’ he weighed hands in the air, like he was trying to juggle water, ‘it’s more of a, you might say, unconventional loss. Yes, that’s it, not through the proper channels, so to speak.’
I was getting the picture, even if he was drawing it for me in crayons.
‘Let me get this straight. You lost something and you need to find it, so a friend gave you my name as someone who might help.’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. There was a twitch above his eye and a line of moisture forming on his upper lip that caught my attention.
‘Now, if I’m picking you up right, this loss of yours wouldn’t be anything a reputable firm would even be remotely interested in finding.’
He kept quiet, only wetting his dry lips with a grey tongue.
‘And so you come to me, as a man well-known for sticking his face in the fan.’ I paused, my lungs still seemed to call for tobacco, so I sparked up again. ‘Which makes me think this loss of yours would be far from above board, possibly verging on the illegal, am I right?’
‘I don’t think illegal is the correct term.’ He flustered, running the back of his hand over his mouth as he gazed out the dirty window at the contents of his dodgy car lot. ‘But I would be keen to avoid entanglements with the law, that is fair to say.’
I drew on my tab, the small room was filling with smoke. He fidgeted before me and then retreated behind his desk to withdraw a battered, oily fingerprinted cheque-book from the drawer.
‘I could pay you, Mr D—’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What? Are you turning down good money?’
‘Turning down this job of yours.’
‘But…’
‘No buts, bud.’ I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward, the plastic chair let out a loud creak. ‘You see, I might not be the best detective in the world, or even Leith for that matter, but I think I have just about enough savvy to suss when someone is feeding me a line. And right now, I’d say you were full of more bullshit than a farmer’s foreskin.’
Beer-gut recoiled. Stupefaction replacing every other hint of an expression on his face. There was a moment, a millisecond or so, when I thought I might be prepared to go to the mat with him over his proposition, perhaps even tease the proper facts from him, but it passed. Truth was, I couldn’t summon the interest to give a shit about what was really going on inside his mind—my guess was a gerbil on a treadmill was turning the cogs.
The cheque-book was raised again, like a limp white flag he hoped would come to his rescue. ‘I could pay you. I could pay you a decent sum.’
It got my goat to think of him offering me a cheque when I knew he was holding a wedge as thick as War and Peace, Parts I & II, in his pocket. I got up and opened the door. ‘Thanks for the offer, but, as tempting as you make your bullshit sound, I’ve moved on from this kind of thing.’
I walked out. The portacabin rocked on its pins as he bolted, fatboy-fashion, behind me. ‘What about my…loss?’ He stayed in the doorway, a spit of rain had started to fall.
‘Looks like more on the way…rain I mean.’
‘But, Gus, can you come back and talk. At least hear me out. Please.’
I gazed at the sky, black clouds rumbling in signalled a heavier downpour—it’d be falling in stair-rods in no time. ‘When can I come back for the Golf? The sooner being the better.’
‘Tomorrow. I’ll have it ready for you then if you like. Will we say about noon?’
A cold easterly bit, I looked about, confident a courtesy car wasn’t going to be an option. ‘That’ll do.’
‘It’ll be ready, I promise.’ He stuck out his hand, I thought at first it was to shake but he grabbed my sleeve and patted my arm. ‘Just have a think about my offer, will you do that, please?’
I didn’t like to see a man pleading, so I just left him hanging there, a dick in the wind, so to speak. I dowped the red-top and put the collar up on my Crombie as I headed into the smirry rain. The brisk wind was chasing empty take-away boxes down Fort Street and onto Ferry Road. I was pissed off at the walk ahead to my Easter Road flat but at least my car was coming back to me, hopefully minus the slug’s trail.
Chapter 2
I was back in the workplace. The last time I was here it was brutal. The lifeless corpse of the newspaper industry, having already been picked over for scraps, was having the marrow sucked from its bones. It was hard to watch colleagues being bent over by corporate gimps, but I’m sure some of them actually enjoyed it. They were still there after all, still taking it up the farter.
I wasn’t allowed to call myself a journalist. Was now a “content provider”, or as I preferred, a prestitute. I didn’t even have an office, just a website to upload to and a boss on the end of an iPhone. Standards were non-existent but that was fine because I had very few of those left anyway.
Seemed to me like the whole game was fixed for everyone now. It might have been working for a few real-estate magnates in London, and was definitely working for the likes of George Soros, but try preaching that in the engine room. The bloke in Tesco jeans wanted change and he didn’t care who was selling it. There were pitchforks in the post, you could sense it. They were already rioting in France. If it kicked off here, I’d be joining them, but I did worry if we had enough rope and lampposts in the country.
I fired over my latest piece and settled down in front of the gob-unit. I was flicking, retching over the sight of fucking Jedward in the Big Brother house, when the phone went.
‘Gus, it’s Terry.’ I checked the clock, he was starting early tonight. Normally he left his calls till my eyes were closing and my kip beckoning.
‘Yeah, all okay?’
‘I just got the piece—it’ll do—but I’ll need you to churn out another one right away. There’s been a magnitude seven earthquake in the Philippines, which should be great for our clicks.’
Terry wasn’t a hack and was lacking something that was once a vital prerequisite for the job: an interest in humanity. He wanted eyeballs on the site and people being tragically killed or made homeless really beeped his jeep.
‘Terry, it’s nearly midnight.’ It was no surprise to me that I had to remind him that his staff weren’t just another app on his phone.
‘Yes, I know that, but I run a 24-hour news service, you knew that when you took the job.’ I was waiting for the “Money never sleeps” speech.
‘Terry, I’ve been on the go since early doors, if I don’t get some kip I’ll be propping up my eyelids with matchsticks.’
A gap on the line, then a sigh, ‘I didn’t have you down as a clock-watcher, Dury.’
I resisted the urge to slap him down, said, ‘If I was, Terry, I’d have knocked off about seven hours ago.’
A huff. Followed by a tut. ’You get your beauty sleep then, Dury. I’ll find someone else to write up the quake.’
‘Night-night, then.’ Terry or his wife Jayne would write it up in their usual sub-Beano comic style and make every reader want to gouge their eyes out with spoons. It wasn’t my problem, though I knew Terry would have plans to make it so.
