Read Online Gutted by Tony Black - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tony Black
Tags: Literary, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Crime, Mystery, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Crime Fiction, Contemporary Fiction, Murder, Thrillers & Suspense
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crossfire?’
‘Maybe,’ Mac sneered, ‘maybe you’ll join him if you go there.’
I let that slide. ‘And those wee pricks on the hill, what about them? Think they might be part of the scene, or hangers-on?’
‘The flash, the wheels, the bling, the clobber . . . It’s as obvious as a donkey’s cock – they’re into the dog fights too.’ Mac’s voice was firm. ‘It’s a big-money racket now.’ He peered down at our own dog in his basket. ‘That’s what they were doing with him too – probably no use to them as a fighter.’
‘So, what, they just tortured him for sport?’ I said.
‘Looks likely.’
I hit my pint, strolled back to the other side of the bar. Raised a shot glass to the Grouse optic. ‘Hang about . . . the wee dog’s soft – not exactly fighting material.’
‘Practice!’ snapped Hod. ‘They rob dogs like that to give the fighters a bit of practice.’
I winced at the thought. Moosey had a house full of wee dogs. Were they all just there to be ripped apart to train the fight dogs?
My head dipped; I jerked it back. ‘I need to talk to some of our wee dog-torturing pals.’
Chapter 11
WE HAD SUNSHINE again, So I took a schlep through Holyrood Park, slugging on a bottle of scoosh. The place was awash with kites, cheapo tennis kits, and the worst – disposable barbecues. Knew I’d be wading through their remains for weeks to come. Although if they were going to get cleared up anywhere in the city it was within spitting distance of the queen’s bedroom.
An ant-trail of tourists headed for Arthur’s Seat. Once was a time, on a day like today, I might have joined them, especially with a bottle in my pocket. But the place held bad memories for me now. Col had got me into this investigating business after his son had been murdered up there. That was the city I knew, pretty fucking far from the cobbled streets and sweeping spires in the brochures.
At the traffic lights, where the tourist route takes up the streams of walkers, I spotted an act of full-on nuttery in progress. A young couple, each pushing a child’s buggy, were about to attempt the hill. Okay, the buggies looked the business – mag wheels, brakes, the lot – but the path was fly-up-a-windowpane stuff. Maybe I’d missed something; it would be an exercise craze, no doubt.
I was strolling because I’d some time to kill before I had to meet Debs in the West End. I can’t say I was looking forward to it. With my ex-wife there always was, and always would be, an agenda. If Debs was calling me out to sit down over coffee, you could be assured there’d be a crisis, just past, or just looming. And in one way or another yours truly would have a part to play in it all.
My ex is one of the unfulfilled. Aren’t we all? But with Debs it has a realness about it you can touch. A quality of utter despair permeates her, day in, day out. Those books, the self-help jobs, they’d say there was some masochistic attraction, some denial on one or both of our parts that forced the usual ‘two negatives repel’ ruling to be ignored. Whatever, we were bad for each other, that was the deal. No matter how you dressed it up, no matter how much either of us had tried to make it work, it didn’t. End of story. That our past was the stuff of horror stories didn’t help.
I took the route through to the Grassmarket, along Holyrood Road. At the foot of St Mary’s Street there are two jakey dens. On a bad day, drivers at the crossroads get the added challenge of navigating Omega cider bottles. Today, it was all clear.
A new Holiday Inn was going up, another chrome-and-glass eyesore. This time in the grounds of St Patrick’s Church: let’s get that history put in place, tucked away. Concrete, can’t get enough of it round here.
I shuffled through the area we call the Pubic Triangle: skin bars and brassers all the way along to Lothian Road. For this neck of town, think Student Central. Have I a Paul Calf attitude to them? Have I
‘Maybe,’ Mac sneered, ‘maybe you’ll join him if you go there.’
I let that slide. ‘And those wee pricks on the hill, what about them? Think they might be part of the scene, or hangers-on?’
‘The flash, the wheels, the bling, the clobber . . . It’s as obvious as a donkey’s cock – they’re into the dog fights too.’ Mac’s voice was firm. ‘It’s a big-money racket now.’ He peered down at our own dog in his basket. ‘That’s what they were doing with him too – probably no use to them as a fighter.’
‘So, what, they just tortured him for sport?’ I said.
‘Looks likely.’
I hit my pint, strolled back to the other side of the bar. Raised a shot glass to the Grouse optic. ‘Hang about . . . the wee dog’s soft – not exactly fighting material.’
‘Practice!’ snapped Hod. ‘They rob dogs like that to give the fighters a bit of practice.’
I winced at the thought. Moosey had a house full of wee dogs. Were they all just there to be ripped apart to train the fight dogs?
My head dipped; I jerked it back. ‘I need to talk to some of our wee dog-torturing pals.’
Chapter 11
WE HAD SUNSHINE again, So I took a schlep through Holyrood Park, slugging on a bottle of scoosh. The place was awash with kites, cheapo tennis kits, and the worst – disposable barbecues. Knew I’d be wading through their remains for weeks to come. Although if they were going to get cleared up anywhere in the city it was within spitting distance of the queen’s bedroom.
An ant-trail of tourists headed for Arthur’s Seat. Once was a time, on a day like today, I might have joined them, especially with a bottle in my pocket. But the place held bad memories for me now. Col had got me into this investigating business after his son had been murdered up there. That was the city I knew, pretty fucking far from the cobbled streets and sweeping spires in the brochures.
At the traffic lights, where the tourist route takes up the streams of walkers, I spotted an act of full-on nuttery in progress. A young couple, each pushing a child’s buggy, were about to attempt the hill. Okay, the buggies looked the business – mag wheels, brakes, the lot – but the path was fly-up-a-windowpane stuff. Maybe I’d missed something; it would be an exercise craze, no doubt.
I was strolling because I’d some time to kill before I had to meet Debs in the West End. I can’t say I was looking forward to it. With my ex-wife there always was, and always would be, an agenda. If Debs was calling me out to sit down over coffee, you could be assured there’d be a crisis, just past, or just looming. And in one way or another yours truly would have a part to play in it all.
My ex is one of the unfulfilled. Aren’t we all? But with Debs it has a realness about it you can touch. A quality of utter despair permeates her, day in, day out. Those books, the self-help jobs, they’d say there was some masochistic attraction, some denial on one or both of our parts that forced the usual ‘two negatives repel’ ruling to be ignored. Whatever, we were bad for each other, that was the deal. No matter how you dressed it up, no matter how much either of us had tried to make it work, it didn’t. End of story. That our past was the stuff of horror stories didn’t help.
I took the route through to the Grassmarket, along Holyrood Road. At the foot of St Mary’s Street there are two jakey dens. On a bad day, drivers at the crossroads get the added challenge of navigating Omega cider bottles. Today, it was all clear.
A new Holiday Inn was going up, another chrome-and-glass eyesore. This time in the grounds of St Patrick’s Church: let’s get that history put in place, tucked away. Concrete, can’t get enough of it round here.
I shuffled through the area we call the Pubic Triangle: skin bars and brassers all the way along to Lothian Road. For this neck of town, think Student Central. Have I a Paul Calf attitude to them? Have I
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