Long Way Down (A Gus Dury crime thriller) Read Online Free PDF

hip and a fluorescent buggy with mag-wheels by the other. I kept my
distance just long enough for the melee to pass and then I jogged for the slow
closing door and took the steps.
    I picked out the smell of piss and sickly-sweet Buckfast
mingling on the grimy stairwell. Some of the young crew had been in to tag the
walls since my last visit, and despite being a respecter of the creative urge
that I am, I couldn't help but think their efforts sucked balls. Right into a
hernia.
    I clattered up the last step and battered on Katrina's
door.
    There was no movement beyond.
    I ramped up the thuds with the heel of my hand.
    Now some stirring. The sound of a plate sliding into the
skirting, a knife and fork joining in.
    I heard a light switch going on.
    Then the bolt turned in the door.
    I was given an inch of exposure to the flat. It was more
than enough. I pressed my shoulder to the wood and my inch became a mile.
    Katrina took a few seconds to register her disgust. 'Hey,
what you playing at?'
    I walked through to the front room. The place was in
darkness. I pulled open the curtains and the grey Scottish skies brought a
familiar dim pallor to the proceedings.
    Katrina slumped in the door's jamb. 'I told you Barry's
not here.'
    I tried a few doors, more for effect than anything else.
The rooms were all empty.
    'I can see that, Katrina ...'
    'Well fuck off then.'
    'Tut-tut ... terrible language.' I walked over to the
spot where the Gola bag had sat yesterday, the blue shag-pile carpet displayed
a familiar depression. 'I hope you're not going to make me swear, Katrina ...
do you know why?'
    'Why?'
    I pinned back my mouth. 'Because I only swear when I
lose my temper ... I'd hate to lose my temper with you, Katrina.'
    She looked at me through drooping eyelids. If there was
a thought distilling behind them it deserted her. She opted for the same old. 'He's
not here.'
    'No, I can see that ... and neither is his bag.'
    She put a hand to her mouth. Her chin became dimpled
like a lemon. 'I threw it out ...'
    I jumped at her. Pinned her scrawny neck to the wall
with my forearm and stared into her eyes. 'Now you have crossed the fucking
line, girl ... If you know what's good for you, and give half of a shit what's good
for Barry you'll tell me where the hell he is now!'
    Her eyes dimmed.
    I roared again. 'Now!'
    'He's not here ... he's not here.'
    'That's not what I fucking asked you ... I want to know
where he is?'
    She started to whimper, struggling for breath. 'I don't
know.'
    'Then tell me this, Kat ... what was Weasel doing here
yesterday?'
    'I don't know ...'
    I pressed my arm harder against her throat. 'Wrong
answer!'
    She coughed. 'He just brought me round a score ...'
    'And took the bag for Barry?'
    She didn't answer.
    'I'm only going to ask you once more, then I'll snap
your fucking junkie neck, Katrina. Don't think for a second I won't, there's no
love lost between us and I know Barry would be better off without you ...'
    'Aye, okay ... He took the bag.'
    'Where?'
    'Weasel's flat ... in Craigmillar.'
    I stepped back and let her grab for air. She folded like
a hinge before me, coughing and spewing. I didn't want to know how much grief
this pathetic excuse for a human being had caused Barry.
    'Get me the address ... now.'
    * * * *
    Walking cleared the head. Walking in Edinburgh, battered
by gales and likely as not rain in stair-rods, washed the head right out. After
leaving Katrina's flat I took to the high street in Portobello and bought a
thank-you for the laundry girl. It was nothing much, just a CD. But it set me
in mind of earlier days; I couldn't say happier ones.
    Myself and Debs had never worked out; the reasons too
multifarious to go into. But she was still there with me — never far from the
back of my mind. She was like my conscience and my caution rolled into one. If
I was left to my own devices I'd be six-foot under by now. That voice though,
that shrill, pedantic whine that she always berated me with at the worst of
times