The Bad Fire

by Campbell Armstrong

  ‘I hope to Christ you don’t love him, Joyce. I think he’s got all kinds of problems coming down on him sooner or later. I don’t want to see you hurt. I don’t want you drawn into something that can only end unpleasantly.’

  ‘I don’t believe he had any involvement in Dad’s death,’ she said. ‘I’ll never believe that. Not in a hundred years. No way.’

  ‘In a hundred years we’ll all be history,’ Eddie said. ‘And none of this will matter a damn.’

  ‘You can’t live your life from that perspective, Eddie.’

  ‘When stuff gets unbearable, you can try.’

  She suddenly wept then, pressing her fingertips against her eyebrows, inclining her face. He watched tears roll down her cheeks and he reached out and held her and he thought of the little girl with the ribbon in her hair who played Chopsticks on the piano with flamboyant movements of her hands, like a melodramatic concert pianist, and Jackie would say, ‘Good Christ, girl, is there nothing else you can learn to play?’

  Jackie’s voice echoed in his head.

  He was filled with a deep yearning to go home, and leave Joyce to the misadventures of her heart, and forget Jackie Mallon. What do you owe him anyway? Whatever illicit activity he was involved in was a link in a chain of lies and violence. You didn’t do business with a killer like Gurk without making a statement about yourself: okay, so you didn’t pull a trigger and kill somebody, Jackie, but you were prepared to associate with a man who was a shooter, so what did that make you? If you knew what Gurk was capable of, you were an accessory. And if you didn’t know, then greed had made you blind. And if you were trying to recover any decency with your phone calls to Queens, and your regrets about how you’d driven a stake through the soul of the family, and how love had to be restored, goddammit, you let it all slip through your fingers, didn’t you, Dad?

  And yet he couldn’t resist the thought: Jackie wasn’t responsible for his associates, was he? You went into business with someone, and he turned out bad, it happened all the time to people … Screw it, Eddie, even now you’re looking for an avenue leading towards forgiveness. Even after all that has happened, you still come back to the hope that you can find a cleft of light in your heart and a way to rescue Jackie from damnation. Why can’t you just despise him, and let it go like that? You’re a kid again, and he’s telling you how he’ll take you to Balloch and hire a boat and go fishing, except that day never came, but you’re still fucking waiting for it, aren’t you, Eddie, even when it’s impossible …

  The sun began its very slow summery descent. He listened to his sister crying, and he had the impression that the city all around him was built on foundations of deception and greed.

  52

  When she left Eddie, Joyce walked back to the house. Caskie was standing at the table in the conservatory and she pressed herself against his back and circled her arms round him and locked her hands upon his chest. She knew without looking that his eyes were closed. She knew him so well. She knew him better than anyone ever had.

  ‘You told him,’ Caskie said.

  ‘I felt so bloody fraudulent, Chris. I don’t want that feeling. Skulking, lying. I don’t want that.’

  ‘You went back to the beginning?’

  She said yes, she’d gone back.

  ‘How did he take it?’ Caskie said. ‘I don’t have to ask, do I?’

  ‘He looked unpleasantly surprised. Distressed. What do you expect?’

  ‘And angry. He’d feel angry.’

  She laid her cheek against his spine and smelled the cologne he wore and she wondered what it always reminded her of, she could never quite reach the heart of the scent. ‘He said Haggs knew about us.’

  ‘Did you tell him that?’

  ‘He guessed Haggs had you in a bind. A stranglehold.’

  ‘He’s smart,’ Caskie said. ‘It’s not always a good thing to be.’

  Say it, she thought. Say the next bit. Spit it out. ‘He thinks … He thinks you might have had something to do with Jackie’s death. You and Haggs colluded. You conspired in some way.’

  ‘That’s what comes of being just a little too smart.’ Caskie turned, caught her chin between his fingers. ‘Look at me. Do you really think I had anything to do with your father’s killing?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t.’

  ‘You feel absolutely certain when you say that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  He caressed her cheek. ‘Haggs has had me in chains for years, you know that. I’ve done him some favours, things I shouldn’t have done. Maybe I could have been strong enough to tell him no, turn him down, but that’s water under the bridge. Killing, though, good Christ, no no, there’s just no way – that’s something else, Joyce.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘It’s beyond consideration. I’d never agree to anything that brought you misery, never.’

  She thought of their relationship, this little world they’d created, and how private it was. You could withdraw inside it and lock the doors and shutter the windows and light candles, and then it was only you and Chris and everything else could go to hell.

  ‘It’s going to change,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘This situation with Haggs. I’m going to change it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Just trust me. I have to get dressed and go into the office.’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘I have to,’ he said.

  ‘No, don’t hurry away.’

  He hesitated, then lowered his face to hers, and she felt his warm breath upon the side of her neck and she enjoyed the soft touch of his beard, and she slid a hand down to the belt of his robe and she thought how easily he led her, how easily she wanted to be led, and how he’d had this same effect on her for years, even during the period of her miserable marriage to Haskell when she’d deliberately cut Caskie out of her life, but oh God she’d longed for him, Mrs Harry Haskell dreaming of her lover and how tender he was, and considerate, and remembering all the times they’d met in hotels, even when Meg was dying, yes, even then. He’d have a nurse come in to look after Meg and he’d slip away.

  Sometimes she detected Meg’s ghost in this house, like a quick shadow in a stairwell, or a brush of clothing against a wall. I hadn’t loved Meg in years, he’d once told her. Not in the man-woman sense. I don’t feel guilt, Joyce, I never have about you.

  He slid her blouse off, and inclined his head to her shoulder and she felt his open mouth on her flesh and the touch of his teeth. She had her hand inside his robe, his cock in her palm, and she went down on her knees and pressed her face into him. She listened to the soft moan of pleasure he always made and it struck her that at the core of this sound there was something else, another tone, a kind of subdued lament. As if, like her, he regretted the years of subterfuge, and the voluminous lies. As if in some secret corner of himself he was sad, and this diminished his pleasure. She cupped his testicles in her palm and when she needed it least she heard an echo of Eddie’s voice, he helped arrange the mechanics of the killing, and she dismissed the whisper, exploded it, sent the splinters flying out of her mind. One day, maybe, Eddie would know that the real Christopher Caskie was a sweet man, genuine, gentle and warm. One day.

  ‘My girl,’ Caskie said. ‘Oh my dear girl. My love.’

  53

  Tommy Gurk took a taxi to Gorbals Street, south of the Clyde. The car was a bottle-green Fiat, parked close to the Citizens’ Theatre. The keys were inside a magnetized steel box attached to the underside of the bumper. Gurk opened the box, got the keys. The heat inside the car made his hairless skull sweat. His head felt raw, like a rash was developing. He’d worn dreadlocks a long time now. It was bizarre having a scalp as naked as a baby’s bum.

  He glanced at the directions somebody had left on the passenger seat. Written on a sheet of blue-lined paper, they were easy and explicit. Gurk shook his head, amazed. See, this is where you had to hand it to Kaminsky, the way he had of doing things,
he had minions all over the shop, geezers who did stuff without even knowing who they were working for, locating weapons, delivering envelopes, providing cars, no questions asked – there was a big intricate network of connections in different countries. People always owed Joe Kaminsky favours. And they always obliged. The consequences of failure, well, they didn’t bear consideration.

  Off we go, Tommy Gurk thought.

  He drove along Pollokshaws Road, heading south. There were cop cars all over the place, and once or twice he felt he was being scrutinized, once or twice he had a little electric-prod of paranoia, but the trick was to look cool, and that meant you had to feel you had your shit together inside. You had the juice. Cool within, cool without. All the way, baby. You were just a guy driving along Kilmarnock Road, and the fact you had brown skin, tally-ho, that was no impediment. Just follow the directions, get into the rhythm of the road, put some miles behind you, drive into the sweet Zone. Then the directions got a little more complicated, but not much, he could handle it, he was beginning to feel more like himself.

  Into the roundabout, zippedy-doo, no sweat. A few more blocks and here we are. And a jolly nice street it is too. Prosperous. Very much so. Go slow. This is white bread land and you stand out like Malcolm X at a Klan convention. He sang to lull himself. He did his Paul Robeson voice. Old man ribber. He was close to the house now, he checked the numbers, noticed how some of the homes had names because jokers who lived here thought that was posh. He sang Belafonte’s ‘Banana Boat Song’ and stared at the name of the house and waited, slouched in the driver’s seat, motor running.

  54

  Caskie usually made Lou Perlman feel that he was an inferior being, a dunderhead allowed five minutes of human conversation. Caskie’s bearing was one of low-grade tolerance. They sat in Caskie’s office in Force HQ and Caskie sipped coffee out of a plastic cup.

  ‘It’s tragic about Charlie,’ Perlman said.

  ‘It’s a heartbreak.’

  ‘He was a nice young guy. I’m sorry for his parents.’ Perlman noticed how tidy Caskie’s desk was. Pencils in containers. Pens lined up on the leather cover of a notebook. Caskie’s fingernails were immaculate. He must have them manicured, Lou Perlman thought. Maybe at the hairdresser’s he has the whole schmear, beard trim, manicure, hot towel shave.

  ‘Tay’s asked me to clarify a few things,’ Perlman said. ‘For the record.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What was Charlie doing at Central Station, Chris?’

  Caskie shrugged. ‘I gave Charlie a broad remit, Lou. We’d have to look through his records, the logs he kept.’

  ‘So you gave him his head, you let him run, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  And pigs have wings in that world, Perlman thought. You never gave Charlie an inch of breathing space. You kept Charlie in a black room of your own design. ‘You’re telling me you have no idea what he was working on that would’ve taken him to Central Station?’

  ‘Come to think of it, he was quite excited about information he was gathering in a case involving the theft of a valuable coin collection from a house in Langside a month ago. We can examine his notes, Lou.’ Caskie glanced at his watch.

  A young man’s dead and you’re checking the time, Caskie. What does that tell me? You have another appointment, better things to do. ‘So you have no idea about the identity of the killer?’

  ‘I wish to God I did. Again, I can only say that we should look at McWhinnie’s papers and maybe we’ll find some kind of hint.’

  I’m hearing a looped tape, Perlman thought. Check Charlie’s notes. His log. Aye. Sure. Maybe Charlie had written, I suspect a black called Winston Smith, 24 Garturk Street, Govanhill, of stealing a valuable coin collection and I intend to arrest him at Central Station during rush hour. And that also belonged in the same world as jet-propelled pigs.

  ‘He never mentioned a black guy to you?’ Perlman asked.

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘All right. We’ll look through his stuff. See what there is.’

  Caskie was quiet a moment. ‘I intend to take retirement, Lou.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘I’ve written a letter I’ll give to Superintendent Tay in the morning. You’re the first to know.’

  ‘Is this not a wee bit sudden?’ Perlman was surprised that Caskie had confided in him. But it wasn’t exactly an act of intimacy. There was no sense of sharing involved, no exposure of self. Perlman felt Caskie simply needed an audience to make his announcement, and it didn’t matter who was in the room with him. A tea-lady, a janitor, anybody.

  ‘It’s been coming a long time,’ Caskie said. ‘Maybe the death of McWhinnie’s the last straw. I don’t know.’ He got up from his desk and walked to the window and stood with his hands tucked in the pockets of his double-breasted jacket. He stared down into Pitt Street where the falling sun had begun to create shadows and he wondered if he was being premature in announcing his retirement. What if things went wrong? What if the scheme he’d devised with Kaminsky became derailed? No, don’t think that way. It’ll work. Even as you stand here, it’s in motion.

  He thought of Eddie Mallon striding out of the house in Broomhill Drive, leaving the front door open behind him. And of Joyce, how tiny she looked inside the bathrobe, how quickly she dressed to catch up with Eddie Mallon. She wanted her brother to know she felt bad concealing the truth from him – all very fine and honourable, but Caskie wasn’t so sure Eddie could take that truth calmly. He’d disapprove furiously. Adult men and pubescent girls – Eddie Mallon would see it as an immoral equation. He wouldn’t understand that kind of love; it was socially unacceptable as well as criminal, and had to be carried out in hotel rooms and cars parked in lonely places. Caskie had never found delight in the illicit aspect of it. He’d feared the condemnation of men, and the disgrace of imprisonment.

  And then there was Haggs.

  Once, many years ago in a gloomy little motel outside Edinburgh, he and Joyce had been checking out at the reception desk when Joyce, in an ill-judged moment of impetuosity, a spark of affectionate mischief, had linked an arm through his, and laid her head against his shoulder, and run the tip of her shoe against the inside of his leg –

  – and there in the lobby was bloody Haggs, registering this intimacy with a leer. Two days later Haggs had phoned. I’ve been studying this situation, Chris. And you know what? I’ve got you by the family jewels. You’re all mine, pal.

  And down the years Caskie did Haggs a favour here, a favour there. Overlook this, ignore that, help me out with this allegation of stolen property. Assist me with this, gimme a hand with that. You are my private cop, Caskie.

  And then one day: I need help with the Mallons, Chris.

  I need some assistance with Jackie.

  When exactly had the final escalation begun? Caskie couldn’t remember the date, there was a passage of time when everything accelerated, and he could recall only fragments. Haggs had become frantic because Jackie was up to something, and he couldn’t find out what, and so he dreamed up a plan, and he needed Caskie to get Bones out of the way for a while, a few hours, take him someplace safe overnight, you can arrange that, Chris, dead easy for you, eh?

  Caskie thought: Haggs didn’t really need me. He could have used anyone to pressure Bones into taking a walk at the appropriate time. All he wanted was to drag me deeper into the mire of his life. Show me he had control. Remind me of all the years he had a hold on my world.

  And make me a partner in murder.

  Caskie tried to shut down his memory as a man might close a very old door, but the hinges were stiff with rust.

  You want Jackie alone, Haggs?

  Aye, for a wee while.

  I’ll see what I can do.

  Try to deny it, but you knew in your heart that there was murder in the air. You could smell it as certainly as the stench of a long-dead carcass. You knew Jackie Mallon was being set up. Joyce’s father. You wanted to stop it. Le
t Haggs blast his revelations all over the tabloid sheets. Live with the disgrace. You can go down in people’s memories as that cop who molested a wee girl. Caskie, pervert.

  But you couldn’t. You turned your face, looked away.

  You even took the murder weapon in a plastic grocery bag.

  He felt deeply depressed. He thought, Soon I’ll be free. ‘It’s time to draw the blinds and lock the door and hang a Gone Away sign.’

  ‘You’ll miss it,’ Perlman said.

  ‘Miss what? The hours? The flood of crime?’

  The power, Perlman thought. That’s what you’ll miss. ‘I take the point,’ he said.

  Caskie seemed suddenly expansive, but in his own detached way. It was as if he’d come down a rung or two on the ladder where he lived his life, and found it a risky descent. ‘It’s a liberation, Lou. I feel I’ve been carrying a backpack of bricks around for years. I’ve wanted to let go before now. But the time wasn’t quite right …’

  ‘And now it is.’

  ‘Yes. I’m ready. It’s time.’

  You don’t have the look of a man anticipating serenity, Perlman thought. There’s no air of celebration about you. Where’s the champagne spirit, Christopher? Where is that I-don’t-give-a-shit good cheer?

  Maybe McWhinnie’s death has done you in after all.

  Caskie released a smile, as if it were a lick-penny’s offering dropped into a collection-box. He looked at his watch again. ‘I have a few things to do, Lou.’

  Perlman got up. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Feel free to ask me anything you like about McWhinnie. I’ll be available.’

  ‘Thanks,’ and Perlman turned towards the door and that was when his brain kicked him. Sunny. Brook. A mass of curls.