The Dark Remains

by Ian Rankin

  Also available in the Laidlaw series

  Laidlaw

  The Papers of Tony Veitch

  Strange Loyalties

  First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE

  canongate.co.uk

  This digital edition published in 2021 by Canongate Books

  Copyright © William McIlvanney and John Rebus Ltd, 2021

  The right of William McIlvanney and Ian Rankin to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. The publisher apologises for any errors or omissions and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on

  request from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 83885 410 2

  Export ISBN: 978 1 83885 411 9

  eISBN: 978 1 83885 412 6

  Contents

  Day One

  1

  2

  3

  4

  Day Two

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Day Three

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Day Four

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  Day Five

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  Day Six

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  October 1972

  DAY ONE

  1

  All cities are riddled with crime. It comes with the territory. Gather enough people together in one place and malignancy is guaranteed to manifest in some form or other. It’s the nature of the beast. In the awareness of the citizens the condition usually lies dormant. The preoccupations of our daily lives obscure any dramatic sense of threat. It’s only intermittently (when, say, an Ibrox disaster occurs or a Bible John hits the front pages) that people may focus on how close to random risk they have been living. They can sometimes experience a renewed awareness that a kind of ubiquitous, threatening strangeness is haunting the edges of apparent normalcy. They realise again how thin the membrane is on which we walk, liable to fall through at any moment into darker places. They may wonder if they are as safe as they thought they were.

  Commander Robert Frederick of the Glasgow Crime Squad was thinking of these things. He was aware of a potential risk that his city might be about to have that comfortable sense of security disturbed. A man called Bobby Carter had disappeared. His family had that afternoon informed the police that he hadn’t been home for the past two days. This in itself, as far as Frederick and his squad were concerned, wasn’t exactly a cause for deep mourning. Bobby Carter was a career criminal. Or rather, a venally clever lawyer who didn’t so much rub shoulders with criminals as steep in the same polluted bathwater as them. Well educated and from a decent family, Carter had chosen to spend his professional life protecting and guiding the scum of Frederick’s particular patch of earth. His job was to move dirty money around, putting it out of reach of the taxman. Cash was made clean by buying out law-abiding and fruitful businesses, and it was Carter’s remit to ensure that the contract always favoured buyer rather than seller.

  As he sat staring across his obsessively tidy desk, what worried the Commander was the vacuum Carter’s disappearance might create in the Glasgow criminal fraternity and the violent forces that might rush in to fill it. Carter was known to be Cam Colvin’s right-hand man, one of the few he trusted. Colvin’s was a name to instil fear, a reputation stretching back to teenage years when he had strode into a surgery demanding to see the doctor. Asked what the problem was, he had said nothing, instead turning round to show the receptionist the blade jutting out from between his shoulders. Cam Colvin decidedly wasn’t a man to be toyed with or crossed, which meant that the implications of Carter’s vanishing act might reverberate far beyond gangland and affect the greater, wholly innocent population.

  The Commander’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Without waiting to be asked, Detective Sergeant Bob Lilley entered, closing the door after him.

  ‘What’s the thinking?’ the Commander enquired.

  Lilley took a deep breath. ‘One view is, here’s hoping he’s been abducted by aliens and taken to another galaxy.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘The new boy.’

  ‘Laidlaw?’ The Commander watched Lilley nod. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about him.’

  ‘Jack Laidlaw is not an unknown quantity, sir. His reputation has always preceded him, which I’m guessing is why we’ve been landed with him. Who has he rubbed up the wrong way this month?’

  ‘Who’s left?’ Frederick shifted in his chair. ‘But the same message keeps coming through – he’s good at the job, seems to have a sixth sense for what’s happening on the streets.’

  ‘I sense a “but” in the offing.’

  ‘Only insofar as he needs careful handling if we’re to get the best out of him.’

  ‘I’m not much of a one for babysitting, sir.’

  ‘It’s just for a week or two, until he gets to know our ways.’

  Lilley considered for a moment before nodding his agreement. Frederick allowed himself to relax a little.

  ‘I’ll see you at Ben Finlay’s drinks tonight?’

  ‘Don’t you worry, sir – I want to make sure the bugger really is retiring this time.’

  ‘See to it that Laidlaw’s there, too. Let the team get the measure of him.’

  ‘Finlay’s already invited him. Seems they’re old friends. That’s a black mark against our new recruit right there.’ Lilley paused. ‘I’m assuming there’s no news of Bobby Carter then?’

  ‘I should be asking you that.’

  ‘We’ve been to talk to the family. Checked his office in town. They waited a couple of days before phoning us because it’s not unknown for him to take a deep dive occasionally.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘A night at the casino followed by a day sleeping it off wherever he ends up.’

  ‘But not on this occasion?’

  ‘No establishment on our radar claims to have had his business.’

  ‘Spoken to his associates yet?’

  ‘I’m still hopeful that won’t be necessary, because once we’ve had words with Cam Colvin, we’ll have to do the same with the opposing teams.’

  ‘Meaning John Rhodes and Matt Mason.’ The Commander nodded slowly. ‘Softly softly, Bob, just like the TV show.’

  ‘But with a bit more realism, eh, sir?’ Lilley turned to leave.

  ‘Eyes on Jack Laidlaw, Bob. I want him inside the tent, as Lyndon Johnson says – if you take my meaning.’

  Lilley nodded again and was gone, leaving his boss to recommence his staring contest with the closed door. Abducted by aliens was certainly a better outcome than some he could think of.

  2

  Conn Feeney was counting the house. It didn’t take long. The Parlour used to be a busy place. When the shipyards had been at their most productive, they could be
six deep at the bar on pay night. At the time he shook hands on buying the pub, after his win on the football pools, it had seemed like a good investment. It was certainly better than working in the yards. He had never felt secure there. He remembered taking Tara to the pictures once when she’d been eight or thereabouts. They were walking hand in hand when a man called across the street to him, ‘Aye, Willie!’

  ‘Aye, Tam,’ he’d called back. ‘Nice night.’

  As they walked on, Tara had asked why the man had called him by the wrong name.

  ‘He’s got me mixed up with someone else,’ he’d explained.

  He hadn’t wanted to add another fault line to her innocence. He was known as Willie McLean in the yard because that was the name he’d given them. Back in the day, adding Connell Feeney to an application form would have been like including a Hail Mary and a sprinkling of holy water. Catholics were not yet welcome in the Protestant fiefdom of the Clydeside yards.

  ‘Fiefdom’ was a good word. The long self-education to which he had submitted hadn’t been wasted. He often thought to himself, you’re too good for here, before remembering he owned the place. The Parlour was his fiefdom. Schooldays had been little more than a stretched-out assumption that he and his kind were destined for manual labour. He’d eventually proved his teachers wrong, to a degree.

  Then again, where was the evidence? These days you could prefix ‘Funeral’ to the pub’s name and it wouldn’t seem out of place. He cast a practised eye over his clientele, all five of them. Auld Rab was at his usual table, getting solemnly and quietly plastered. Presumably it numbed whatever was troubling him, psychic or physical. His wife was dead, his children had moved away and never called or wrote. He seemed to be biding his time until they came to collect the remains.

  Susie and Marion were having one of their regular ‘girls’ nights’. All dressed up and nowhere to go except memories and anecdotes recalled from their younger years. They sometimes dug blurry photographs from their shoulder bags, holding them up for Conn to admire. Short skirts, thickening legs, eyes excited by thoughts of the future. They giggled a lot even now and drank Cinzano and lemonade with a slice, meaning Conn had to stop in at the nearby greengrocer’s once a week for a solitary lemon.

  The other two drinkers he didn’t know. A young man and a young woman. He’d already decided he didn’t like the look of the man. He sat with one arm draped over the back of his companion’s chair, while the other lay on the table in front of her. It was as if he were constructing a wall around her. Any minute now he’d be adding barbed wire and a No Trespassing sign. He spoke directly at her face, keeping his voice low but insistent. She couldn’t be much more than eighteen and he was no older than twenty. She looked uncertain, as if trying to gauge the safest route around the avalanche tumbling from his mouth.

  Conn recognised a Glasgow seduction when he saw one. He was glad both his daughters were safely married. When the couple rose suddenly and the girl stooped to pick up her umbrella, he couldn’t resist lobbing a remark their way, like a coin towards a wishing well.

  ‘Safe home, the pair of you. It’s a dirty night.’

  The young man leered at him in what seemed both hope and expectation. When the door closed on them and Conn crossed the floor to collect their glasses, he noted that the girl had barely touched her drink. That might be a good sign. She was keeping her wits about her. By the time he was back behind the bar and running the tap in the sink, he realised that Rab had completed the long day’s journey from his table.

  ‘Should have given me a shout,’ Conn told him. ‘I’d have brought it over.’

  ‘Doctor says I’ve to get some exercise. I told him I’ll get plenty when they shut the surgery. It’s moving a mile and a bit away. Half a dozen white coats and you won’t get a say in which one sees you. Tell me, is that meant to be progress?’

  ‘You’ll need a pair of gym shoes, Rab.’

  ‘Ever tried polishing a pair of those?’

  ‘I can’t say I have.’

  ‘That’s why I won’t be wearing them. My father said never to trust a man who didn’t own good leather shoes.’

  Conn nodded and decided not to remark that tonight, as usual, Rab was wearing tartan carpet slippers whose rubber soles were starting to perish. Instead, he hit the whisky optic twice and set the refilled glass on the counter as Rab fumbled in his pocket for the necessary coins.

  ‘This one’s on the house – just don’t tell the management.’

  ‘You’re some man, Conn.’

  ‘Maybe you could tell my wife that.’

  ‘I would, but she never comes in.’

  ‘She finds the place a bit too highfalutin.’ Conn pretended to examine his surroundings. ‘The crushed velvet and the candelabras.’

  He seemed to have lost Rab, who was already doing a slow turn, ready for the thousand-yard walk back to his table. The sound of the door to the outside world being yanked open alerted Conn to trouble. But it wasn’t skin-heads or one of the other local tribes. Cold air entered along with a gust of rain. The young couple stood on the threshold, unsure what to do next. They seemed hardly to recognise the premises they’d just left. Eventually they shuffled inside, the door clattering shut behind them. The umbrella was half open. Conn wasn’t sure at first if those were raindrops or tears on the woman’s chalk-white face. Her partner’s cocksure patter had left the stage. When he found his voice, it was louder than necessary.

  ‘We found a body,’ he announced.

  ‘Where?’ demanded Conn.

  ‘The back lane.’

  ‘A tramp?’ Susie piped up.

  ‘Big guy, well dressed. That’s as much as we saw.’

  Conn was weighing things up. The police would need to be informed, but was there anything he should do first? Would they want to check his accounts or open the safe? He doubted it. Should he alert John Rhodes? But then would that look like he thought there might be a connection?

  ‘You sure he’s dead?’ he asked, playing for time.

  ‘Unless he just likes lying spread-eagled in a handy puddle.’

  ‘Go take a look, Conn,’ Auld Rab suggested.

  It was one way to defer the inevitable, Conn supposed. He reached to a hook for his jacket and it was as if he’d pulled off a conjuring trick. All eyes were on him, the sleepy room suddenly animated.

  ‘Is it all right if we grab a drink?’ the young man was asking as Conn made to pass him.

  ‘Wait till I get back,’ Conn said in warning. He opened the door and stepped out into the dark.

  The rain was easing, leaving pools of water for him to navigate. The lane was just that. It led behind the bar to where bins and empty crates were stored. The bins were galvanised, their lids long gone, taken by kids to use as shields or paired to make unholy cymbals. Between them, he could see the body. He tried to think when he’d last been out here. Not for a couple of days. The man wore a suit. He lay on his front, his red tie resembling a ribbon of blood. His head was angled so that his face was visible, the thinning black hair sticking to it.

  ‘Bobby bloody Carter,’ Conn muttered. ‘Cheers for that, Bobby. Aye, that’s just what I need . . .’

  He retreated to the bar. It looked as though no one had moved a muscle in his absence. He kept his jacket on while he poured himself a vodka, downing it neat and in a single gulp.

  ‘Well?’ the young man asked him.

  ‘What are you having?’ Conn Feeney enquired.

  3

  The Top Spot, a bar on Hope Street, was the usual watering hole of choice. It was crowded when Bob Lilley arrived. Even so, Jack Laidlaw seemed a man apart, easy to spot, almost as if he had a radioactive glow. Ben Finlay was seated at a table, surrounded by drinks he hadn’t got round to yet and discarded wrapping paper. One retirement gift, a copy of Playboy, was being passed around, its centrefold unfurled. The female faces scattered around the room wore tight smiles, knowing they were expected to play along. They were ancillary staff mostly – the infamous
typing pool – plus one or two constables, hardly recognisable in civilian clothes and freshly retouched make-up.

  Lilley weaved his way through the crush until he reached the bar, where Laidlaw was alternating sips of whisky and puffs on a cigarette. He was a handsome enough man, broad-shouldered and square-jawed, but he managed not to look too happy with his lot, as if, in his late thirties, life had already subjected him to a harsh interrogation. He brought baggage with him – Lilley knew at least a few of the stories – but judgement could wait.

  ‘Tried to catch you at the station. I’m DS Lilley. Bob to you.’ He held out a hand, which Laidlaw shook, raising one eyebrow afterwards.

  ‘A fellow member of the non-Masonic fraternity,’ he commented.

  ‘Failed the audition when I burst out laughing. What can I get you?’

  ‘Antiquary.’

  The barman had appeared in front of them, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. ‘First drink’s already paid for, Bob,’ he said.

  ‘Two Antiquaries then.’

  ‘We’ve John Rhodes’s largesse to thank apparently,’ Laidlaw explained.

  ‘So we’re taking drinks from gangsters now?’

  ‘Why break the habit of a lifetime? Besides, it’s nice to be nice – John understands that.’

  ‘You know the guy?’

  ‘We’ve had our moments.’

  ‘How about Cam Colvin?’

  ‘Not so much. He’s a thug who surrounds himself with others who remind him of himself.’

  ‘And John Rhodes doesn’t?’

  ‘John likes men who are scarred on the inside as much as the outside, but he’s not like that himself.’ Laidlaw finished his first drink as its replacement arrived. He looked around the bar. ‘Have you noticed how police never just visit pubs? It’s more like temporary ownership.’

  ‘Looks to me like the student union at Stirling Uni gearing up for the Queen’s visit.’ Lilley gestured towards Finlay’s table. ‘Did I miss the speeches?’

  ‘There was just the one – Commander Frederick. He knew the lines by heart. “Conscientious”, “much valued”, “irreplaceable”.’

  Lilley gave a snort. ‘His replacement’s already in post.’