The Dark Remains

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Do I take it you aren’t a fan?’

  ‘Ben’s a nice enough bloke, team player and all that. But he couldn’t detect shit in a cowshed.’

  ‘I’ve always liked him. He gave me some good advice once.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘When he was working a case, he said, he often stopped the night at a hotel in town. Saved him the commute and meant he kept his head in the game.’

  ‘Well, he might have a point there,’ Lilley conceded. ‘Like a surgeon binning the surgical gloves before going home. You don’t want the job going with you and contaminating the evening meal.’

  ‘I’d need a new head every day, Bob, and not even the Barras is selling them.’ Laidlaw was taking a fresh cigarette from the pack. He offered one to Lilley, who shook his head. A hand landed heavily on Lilley’s back. He swivelled to face a grinning Ernie Milligan.

  ‘All right, Bob?’ Milligan said.

  ‘This is DI Milligan,’ Lilley told Laidlaw.

  ‘Jack already knows me,’ Milligan interrupted. He made show of studying Laidlaw’s apparel. ‘Get yourself to Rowan’s, man, tell them I sent you. You look whatever the opposite is of professional.’ Then, to the barman: ‘Two lager, two heavy.’

  Milligan’s face was flushed and his tie askew. His hair was already turning grey and he wore it longer than the Commander liked, his defence being that it helped him blend in, much as a barn door would blend in at a festival of garden rakes. Lilley had watched the change come over Laidlaw, his entire edifice tensing in Milligan’s presence, like a trap that’s had its camouflage brushed aside.

  ‘We were DCs together once upon a time,’ Milligan continued, seemingly unaware of his proximity to six-feet-plus of unalloyed enmity. ‘One of us has kept climbing the ladder, the other’s still at the bottom, petrified of heights.’ The tray of pints had arrived, Milligan gripping it firmly, offering a wink in Laidlaw’s direction before ploughing into the crowd again.

  ‘See, I don’t mind coppers like Ben Finlay,’ Laidlaw said quietly. ‘He might not be hugely gifted, but he knows right from wrong.’

  ‘You’re saying Ernie Milligan doesn’t?’

  ‘I’m saying he’d be just as happy in a uniform with a swastika on the sleeve. As long as he was left alone to do the job the way he reckoned it needed to be done, he wouldn’t complain or even stop to think.’

  ‘Why do I get the feeling you’ve told him as much to his face?’

  ‘Sometimes you have to judge a book by its cover. There’s nothing in Milligan’s pages that you couldn’t glean from a moment’s look at him.’ Laidlaw finished his whisky.

  ‘Speaking of books, I happened to be passing your desk. Not quite the usual Criminal Law and Road Traffic Law . . .’

  Laidlaw almost smiled. ‘Unamuno, Kierkegaard and Camus.’

  ‘Reminding us you studied at university?’

  ‘I left after a year, not sure that’s anything to shout about.’

  ‘What are they for, then?’

  ‘We know where a crime ends,’ Laidlaw obliged. ‘It ends with a body maybe, a court case, someone going to jail. But where does it begin? That’s a much thornier question. If we could work back to those origins, maybe we could stop crimes from happening in the first place.’

  ‘Crime prevention already exists.’

  Laidlaw shook his head. ‘It’s not cops like you and me we need so much as sociologists and philosophers. Hence those books.’

  ‘I’d like to see Socrates patrolling the Gallowgate on an Old Firm night.’

  ‘Me too. I genuinely would.’

  The phone had been ringing behind the bar for a couple of minutes, the barman finally finding a moment’s breather that allowed him to answer, hand pressed to his free ear to shut out the din. He scanned the room, said something into the receiver, and left the handset dangling while he went in search of someone, returning a moment later with the Commander. Whatever information Robert Frederick received seemed to sober him up. The nearest bodies belonged to Lilley and Laidlaw, and he fixed them with a look. Having replaced the receiver, he faced them across the bar, as if about to proffer an unexpectedly large drinks bill.

  ‘You’ve not long arrived, Bob?’ he checked.

  ‘Sorry I missed your speech, sir. Jack filled me in on the highlights.’

  Frederick ignored this. ‘I need the pair of you to scoot to a pub called the Parlour. Body found in the alley behind it. Word is it could be Bobby Carter.’

  ‘That’s in the Calton,’ Laidlaw stated. ‘John Rhodes territory.’

  ‘Which is why we need to tread carefully. It’ll be a while before this lot will be any help, but we’ll be there when we can.’

  ‘Message received,’ Lilley said.

  ‘And understood?’ Frederick’s eyes were on Laidlaw.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Laidlaw replied, his gaze on the ashtray as he stubbed out his cigarette.

  4

  One look at the corpse was enough for Lilley and Laidlaw. They retreated to the Parlour, leaving the crime-scene crew to it. An ambulance and two patrol cars were parked kerbside, lights flashing. Like smoke signals, they had brought the local tribe from its tepees. The Parlour was doing brisk business. One table was being granted breathing space, though. At it sat a young couple who weren’t going to remain a couple for much longer, judging by their body language. While Lilley headed to the bar, Laidlaw sat down opposite them.

  ‘I’m DC Laidlaw,’ he told them. ‘You’re the ones who found the body?’

  Nods from both, their eyes fixed on the array of untouched drinks in front of them. Everyone in the bar, it seemed, wanted to say they’d stood them a round. This was their fifteen minutes of fame, but the clock was ticking.

  ‘A car will take you to the station so we can get a statement. You didn’t see anyone?’

  ‘Nobody still able to draw breath,’ the young man said, affecting a scintilla of what Laidlaw suspected would be his usual swagger. He wore a checked jacket and open-necked denim shirt. There were home-made tattoos on the backs of his hands, probably dating to his schooldays.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’ Laidlaw didn’t bother taking out his notebook. They’d be telling the same story in an interview room soon enough. All he was doing here was making an assessment for his own benefit.

  ‘Davie Anderson.’

  ‘And what do you do, Davie?’

  ‘Motor mechanic.’

  ‘Steady work, I would think. How about you, love?’

  ‘I’m Moira.’

  ‘And could Moira’s mum and dad afford a surname?’

  ‘Macrae.’

  ‘Moira’s a waitress at the Albany Hotel,’ Anderson added.

  ‘Posh place. That where you met?’

  ‘It’s not Rolls-Royces I fix. We met at the disco.’

  ‘This your first proper date?’

  ‘Second.’

  Laidlaw pretended to examine their surroundings. ‘You certainly know how to treat a lady, Davie.’

  ‘We had a Chinese.’

  ‘And then in here for a nightcap, rather than Joanna’s or the Muscular Arms.’ Laidlaw nodded his understanding. ‘After which I’m assuming the back lane was your idea? Pair of you still living at home, no chance of any action indoors. Not a great night for it weather-wise, but needs must . . .’

  ‘He said it was a shortcut.’ Moira Macrae bristled, folding her arms, creating a barricade that was not going to be breached.

  ‘All I had in mind was a snog,’ said Anderson.

  ‘The kind of snog that requires a dark alley rather than a bus stop?’

  The young man glared at Laidlaw. ‘We found a dead body, in case you’re interested.’

  ‘Everything interests me, son. It’s what you might call a curse. You didn’t recognise the victim?’

  ‘Is that what he is?’ Moira Macrae was staring at him. ‘We weren’t sure.’

  ‘He was stabbed, as far as we can tell. Autopsy tomorrow will tell us more, hopefully.
We think his name’s Bobby Carter. Does that mean anything to either of you?’

  Laidlaw watched them shake their heads. A drinker had appeared at his shoulder, placing two fresh glasses on the table.

  ‘Just to help with the shock.’

  Laidlaw turned towards the man. ‘They’re liable to go into cardiac arrest if they drink half what’s already here.’ The look he gave was as effective as wasp-killer, the man backing away in mazy fashion towards the safety of the swarm. Two uniforms were collecting contact details from various tables. Laidlaw crooked a finger towards one of them.

  ‘We need our two witnesses here taken to the station. We also need them relatively sober, so grab a tray and dump this lot.’ He nodded towards the array of drinks.

  ‘Hell of a waste.’

  ‘A thought that often passes through my head when I look at a uniform.’ Laidlaw was up on his feet. Four short strides took him to the bar, where Bob Lilley had a keen audience for his conversation with the barman.

  ‘We could do with clearing this place,’ Laidlaw commented.

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ the barman said. ‘This is the busiest I’ve been in months.’

  ‘Maybe you can arrange for a murder to become a regular thing. You could announce it on a board outside. If you need any help, I’m sure John Rhodes would oblige. This is his patch, after all, which means you’ll be handing a percentage of your takings to him. I’d imagine two sets of books come in handy for that.’

  An impressive range of emotions had passed over the man’s face as Laidlaw spoke.

  ‘Don’t know who you’re talking about,’ he said.

  ‘That’s the best you can do? What’s your name anyway?’

  ‘This is Conn Feeney,’ Lilley broke in. ‘He owns the place.’

  ‘Nobody “owns” anything in the Calton,’ Laidlaw corrected him. ‘They’re all in hock to John Rhodes.’ He turned his attention back to Feeney. ‘You saw the body?’ Feeney nodded. ‘Recognised it?’ Another nod. ‘Mind if I ask how?’

  ‘Plenty people know Bobby Carter.’

  ‘Did he ever drink in here?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so.’

  ‘No, because he was Cam Colvin’s man, and Cam Colvin is going to wonder how come his good friend and associate ended up skewered like a kebab behind one of John Rhodes’s pubs.’

  ‘This is my pub, bought and paid for.’ Feeney’s hackles were rising. Laidlaw took his time lighting a cigarette.

  ‘And still being paid for, I’m willing to bet.’ The smoke billowed from his nose. He noticed that Lilley’s notebook was sitting on top of the bar, a pen resting against a blank page. ‘Got enough to be going on with?’ Laidlaw asked him.

  ‘Hard to tell,’ Lilley answered.

  ‘Well, don’t let me stop you. I’ll be waiting in the car.’

  The car, however, was not where Lilley found him five minutes later. Lilley’s Triumph Toledo sat across the street, unoccupied. Laidlaw was patrolling the pavement, scanning darkened tenement windows.

  ‘What was he doing here, Bob?’ he asked when Lilley caught up with him. ‘It’s both enemy territory and a night-life black hole. You’ve got the Parlour, and a Chinese restaurant at the far corner by the main road. One chip shop. Flats for those who wish they could afford elsewhere. A couple of builders’ yards. Bits of wasteland waiting for a developer with more money than sense.’

  ‘Is this you playing Socrates?’

  Laidlaw wasn’t listening. Lilley had become little more than a wall he could bounce words off. ‘Meeting someone in the pub? Thinking better of it – too small, too much curiosity – so opting for the lane? Meaning it was someone he knew and trusted?’ He flicked the remains of his cigarette onto the rutted tarmac.

  ‘Questions for tomorrow,’ Lilley suggested, paying sudden and conspicuous attention to his wristwatch. ‘Need a lift home?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Whereabouts do you live anyway?’

  ‘Simshill.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Three kids.’

  Lilley seemed to be waiting for Laidlaw to ask about his own marital arrangements, but instead Laidlaw turned and began to walk towards the main road, lost in thought once more. Halfway along, he stopped and studied the exterior of the bar again. He was still there when Lilley drove past.

  ‘Odd bugger,’ Lilley said under his breath. He wondered if anyone would still be at the retirement do . . .

  DAY TWO

  5

  Lilley was locking the Toledo next morning when he saw Laidlaw walking towards Central Division. It was a red-brick building, occupying the corner of St Andrew’s Street and Turnbull Street. Laidlaw was eyeing the place warily, as if suspecting booby traps. He tensed upon noticing a figure crossing the street towards him, relaxing as he recognised his colleague.

  ‘You don’t drive?’ Lilley asked him.

  ‘I prefer buses. They open your eyes to the city around you. Though I sometimes take a Glasgow ambulance when funds allow or the need arises.’

  Lilley knew he meant taxis. He looked Laidlaw up and down: same suit, shirt and tie as the previous day. ‘You didn’t go home last night,’ he stated.

  ‘Little wonder they made you a sergeant.’

  ‘So where did you sleep?’

  ‘The Burleigh. It’s the hotel Ben Finlay introduced me to. And to answer your next question, it’s just that sometimes home feels too far away.’

  ‘Your wife doesn’t mind?’

  ‘Her name’s Ena, by the way.’

  ‘And mine’s Margaret. We’ve two daughters, both adult enough to have left home.’

  Laidlaw almost smiled. ‘It’s been preying on your mind that I didn’t ask.’ They began climbing the steps to the station together. ‘So what’s on today’s message list?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out. And you’re wrong about that “preying on your mind” thing.’

  ‘I’m not, though, am I?’ Laidlaw yanked open the door and preceded Bob Lilley inside.

  Glasgow’s mortuary, adjacent to the High Court and across from the expanse of Glasgow Green, was a study in anonymity, single-storeyed unlike its grandiose neighbour and visited only by brisk professionals and the grieving bereaved. The deceased’s wife had been brought there in the wee small hours to identify the body. As Laidlaw and Lilley reached the viewing room, they realised the post-mortem examination was already over. The body was being sewn together by an assistant, who kept his nose pressed close to the flesh as he worked. Laidlaw hoped it was a case of myopia rather than ghoulish pleasure. Heading back into the corridor, they were in time to catch the pathologist. He still wore his scrubs, over which a bloodied apron stretched from mid chest to his knees. The green wellingtons on his feet reached to just past his ankles. He was drying his hands as the two detectives approached.

  ‘We were told ten sharp,’ Laidlaw said.

  ‘You were misinformed.’

  ‘Our boss isn’t going to like that,’ Lilley added.

  ‘Pleasing your boss isn’t my number-one priority, DS Lilley. Now do you want the glad tidings or not?’ Neither man answered, no answer being necessary. ‘Five stab wounds, all from the same knife. Probably an inch-wide blade. Deepest incision is four inches. It went up from under the ribcage, piercing the heart. Almost certainly the fatal blow. Where it came in the pecking order, I can’t say. No signs that he defended himself – no nicks on his hands, for example. It wasn’t a machete, a craft knife or a razor.’

  ‘Not a teenage gang then,’ Laidlaw stated.

  ‘Speculation is your game; facts are mine.’

  ‘How long has he been dead?’

  ‘Two or three days. His possessions are on their way to the lab, along with his clothes and shoes.’

  ‘Money in his pockets?’

  ‘Just shy of sixty pounds.’

  ‘Probably rules out a mugging, then,’ Lilley commented.

  ‘A good make of watch, too – Longines. The shirt and j
acket were Aquascutum. I believe the family home is in Bearsden.’

  ‘Even people with money end up dead sometimes.’

  ‘Especially ones with friends like Cam Colvin.’ The pathologist seemed pleased with the effect his words had. ‘He was with the widow for the identification. Handled her with great gentleness, I must say.’

  ‘Did he speak to you?’ Laidlaw enquired.

  ‘I kept a respectful distance.’

  ‘Respectful as in fearful? Who was here from our side?’

  ‘Our mutual friend.’ This time the look was for Laidlaw only.

  ‘Milligan?’ he guessed.

  ‘DI Milligan tells me he’s been put in charge of the inquiry. That must fill you with as much confidence as it does me, DC Laidlaw.’

  ‘Did Milligan and Colvin talk?’

  ‘A few words as they were leaving.’

  ‘How did the wife seem?’

  ‘Completely devastated. It’s why we have soundproofing.’

  The three men fell silent as the trolley bearing Bobby Carter’s corpse was wheeled out on its way to one of the fridge drawers. A sheet had been draped over the whole. Laidlaw had a mind to ask the attendant to stop so he could take a look at the dead man’s face, but he didn’t.

  There would be photographs back at the station. Lots of photographs.

  Lilley thanked the pathologist and turned to go. Laidlaw hung back, however.

  ‘Did Milligan know what time the autopsy was due to start?’

  The pathologist gave a nod. ‘Maybe it just slipped his mind,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, or else he decided to have a bit of fun with me and DS Lilley.’

  ‘When something’s “a bit of fun”, people are generally amused.’

  ‘I’m laughing on the inside,’ Laidlaw said as he started to follow Bob Lilley out of the building.

  6

  ‘So one funeral’s already in the planning and it’s put me in the mood for another. Only thing is, this one will be a bit more private – the foundations of a motorway flyover would be ideal. You get what I’m saying?’

  Cam Colvin looked at each face in turn across the polished oval table. He’d summoned his men to the function suite of the Coronach Hotel. The manager, Dan Tomlinson, had seen them settled with tea, biscuits and a jug of water. After he’d left, Colvin’s look intimated to the others that, even supposing they’d just stumbled from the baking heat of a parched desert, they weren’t to touch anything. He wanted them focused on his words and his demeanour.