by Ian Rankin
‘Why, though? And where from?’
Laidlaw did no more than shrug. ‘Landlord told me in confidence that Carter had been in just the one time, meeting someone who never arrived. I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a connection. I just can’t see what it is yet.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘You okay?’
‘I get migraines – and that’s to be treated confidentially, too. Think one might just be trying to book an appointment.’
‘Seen a doctor about it?’
‘I’ve got tablets.’
‘Do they work?’
‘When added to ten or twelve hours on a bed in a darkened room.’
‘You should let Milligan know.’
‘Why?’
‘Good excuse for when you go off wandering.’
‘But also a sign of weakness. I’d rather not give him any more ammunition. How about you – any progress to report?’
‘Not as such. Your wife rang, though. Wanted to know if she’d be seeing you tonight. She sounds nice.’
‘She’s great.’
‘The sort of woman a man would be happy to go home to?’ Lilley had lifted what was left of his pint and taken an exploratory sip.
‘I can get you a fresh one.’
‘In place of an answer to my question?’
Laidlaw couldn’t help the thin smile. He took a deep breath. ‘Like I say, Ena is great. It’s just that not much else is.’
‘Being a parent is hard work.’
‘Ach, it’s not that.’ He looked to the gaudily painted ceiling for inspiration. ‘I’m lonelier in my marriage than when I lived on my own, and I think Ena’s the same.’
The silence at the table was deep enough to accommodate a coffin. Eventually it was broken by the bar’s jukebox. Someone had put on ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’. The two detectives’ eyes met and they shared a battle-worn smile. A shambling figure was approaching from the bar, holding a pint of Guinness in one hand and what looked like a large dark rum in the other.
‘Hope it’s okay, Mr Laidlaw. I said you’d settle up later.’ The man sat down without waiting to be asked.
‘This is Eck Adamson,’ Laidlaw said by way of introduction. A rich bouquet of aromas reached Lilley, courtesy of the new arrival in the greasy, ill-fitting clothes. There were old shaving cuts between the patches of bristle on his chin and cheeks. The hair was sparse and prematurely silver. Adamson could have been anything between thirty and sixty and probably had no more than a decade left in him without a radical change of lifestyle. ‘I told you I know the streets,’ Laidlaw was saying, ‘but Eck here has a doctorate and any number of diplomas.’
As if in agreement with this assessment, Adamson toasted the table before sinking the rum in a single full-mouthed swallow. After a moment’s exhalation, he started making short work of the pint.
‘As you can see,’ Laidlaw went on, ‘all that expertise doesn’t come cheap. But I can always rely on Eck, because he knows that if I think he’s not earned the outlay, he’s going to get a boot to the balls and a smack to the jaw.’ His words froze Adamson mid gulp. With infinite deliberation he placed the Guinness back on the table.
‘Ernie Milligan reckons he’s got the best sources in the city,’ Lilley commented, eliciting a snort of derision from Adamson.
‘You mean Macey?’
‘Benny Mason, yes.’
‘That’s his Sunday name – and let me tell you, Macey’s about as much use as brewer’s droop at an orgy.’
‘Been to many orgies, have you?’ Lilley was smiling without humour.
‘I get plenty, don’t you worry.’
Laidlaw leaned across the table. ‘Eck, you couldn’t get a ride in a brothel with a hundred quid and a doctor’s line, but if I thought Macey had better ears it’d be him sitting there while you were curled up on the pavement next to a heating vent. So tell us what you’ve heard and I might even offer you a refill.’
It was Adamson’s turn to lean in, elbows on the table, as if ensuring his words remained the property of no one else in the bar.
‘He wasn’t the worst of men, Bobby Carter. Always stood his round as well as his ground.’
‘It’s not a eulogy I’m after, Eck.’ Laidlaw’s look was stern.
‘I’m just setting the scene. Thing is, all men have vices and weak spots, don’t they? With Carter it was women. I think hanging out with Colvin and the like only made things worse. He got the feeling women were paying him attention because they liked him rather than because of the company he was in and the money flying around.’ Adamson reckoned he was safe to pause long enough for a sip from his glass. On the other side of the table Laidlaw mirrored him.
‘So he was a womaniser,’ Lilley said across the no-man’s-land. ‘So what?’
Adamson held up a finger whose entrenched stains Swarfega would struggle to overcome. ‘One woman,’ he intoned.
‘Doubtless unmarried and with no other complications?’ Laidlaw enquired.
‘Chick McAllister’s ex.’
‘Chick McAllister as in John Rhodes’s Chick McAllister?’
‘The same.’
‘Was this public knowledge?’
‘If it was, you wouldn’t need me to tell you.’
‘So who knew? Did McAllister?’
‘Maybe. But they split up last year, amicably as far as I know.’
‘She seeing anyone apart from Carter?’
Adamson gave a shrug before sucking the last of the life from the Guinness. Laidlaw clicked his fingers towards the underworked barman, signalling for refills.
‘So what’s she called?’
‘Jennifer Love. Goes by Jenni with an i. Sounds like an alias but it’s genuine. Her dad’s Archie Love, the footballer.’
‘I know that name,’ Lilley said. ‘There was a betting scandal, wasn’t there?’
Adamson nodded. ‘And that was the end of his playing days. Since then he’s been drinking to forget.’
‘What else do you know about Jenni?’
‘Mid twenties. Likes a good time and men who can afford to bring her it on a plate. Works as a go-go dancer at Whiskies. It’s that live music place on Candleriggs.’
‘A haunt of yours, I’m sure,’ Laidlaw said, breaking off as the drinks arrived. There was one for Lilley, which he was determined to leave untouched. Again Adamson knocked back the rum in one swallow.
‘Keeps the chill off,’ he explained.
‘So will this,’ Laidlaw said, slipping him a banknote, which Adamson palmed like an expert. ‘Any other news for us while we’re being cosy and friendly?’
‘The drums are spelling out war, but that probably won’t come as a surprise.’
‘Colvin looking for revenge?’
‘Someone’s going to have to pay. The pub where they found the body, it’s on Rhodes’s turf.’
‘I spotted him there not two hours ago,’ Laidlaw agreed, eliciting a look from Lilley.
‘Story is, Rhodes and the owner go back a ways. Guy had to get out of Belfast in a hurry and Rhodes lent a hand, maybe even got him the shipyard job. Then the guy scoops the pools and buys the Parlour, even after splitting the winnings with Rhodes as a thank you.’
‘So if Colvin goes ruffling feathers there . . .’ Laidlaw locked eyes with Lilley to make sure he understood the implications before turning his attention back to Adamson. ‘Why was he killed, though, Eck? That’s what we need to find out.’
‘Cherchez la femme, that’s what they say, Mr Laidlaw.’
‘And you wouldn’t have been paid a princely sum by anyone to lead us into that particular maze?’
Adamson managed to look insulted, even as he sank half of the fresh pint of Guinness. He wiped foam from his top lip as he shook his head.
‘Because if I find out you’ve been trying to play us,’ Laidlaw continued calmly, ‘it won’t be your balls I’ll be kicking into powder – it’ll be that shrivelled thing inside you that passes for a soul.’
11
> Lilley offered him a lift home and Laidlaw decided not to refuse. But he did ask for a detour, giving the address in Bearsden, and when Lilley asked why, all he could do was shrug.
‘You saw John Rhodes,’ Lilley said. ‘When were you going to tell me that?’
‘I literally bumped into him as I was coming out of the Parlour, just after I’d walked in on Colvin’s goons giving the landlord some grief.’ Laidlaw paused, eyes on the passing scenery. ‘Lucky the two opposing forces didn’t meet.’
‘And this is your normal way of working?’
‘It’s the only way I know.’
‘Seems to me, every station you work at, that method only gets you so far before you’ve put everyone’s back up and have to be shunted elsewhere.’
‘What is it they say about a prophet in his own country?’
‘That he should start making allies, because one day he might just need them?’
‘Aye, something like that.’ Laidlaw reached down to switch on the radio. Dr Kissinger was talking about peace in Vietnam. ‘They’d be as well sending Dr Strangelove,’ Laidlaw commented.
‘You reckon Nixon’s going to beat McGovern next month?’
‘I could beat McGovern, Bob. Every time I think politics here can’t get any lower or more venal, I look across the pond and wonder if I’m staring into a crystal ball.’
‘Kissinger’s got a head on him, though.’
‘Aye, and if it gets any bigger he’ll have trouble squeezing through the doors of all those planes he seems to like taking. Say what you like about the Scots, we hate to see people get above themselves.’
‘We’re all Jock Tamson’s bairns right enough.’
‘And what a bastard of a father he turned out to be . . .’
‘This’ll do,’ Laidlaw stated when they reached Bobby Carter’s street.
‘We going in?’
Laidlaw shook his head. The car had stopped one house shy of Carter’s. Time was, mourning meant the curtains would be drawn closed day and night until after the funeral, but he got the feeling the downstairs ones had been pulled to only because it had grown dark.
‘She’s a bit of a looker, the widow,’ Lilley stated. ‘Milligan has a photo up on the murder wall. I’d say he’s slightly smitten. Wonder how she ended up with a piece of pond life like Bobby Carter.’
Laidlaw drew in a deep breath. ‘When me or my brother were bad-mouthing someone, our mum always said the same thing – “Ach, he’s somebody’s rearing.” I suppose what she meant was, everyone’s loved by someone and we don’t always know the reason why.’
‘You’re telling me even arseholes have their good side and deserve some sort of justice?’
‘The law’s not about justice. It’s a system we’ve put in place because we can’t have justice.’
Lilley thought: the man speaks like the books on his desk, the lines honed by rehearsal. But did they mean much of anything?
Laidlaw was winding down the window, nodding towards the lamplit suburban street. ‘This is why we have to solve the case,’ he said. ‘On the surface everything appears much as it was, but one house has been hit by a bomb. They’re in there sifting through the rubble. Carter might have been a mobster outside the home, but here he was a husband and dad. That’s our client, Bob – Dr Jekyll rather than Mr Hyde.’
‘Wonder if the rest of the street knew how he came to afford a home here.’
They noticed movement at the living room window of the house opposite the Carters’ and caught a glimpse of an elderly face. Whoever was inside was pretending to adjust the curtains while actually wondering whose car had just arrived.
‘Nosy parker,’ Lilley stated.
‘The neighbourhood eyes and ears,’ Laidlaw agreed.
‘So we’re not going in and we’re not getting out?’
‘We’re travellers, Bob, that’s all.’
‘Aye, and some of us want to travel home. Others I’m not so sure about.’
‘Did you sign up thinking the job was nine to five?’
‘They told me ten till four with regular breaks.’
‘Maybe that’s my problem then – I should have joined the union as well as the lodge. But if you’re in a hurry, I’ve seen what I need to.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Another piece of the infinite jigsaw that makes Glasgow the second city of the Empire.’
Lilley was shaking his head slowly as he executed a three-point turn, wondering if working with Laidlaw was likely to get any easier.
Laidlaw himself started giving directions as they reached the outskirts of Simshill. His home was on a street between Linn Park and King’s Park. Lilley didn’t know the area and would probably have called it Cathcart rather than Simshill. Without being asked, he had informed Laidlaw that he and Margaret had lived in Dowanhill all their married lives and he couldn’t see them flitting any time soon.
‘I’ve brought you out of your way,’ Laidlaw said, almost apologetically.
‘Which means I can take you back, if you want me to wait.’
He shook his head. ‘Might take a bit of time to pack. I’ll be fine in a taxi.’
As they drew to a stop, the door of the semi-detached house opened, as if Ena had been waiting. When Laidlaw emerged from the car, Lilley got out too. He stood at the driver’s side and offered a smile in her direction, which she answered with a wave. She was a handsome woman but looked fatigued. Laidlaw’s shoulders were hunched as he walked up the path towards her. If the visit to Bearsden had energised him, that energy had now dissipated, though he revived when one of his children bounded past her mother and hurled herself into Laidlaw’s arms.
Lilley felt all of a sudden that he was intruding on a private moment, albeit one played out in public view. He dived back into the car and put it into gear. His last view was of Laidlaw’s back, the child’s thin arms clamped around his neck as both headed indoors. Ena had already left the stage.
It was ten by the time Laidlaw stepped out of the taxi at the Burleigh Hotel. The driver hadn’t felt much like chatting after Laidlaw had asked which of the city’s gangsters he ultimately worked for. Cabs, scrapyards, bouncers, knocking shops, betting offices – scratch the surface of any of those industries and you’d find a Rhodes, a Colvin or a Matt Mason. When he’d added a tip to the fare, there had been the most token grunt of gratitude, so much so that he’d almost asked for it back. Instead, he’d picked up his case and pushed open the door to the hotel, climbing the three steps to the reception desk, where Jan greeted him with a welcoming smile.
‘Hello, stranger.’
‘Wasn’t I just here last night?’
‘Feels longer.’ She had opened her ledger and was studying it. ‘Can’t offer you the same room – it’s taken. Guy’s here on business, but for one night only. How about I give you the suite tonight and you can move tomorrow?’
‘How much is the suite?’
‘No extra charge.’
‘Money up front?’
She shook her head. ‘I know you’re not going to run out on me.’ She turned towards the row of numbered hooks. ‘Just the one key, or will anyone be joining you?’
‘About ten other versions of me, none of whose company I can honestly say I enjoy.’ He took the key from her, eye contact lasting only slightly longer than strictly necessary.
‘Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me.’
‘You always work the late shift?’
‘I like being awake at night. There’s the feeling that anything could happen.’
‘Out there it usually does.’ Laidlaw gestured to the door behind him.
‘And in here too sometimes.’
‘Second floor?’ He was making show of studying the red-tasselled key.
‘Third. There are only two rooms up there and the other’s not taken yet, so you can make as much noise as you want.’
He got the feeling she was smiling again as he made his way towards the lift.
DAY T
HREE
12
Laidlaw was eating a cooked breakfast in the dining room when the day-shift receptionist handed him a message, apologising for her scrawled writing. It took him a couple of attempts to work out that it was from Conn Feeney. Carter’s widow was due to visit the scene of the crime before saying a few words to some tame journalists. Laidlaw didn’t bother mopping up the last of the fried egg. He slipped his jacket on and got going.
By the time he reached the Parlour, things were drawing to a close. The press photographers were taking a few final snaps. Neighbours and passers-by formed an appreciative audience on the pavement across from where Monica Carter stood, dressed in sober colours, her naturally pale face lacking any adornment, yet still striking, hair tied back, eyes misty. Two print journalists – neither of them familiar to Laidlaw – were checking their notepads in case they’d missed anything. Next to the widow stood a figure Laidlaw did recognise – Cam Colvin. He wasn’t wearing a suit as such, but both jacket and trousers were dark, as was his tie. Laidlaw doubted any of it had come from Milligan’s favoured menswear shop. One hand held Monica Carter’s elbow while she finished whatever she was telling the press.
Laidlaw was reminded of the pathologist’s words. He’d said Colvin had ‘handled her with great gentleness’. And here he was handling her again, head bowed but eyes like darts aimed at the reporters, warning them not to overstep the mark. His shoulders were slightly hunched, the result of the knife in the back that had become part of the city’s mythology. Laidlaw noticed that Colvin’s free hand was twisted almost behind his back. He was holding something there. Laidlaw moved further to the edge of the throng. It was the posy from behind the pub. Colvin had removed it for some reason.
Laidlaw scratched his jaw, realising he hadn’t shaved that morning. He kept watching as Colvin decided enough was enough. No, Mrs Carter would not be posing for a few tasteful portraits. No, she wouldn’t be sitting down for any private confab. The journalists were shooed away as a car drew to a halt, driven by one of the men Laidlaw had bearded in the Parlour. Colvin himself ushered the widow into the back seat, settling next to her. As the car drew away, normality returned, as if the curtain had come down at the end of a performance. Laidlaw saw that the door to the Parlour was slightly open, Conn Feeney watching through the gap. He gave the landlord a thumbs-up of thanks for the tip-off. Rather than acknowledge it, Feeney simply let the door swing closed. Opening time wouldn’t be for a while yet.
