by Ian Rankin
Laidlaw wasn’t the only onlooker who made the pilgrimage to the bins behind the pub. A couple of permed housewives in Rainmates and what looked like floral dressing gowns were ahead of him. One stooped to study the writing on the large bunch of fresh flowers.
‘They’re beauties,’ her friend said.
‘From your wife and loving children,’ the other woman recited. Then, to Laidlaw: ‘I hope you’re not thinking of nicking them.’
‘I’m not,’ he assured her. But he did wonder about the other flowers, the ones Colvin had decided didn’t belong.
‘Such a waste,’ the first woman said. Laidlaw wondered whether she meant the loss of human or horticultural life.
As the two women shuffled off, he lit a cigarette and read the inscription for himself. Over a dozen blooms rested behind the cellophane wrapping, already dead but making the best of it, which in itself wasn’t the worst of epitaphs.
Milligan was just finishing the morning briefing when Laidlaw walked into the office.
‘Nice of you to join us, Jack.’
‘I’ve been listening from the corridor – didn’t want to interrupt your flow.’
‘Then you’ll know what duties you and Bob have been assigned?’
‘Absolutely.’ Laidlaw pulled out his chair and sat down. There was a mound of fresh paperwork on his desk. The typing pool had been busy. Bob Lilley was studying his own copies, managing to avoid eye contact with his partner.
Milligan clapped his hands together twice. ‘Let’s get busy then.’
As the detectives roused themselves, Milligan began to move towards Laidlaw’s desk, but a WPC appeared in the doorway and announced that the Commander wanted a word. With a glower towards Laidlaw that warned of unfinished business, Milligan made his exit, straightening his tie as he went.
‘So what are our duties?’ Laidlaw asked Lilley.
‘I thought you knew.’
‘Let’s pretend I arrived at the station five minutes ago after a return visit to the Parlour.’
‘It opens early.’
‘I had a tip-off. Watched the widow and Cam Colvin talking to some journalists after leaving a bouquet. Colvin’s the type of gangster who likes to see his photo in the paper – means more of his fellow Glaswegians know who they’re supposed to fear. Recognition and reputation are all.’
‘So you got a good look at Carter’s wife then? Can I add you to the list of the smitten?’
‘How about you tell me what intellectual challenge we’ve been set for the rest of the day?’
‘We’re on door-to-door.’
‘The CID equivalent of jankers, in other words.’
‘Milligan’s pulling Malky Chisholm in for questioning but saving that for himself.’
‘While we waste a solid day asking the deaf, dumb and blind if they’ve seen or heard anything suspicious.’
‘I take it you have a better idea?’
‘Only if you’ve yet to mention Jennifer Love to anyone.’
‘I kept that under my hat.’
‘Any particular reason why?’
‘Eck Adamson is your snitch, meaning you should be the one given the honour.’
‘Decent of you, but that same decency might see you stuck at DS for longer than necessary. Stealing your colleagues’ glory is a tried-and-tested shortcut to advancement.’
‘I’ve always preferred scenic routes myself.’
‘Then this is your lucky day, DS Lilley.’
‘Whiskies go-go bar?’ Lilley guessed.
‘Whiskies go-go bar,’ Laidlaw echoed, shoving the paperwork to the furthest corner of his desk.
Though the club wouldn’t open for hours, staff were already busy cleaning and restocking. There was an aroma of musky sweat and spilled beer that had not yet been disguised by the cans of deodoriser. Small circular podiums, each with a chrome pole at its centre, stood at the four corners of the dance floor. Laidlaw visualised Jenni Love gyrating as the ceiling-mounted spotlights played over her body. The owner of Whiskies, a man named Jake Collins, wasn’t in yet, but the self-styled ‘bar manager’, a bleary-eyed teenager with raging acne and home-made tattoos, reckoned he could help them with an address for Jenni. As he headed to the back office, Laidlaw signalled for Lilley to accompany him. Last thing they wanted was Love being telephoned a warning. In Lilley’s absence, Laidlaw walked to the DJ booth. It boasted two record decks and a cassette player plus a control panel for the lights. A reel-to-reel sat on the floor, apparently considered obsolete. Promotional photos, their curling edges showing their age, were pinned to the booth’s back wall. Laidlaw recognised a few faces: Marmalade, Lulu, Cilla.
‘She sang in here once, you know,’ a voice called from the bar. Laidlaw turned towards the man who was unloading bottles from a crate. He was in his thirties. Sleeves rolled up, stomach bulging, a sheen of sweat on his face. ‘Lulu, I mean. Back before this place became Whiskies. Everyone from the Corries to the Poets passed through those doors.’
‘Not these days, though?’
‘Dancing’s what works up a thirst, and a DJ doesn’t cost what a proper musician does.’
Laidlaw made show of studying his surroundings. ‘Who owns the place now?’
‘Jake Collins.’
‘Aye, on paper maybe. But who’s pulling his strings? Cam Colvin?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Your face says otherwise. Ever see Bobby Carter in here?’
‘The guy who was killed?’ The man decided not to bother lying. ‘He came in now and again.’
‘With Colvin?’ A shake of the head. ‘And I’m guessing not with his wife?’
‘You’re getting Jenni’s address, so I’m assuming you already know.’
‘I don’t suppose you ever saw her ex in here, name of Chick McAllister?’
Another shake of the head, more definitive this time. The man concentrated on emptying the crate and readying the next one. Bob Lilley was emerging from the back office, flourishing a scrap of paper, the teenager at his heels.
Laidlaw gestured towards both employees. ‘If she’s flown the nest, we’ll be straight back here and you’ll be spending some time in the cells at Central Division. Enjoy the rest of your day, gents.’
13
Jennifer Love still lived at home with her parents. It was her mother who opened the door of the bungalow in Knightswood. The area was undergoing development, new tower blocks beginning to appear. In time they might swamp the existing housing altogether, smothering the life out of it. Jennifer was still in bed, Laidlaw and Lilley were informed. They knew what young people were like these days. Her mother would see if she could be roused. Mrs Love led them down the narrow hallway, past a venerable-looking paraffin heater, into the living room, where a coal fire was sparking and spitting, the fireside itself immaculate. Did they want tea or coffee? Was anything wrong?
‘Just a couple of questions about someone she might know,’ Bob Lilley explained.
‘And who might that be?’
‘Bobby Carter.’
The woman’s lips puckered but she held her counsel.
‘Your face gives you away, Mrs Love,’ Laidlaw said. ‘So if you were thinking of trying to hide anything from us, I’d advise against.’
She folded her arms slowly while she debated silently with herself.
‘Jennifer spilled the beans to me,’ she eventually admitted. ‘Not at the start, but soon enough after. And him a married man, too. But they’d stopped seeing one another. It was never that serious. I don’t think they even . . .’ She broke off, giving her permed hair a pat as if to tidy it. ‘Anyway, I’ll go fetch her.’
They waited in the living room. It was festooned with memorabilia from Archie Love’s playing days. Morton, Dunfermline, then a short unsuccessful spell at Rangers before seeing out his professional days at St Johnstone. There were trophies and medals, a cap from his one outing for the national team, and framed photos of him posing with everyone from Jim Baxter to Jock Stein, Hamish I
mlach to Molly Weir. Other photos showed a young boy. One of these seemed to have been cropped from a larger picture, the edges rough. It sat next to a family portrait, posed in a studio, the photographer’s name embossed along the bottom of the white cardboard frame. Love looked every inch the patriarch. His wife was just about managing a smile, while Jennifer, aged probably eleven or twelve, was showing signs that she was present under sufferance and sufferance alone.
When Mrs Love returned, she told them Jennifer would be a couple of minutes. She was readying to sit down, but Laidlaw informed her they needed a bit of privacy. Her face hardened.
‘I’ll be in the kitchen then.’ There was no follow-up offer of beverages.
‘Your husband’s not here?’ Lilley enquired.
‘He runs a youth team. They keep him busy.’ She left the room.
The two men sat in silence, side by side on the sofa. Archie Love’s armchair held a cleaned ashtray and a spectacles case. The chair looked well used and Laidlaw guessed the man in the photographs had put on weight since his heyday. His wife was a sparrow by comparison, albeit one that would protect her nest to the death. Jennifer Love, when she entered, had many of her mother’s delicate features, but with added height and looks. Her dark hair was shoulder-length, her eyes lucid and watchful. She settled in what would be her mother’s usual chair, tucking her legs beneath her. Mid twenties and still living with mum and dad – Laidlaw wondered who stood to gain most from the arrangement.
‘We’d stopped seeing each other,’ she announced.
‘All the same, we’re sorry for your loss.’
She bit her bottom lip, as if realising she should be showing a sorrow that wasn’t there.
‘When was the last time you saw Mr Carter?’ Lilley asked.
‘Couple of weeks back.’
‘Was this at Whiskies?’ Lilley watched her nod. ‘He was a regular?’
‘If I was dancing, yes.’
‘Is that how you met?’
‘Yes.’
Laidlaw leaned towards her, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘And what caused the split?’ he asked.
‘Nothing really.’
‘You’d made it clear to him you weren’t going to share a bed?’
Her eyes widened a little at the question’s lack of subtlety.
‘Sorry to be so blunt, Jenni,’ he went on, ‘but this is a murder inquiry.’
She nodded again, this time in understanding. ‘I think we just didn’t have enough in common. He didn’t even like the music at the club. He just liked ogling the girls.’
‘He was generous, though – always buying the drinks? A meal now and then? Maybe a bit of jewellery?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must have known something would be expected in return. The guy was married. There was a reason he was with you rather than his wife.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘What about Cam Colvin? Ever see him at Whiskies?’
‘I never met him, but Bobby talked about him all the time. I think I was supposed to find that whole world as exciting as he did.’
‘You’ve got a head on your shoulders,’ Laidlaw said. ‘That’s something you should be proud of.’ He paused, allowing her a moment to inhale the praise. ‘What about your old boyfriend Chick?’
‘What about him?’
‘Was he jealous you were seeing Bobby?’
She offered a shrug. ‘Haven’t seen Chick in months.’
‘How many months?’
‘Two, maybe three.’
‘Did he know about you and Bobby, though?’
‘Not many people did. We were discreet.’
‘Not easy in a city of a million eyes. So is there any reason you can think of why someone would want Bobby dead?’
‘Apart from the fact he worked for a gangster?’
‘How about the Parlour – did he ever take you there, or mention it?’
She shook her head. She was dressed in black slacks, her feet bare, and she had begun to pick at a toenail, as if seeking a distraction.
‘Is there anything you can tell us about Bobby?’ Laidlaw persisted. ‘Anything that might help us catch his killer?’
‘He just seemed like every other lawyer. A bit quiet, a bit boring, truth be told. But I knew part of his job was storing other people’s secrets. You always felt he was working hard at not letting anything slip.’
‘And these secrets, did you get any inkling where he was storing them?’
She saw that Laidlaw had misunderstood. ‘Up here,’ she explained, tapping her forehead.
Bob Lilley cleared his throat, signalling that he had a question of his own. ‘Are you sorry he’s dead, Jenni?’
‘Of course I am. Can’t go weeping and wailing, though, can I?’
‘You left a bunch of flowers behind the Parlour, didn’t you?’ Laidlaw added. He watched her nod slowly. ‘No name or card . . . I’m guessing Bobby was a secret kept between you and your mother?’
Jennifer Love looked around the room she was sitting in. ‘Dad would have hit the roof.’
‘There’s no way he could have found out?’
‘I’d know all about it if he had, believe me.’
‘But supposing he had, he would be far from best pleased?’
‘He’s a hard man to please at any time.’
There was the sound of a stifled sneeze from the other side of the living room door.
‘We’re almost done, Mrs Love,’ Laidlaw announced, raising his voice. ‘You can come in if you like.’
By the time he reached the hallway, however, Jenni’s mother was back at the kitchen sink and refusing to lift her eyes from whatever lurked in her washing-up bowl.
‘You’ll find whoever killed him?’ Bob Lilley was being asked.
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Lilley replied in practised tones, before following Laidlaw to the front door.
Seated in Lilley’s Toledo, Laidlaw got a cigarette going. ‘Archie Love?’ Lilley speculated.
‘We’ll take it to Milligan – go see him together. Jenni, Whiskies and Archie Love. We’ll give him the lot.’
‘Including Chick McAllister?’
Laidlaw considered for a moment. ‘Maybe keep that to ourselves for the time being.’
‘Because you want to be the one to question him?’
‘Are you asking to be put on the guest list?’
Lilley’s mouth twitched. ‘Why did you ask about the flowers?’
‘Cam Colvin removed them. No need for Jenni to know that, but it tells me something.’
‘He knew about the pair of them?’
‘Probably guessed that’s who they’d be from.’
Lilley nodded his understanding, then reached into the side pocket of the driver’s door. The sheet of paper he held up listed the addresses they were supposed to be doorstepping. Laidlaw took it from him and pretended to peruse it for a moment, before ripping it in half and tossing it onto the back seat.
‘Let’s go see if what we’re about to tell Milligan gets us a Cub Scout badge.’
‘Hard to imagine you in the Cubs, Jack.’
‘Boys’ Brigade all the way, Bob. We used to shit on the Cubs from a great height.’
‘Metaphorically, I hope.’
‘Ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Any chance of you getting this jalopy started? Red carpet waiting for us at Central Division when we bring them the news.’
14
They felt it as soon as they stepped inside the police station. It was as if an electric current had been run into the building. Everyone seemed to be in movement, and those movements became more frantic the nearer Laidlaw and Lilley got to the crime squad office. Laidlaw was eventually able to stop one detective constable in his tracks by dint of planting his feet directly in front of him, blocking any escape.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘A knife’s been found. DI Milligan reckons it’ll be the murder weapon.’
‘Found where?’
‘A kid was waving it around in a park. Don’t ask me which one.’
‘Why not? Aren’t you supposed to be CID?’
The young officer’s neck began to redden. He squeezed past Laidlaw and strode towards his destination.
Lilley was in the office by the time Laidlaw caught up. Every available telephone was turning hot in the grip of the shirtsleeved detectives. The room was stifling. Milligan stood beside his murder wall, barking orders. He wanted a fingertip search of the area.
‘Grab as many uniforms as you need. This takes priority. And get me a map of Springburn Park!’
Springburn Park meant Balornock, not far from Stobhill Hospital. Laidlaw could visualise the old clock tower that greeted you as you drove towards the main building. He seemed to remember that the park wasn’t big but boasted a bowling green, bandstand and maybe a football pitch. He was almost in Milligan’s flushed face before the man recognised him.
‘Change of plan. You’ll be doorstepping in Springburn and Balornock.’
‘Are you sure it’s our knife?’
‘Kid says he found it hidden in bushes. He was waving it around so we got a call. The officer who caught up with him noticed some blood on the hilt.’
‘A bloodied knife dumped in Glasgow? Probably only happens a dozen times a day.’
Milligan glowered at him. ‘If you engaged your brain as often as your mouth, you’d know there’ve only been three stabbings since Bobby Carter, and each time we caught the culprit and seized the weapon.’ He paused for a breath that was probably intended to be calming. ‘Somebody’s drawing up an initial list of streets we need to visit. And by “we”, I mean you.’
‘I couldn’t be more thrilled. Has the knife gone to the lab?’
‘Screws are being turned as we speak – I want a match by the end of today.’
‘The kid’s prints will need to be eliminated.’
