The Dark Remains

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Cam knows you’re not Judas material,’ Paterson assured Thomson, stuffing the empty sweet wrapper into his coat pocket.

  ‘Even though you’re just about daft enough to have done Bobby in and tossed the knife into a bush practically outside your back door.’ Menzies gave a chuckle.

  ‘Don’t even joke about it,’ Thomson said with a scowl. ‘It feels like somebody’s doing a decent job of stitching me up here.’ He rubbed at his chest, feeling the comforting weight of the concealed spanner.

  ‘As if you’d use a blade,’ Paterson said, gripping the back of the passenger seat and pulling himself forward. ‘We all know Mickey’s the one who likes a proper knife.’

  ‘Though he prefers a razor,’ Menzies countered. ‘Besides, Mickey’s not the one with the hots for the widow.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure about that,’ Thomson said quietly.

  ‘How do you mean, Spanner?’

  Thomson just shrugged, all three of them watching as Ballater emerged from the building, pulling up his collar and almost dancing down the steps towards them. He seemed relaxed, as if his little chat with Cam Colvin were a job interview that had gone exceedingly well. He didn’t even look particularly put out that he was being consigned to the back seat. He climbed in and closed the door.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Menzies enquired, watching in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Right as rain,’ Ballater answered, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. ‘So are we going to make a few house calls or what?’

  ‘Just like the boss said.’

  ‘Mind you, it’ll take us all day if we don’t divvy it up,’ Ballater commented. ‘I could talk to my guys while you talk to yours.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what we’ll do then,’ Menzies said, releasing the handbrake and giving Spanner Thomson the most meaningful of looks.

  24

  There were goalposts but no nets and the turf had been churned by a succession of studded boots. Discarded jackets took the place of corner flags and line markings existed only in the imaginations of those present. Pulpy leaves covered the stretch of parkland where Laidlaw emerged from the line of trees. The sky was almost as sullen as the smattering of spectators. Red plastic Adidas shoulder bags were lined up next to the pitch. Beside them stood three men in matching tracksuits, shouting instructions and imprecations towards the teenage boys whose field of dreams this purported to be.

  Laidlaw recognised Archie Love, who was a good couple of decades older than the assistants flanking him. The other onlookers comprised parents and bored siblings, some of whom were busy exercising their dribbling skills.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Kenny, Stevie Wonder could have made that tackle!’ Love spat the words with real passion, his arms outstretched. He slapped his palms against his thighs in exasperation.

  ‘The boy’s weary,’ one of the assistants offered by way of excuse.

  ‘Too many copies of Mayfair hidden in his bedroom,’ the other agreed. ‘Right arm’s getting more exercise than the rest of him put together.’

  ‘You’d know all about that, Jimmy,’ Love complained, ‘seeing how you’re the source of most of those mags.’

  ‘Man has to make a living, Archie.’

  ‘Mr Love?’

  All three turned at the sound of Laidlaw’s voice.

  ‘Sorry to drag you away from an enthralling encounter, but could I have a minute of your time?’

  Love checked his wristwatch. ‘Forty-five’s nearly up anyway.’ There was a tin whistle hanging around his neck. He puckered his lips around it and blew. There were groans of relief as the players started making for the touchline.

  ‘Sort them out,’ Love commanded before heading in the direction of the trees and the footpath beyond. He was about six inches shorter than Laidlaw, and he’d added maybe a stone and a half in weight since his playing days. The thick head of hair was turning silver, his tan showing that he still treated himself to overseas holidays.

  ‘What’s this about?’ he asked, unwrapping a stick of gum and readying to place it in his mouth. He changed his mind, however, when Laidlaw produced a pack of cigarettes. ‘Give me one of those, will you?’ Laidlaw obliged and the uneaten gum was tossed onto the grass. Both men smoked in silence for a moment.

  ‘I’m a detective, Mr Love.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were a scout from Inter Milan, son.’

  ‘I did play a bit in my younger days. A few folk said I was good enough to stick at it.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I decided not to waste my life playing games. Speaking of scouting, though, you do a bit yourself, I hear.’

  ‘Good young players are rarer than a convent with the toilet seat up. I sometimes steer one towards a deal that’s going to be right for him, then I’m left to watch as most of them piss it all away. Talent and brains is the rarest combination of all.’ Love studied Laidlaw above the cigarette in his mouth, having offered him all he was going to get by way of casual conversation.

  ‘Do you know a man called Matt Mason, Mr Love?’

  ‘By reputation.’

  ‘You’ve never done any work for him.’

  ‘That’s a pretty wild allegation to be making. How about telling me your name, for when I make my complaint?’

  ‘It’s Detective Constable Laidlaw. You’ll find me at Central Division, where I’m investigating the murder of Bobby Carter. I don’t suppose you knew him?’

  ‘Bobby Carter?’ Love shook his head and checked his watch. Some of the players were stretched out on the edge of the playing field, as if a soft bed couldn’t come soon enough. Love blew on the whistle, gesturing for his assistants to get them back on their feet.

  ‘I’m not doing too well here, am I?’ Laidlaw said. ‘Let’s try one final name – Chick McAllister.’

  ‘He’s a friend of my daughter’s.’

  ‘Her boyfriend, in fact, at one time.’

  Love gave a shrug.

  ‘Were you aware that he works for John Rhodes?’

  ‘The laddie seemed fine, very respectful.’

  ‘But not exactly son-in-law material?’

  ‘My Jennifer’s too young for any of that.’

  ‘That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? She’s not going to remain yours for much longer. She’s got her own life to lead and decisions she’ll want to make without any interference from you and her mum.’ Laidlaw paused as the man’s face grew taut. ‘I speak as a parent myself.’

  ‘What exactly are you doing here?’

  ‘How do you feel about the fact that Jennifer works as a dancer?’

  ‘How would you feel?’ ‘I imagine I’d be a bit fearful. Mine are a good bit younger, so there are a few more cotton-wool years left.’

  ‘Dancing’s all she does, you know. She knows better than to go with any of the lowlifes who stand there staring at her.’

  ‘You’ve watched her, then?’

  A momentary discomfort passed across Love’s face, as though he’d been found out. ‘What kind of father wouldn’t want to check out the place where his daughter works?’

  ‘Most of them, I’d say.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll find out some day, when yours have grown.’

  ‘You sound far from happy about her chosen career, Mr Love. And as for her not hanging out with the punters . . .’

  ‘What?’

  Laidlaw hadn’t known until this point that he was about to say anything. Later, he would wonder why he had, knowing it was bound to cause an angry scene in the Love household. He suspected it was because he had taken an immediate and visceral dislike to the man. It was to do with his attitude, the way his living room was focused on him – his chair, his memorabilia. He didn’t doubt that Love’s wife had been ground down by years spent under his control. Meantime, Laidlaw had a knife of sorts, and he couldn’t help but twist it.

  ‘Jenni was seeing Bobby Carter, Mr Love,’ he revealed. ‘This was after she broke up with McAllister. Carter worked for Cam Colvin, McAll
ister belongs to John Rhodes, and I hear whispers Matt Mason has you tucked in his breast pocket like one of those fake cardboard pocket-chiefs you can buy at the Barras.’ Examining the effect of his words, Laidlaw reached the swift conclusion that Carter was coming as news to Jenni’s father, so much so that there wasn’t room in his head for a denial of his links to Mason.

  ‘I would have known,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Would you, though? Is that the sort of relationship you’ve fostered with your daughter, Mr Love? Or is it more likely your family hide things from you to stop you taking off like a Saturn rocket?’

  A cry came from the touchline, one of the assistants tapping his wrist.

  ‘Lucky for you I have to go,’ Love growled.

  ‘You can swear to me you didn’t know about Jenni and Bobby Carter? If you had, what would you have done?’

  ‘All depends, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You’d have had words at the very least, though? Maybe at a rendezvous like the Parlour?’

  ‘The Parlour’s a John Rhodes pub.’

  ‘As Matt Mason’s man, you wouldn’t have been comfortable there?’

  ‘I’m my own man and nobody else’s.’ Love showed his teeth as he spoke. Laidlaw was shaking his head slowly.

  ‘You’re bought and sold for a gangster’s shilling,’ he corrected him. ‘In my book that gives you all the integrity of a back-street hoor at chucking-out time.’

  He watched as the man squared his shoulders and clenched his fists. One appraising look at his opponent, however, was enough to change Love’s mind. Instead, he began to trudge back towards his other family. Laidlaw wondered if he really deserved either of them, but then the world both men inhabited was seldom equitable that way.

  25

  ‘Well,’ Bob Lilley said, ‘what did you make of that?’

  Margaret went up through the gears. It was her turn to drive. She’d had just the one glass of warmish white. Bob had enjoyed a lot more, as well as a large post-prandial helping of Antiquary.

  ‘Lovely kids,’ Margaret answered. ‘Shame they’re living on a battlefield.’

  ‘That’s a bit over the top.’

  ‘Maybe. They’re good people, but there’s so much tension in that house. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it?’

  ‘I became progressively more inoculated.’

  Margaret enjoyed driving at this time of night, when the city dozed and the only hindrance was the occasional red light or tipsy pedestrian. She had never told Bob this, however. It would only have given him the excuse to avoid his turn at the wheel – and she enjoyed a drop of wine as much as she enjoyed being in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘tell me more.’

  She knew he was aware that she read domestic situations more astutely than he did, although that knowledge didn’t always sit easily with him. He’d said himself more than once that she’d have made a good detective.

  ‘Every marriage has its darker moments,’ she obliged. ‘Even ours. But we tend to bury the corpses and get on with things. Tonight, I thought some of them were sitting with us at the table. When we were talking about the hours you boys put in and I said you’ve been told that if you’re coming home after midnight you’ve to take the couch so you don’t wake me up . . .’

  ‘And Ena said Laidlaw prefers to stay out.’

  ‘It was what she said afterwards, though, about it being like having a soldier who only ever comes home on leave.’ Margaret paused. ‘I’m guessing something’s happened and that’s why she was keen to have us round. She needs to feel she has witnesses. Does Jack play the field?’

  ‘I’ve not long met the man,’ Lilley argued, before proffering a sigh to fill the silence. ‘He sleeps some nights in a hotel in town; says it’s so he can stay close to whatever he’s investigating.’

  ‘He’s a good-looking man, though.’

  ‘You think so? I hope you’re not getting interested.’

  She laughed and placed her free hand on his thigh. ‘I’m spoken for. Besides, he’s too dangerous.’

  ‘And I’m not?’

  ‘Maybe he’s a different type of dangerous – there were moments I could sense him ticking like a bomb. More than that, it was as if Ena wanted him to explode, so we’d see what she has to deal with. Did you not feel that, Bob?’

  ‘Maybe she’s not worked out yet who it is she married.’

  ‘Has he even worked that out himself?’

  ‘Let’s say he’s a work in progress, then, and thank our lucky stars we’re past all that.’

  ‘Did I not say? I’m leaving you next week.’

  ‘Mind and take the mortgage with you.’ Lilley smiled as he did some thinking. ‘You’re right in one respect – it was awkward seeing him in his home setting, like he wasn’t comfortable there. Maybe he’s a streetsman, the way Davy Crockett was a woodsman. Davy could read all the signs in the wild, he’d lived there so long. Probably wasn’t so good on the domestic front. I think Jack’s like that with Glasgow: he brings the city home with him, and that’s too much for even a decent-sized living room to contain.’

  Margaret seemed to be considering his words as she slowed, the lights ahead changing to red. ‘Bit of a romanticised notion you’ve got of him, no?’

  ‘I think he is a romantic, in a weird sort of way. He really believes there’s truth to be found on the streets that exists nowhere else.’

  They watched as two men weaved down the pavement, their heated discussion conducted in nothing but curses and adverbs.

  ‘Do you want to deal with that?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘I’m off duty. Besides, that’s not a fight, it’s a decibel contest. Look at the bellies on the pair of them – they’re like Lambeg drums, big and noisy but with nothing but air inside.’

  ‘You’re even beginning to speak like him,’ Margaret said with an indulgent smile.

  The lights changed to green and they set off again.

  ‘Another thing about Jack is, he’s deep,’ Lilley went on. ‘I got no sense of that from the house – everything in there seemed to be more Ena’s than his. On his desk at work he has these foreign books. Spanish, French, Danish maybe. Philosophers. Yet all I saw in the living room was Catherine Cookson.’

  ‘He’s in hiding, then, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’ve not known him nearly long enough to form a view.’ Lilley paused. ‘We’re going to have to return the favour, aren’t we? Invite them round to ours?’

  ‘Would that be such a bad thing? Maybe away from the kids they can find out what it is they like about one another.’ Margaret paused, moving up through the gears. ‘Then again, in public they’ve maybe perfected the happy families act. Could be that’s why the meal had to be on her territory, masks removed.’

  ‘You really think she wants us on her side and not his?’

  ‘I doubt there’s room in that marriage for neutrals.’

  ‘And have you decided whose colours you’ll be wearing.’

  ‘Hers, obviously.’

  ‘Even though he’s a good-looking man, and a romantic with it?’

  ‘Never bet against the wife, Bob. You should know that by now. Speaking of which, I’m going to bed when we get in, and you’re fetching me a cup of tea and maybe a wee brandy.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Lilley said, giving a salute as Margaret squeezed his thigh again.

  *

  ‘Are we the only people we know who’ve not seen that film?’ Ena asked as she busied herself washing the dishes.

  ‘You don’t do X certificates, remember. Even a musical like Cabaret.’

  ‘Al Pacino’s supposed to be very good, though.’ She glanced towards Laidlaw, who was drying the wine glasses. ‘They seem nice, don’t they?’

  ‘Salt of the earth.’

  ‘You once told me armies salt the earth to stop crops growing.’

  ‘Well, that’s true.’ Laidlaw opened a cupboard door.

  ‘Next one along for glasses,’ Ena informed
him.

  ‘It’s been a while,’ he said. Then: ‘Why exactly did you invite them?’

  ‘Any reason why not?’

  ‘It’s just unusual, that’s all.’

  ‘Inviting people to dinner?’

  ‘Us having people to dinner. It’s all a bit . . .’

  ‘Middle class? Did I miss you cleaning the coal dust from under your fingernails before we sat down?’

  ‘I’m not much of a one for small talk, you know that.’

  ‘Which explains why you didn’t say much of anything.’

  ‘I kept smiling, though, didn’t I? And I talked about the kids.’

  ‘You don’t get extra marks for doing something any father would do without having to think twice about it.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because most people don’t think before they speak. As a result, most of what passes for conversation is just dross. Sifting through it is what gives me those dirty nails.’ He saw the look she was giving him. ‘Present company excepted, obviously. Your conversation is always the stuff of legend.’ He snatched up a couple of plates with the dish towel.

  ‘When you’ve done those, can you bring the bowls through?’ He nodded and complied. There wasn’t a separate dining room, but the living room was big enough for a large drop-leaf table and four chairs. He started piling up the pudding bowls, while struggling to think back to what the starter had been. He paused and looked around him. Two armchairs and a matching floral sofa; framed photos of the three children on the wall unit; china ornaments that had belonged to Ena’s mother – there had been only one casualty so far due to the kids. A smoked-glass bowl sat on top of the unit, a ceramic cat attached to its rim, eyes locked on a smaller ceramic mouse inside. There was a tiny amount of Antiquary still in Laidlaw’s glass, so he finished it, rinsing it around his mouth. In the past, he had tried reading the meaning behind the bowl and the scene playing out on and within it. Was he the cat or the mouse? Was the bowl Ena’s idea of their marriage? Or did she just think it a charming and witty addition to the room?