by Ian Rankin
He was all too aware that he had been neither charming nor witty during the meal. But he’d been placid, she couldn’t say he hadn’t been that. Placid and polite.
Though, as she had already indicated, he deserved extra marks for neither.
‘Are you stopping here tonight?’ Ena asked. She was standing in the doorway, suds on her hands.
‘I’ve got another early start.’
‘There’s an alarm clock, Jack.’
In the end, he offered the nodded acceptance that the situation seemed to require.
‘Fine then,’ his wife said, turning away from him again.
‘I’ll just go up and check on the kids,’ he said, conscious that she had stopped listening. On the staircase, his legs felt simultaneously heavier and lighter with each step he climbed.
Four in the morning. That was the Faron Young song, wasn’t it? Four in the morning and . . . something about the dawning. Not dawn yet in Glasgow, though, as the passenger climbed out of the car. The driver stayed, ready to give warning, engine ticking over. The fence was high, the gates secured by a heavy chain and padlock. He hoisted the bolt-cutters but froze as a man in a stained car coat appeared around the corner, looking almost concussed. Either one of the local prozzies had given him a doing, or he’d passed out from the night’s bevvy and dozed on the pavement until the chill shook him awake. The passer-by saw the bolt-cutters a moment before raising his eyes to the figure who was releasing them. That figure now reached into a pocket, producing a combat knife, which came with a serrated edge and a nasty-looking tip.
‘Keep walking and you’ll keep breathing. Open your mouth about this and you’ll find it widened by a fair few inches when I catch up with you – got that, or would a few wee nicks maybe help you file it away?’
The pedestrian didn’t need telling, his eyes fixed on the knife that was being flexed in front of him.
‘None of my business, son, God’s honest truth.’ The man began stumbling away. The driver was watching his colleague intently. A shake of the head as the knife was tucked back into pocket said no further action need be taken. Not this time. He bent down and retrieved the bolt-cutters.
Four in the morning: how did the tune go again? He’d maybe get them to play it in Whiskies. It was a bit mournful, but who was going to stop him? And if anyone could dance to it, that wee ride Jenni could . . .
DAY FIVE
26
‘Explains why I had trouble getting a taxi,’ Laidlaw said to Lilley.
They were standing on the pavement next to a high mesh fence topped with strands of barbed wire. The padlock on the gates had been cut and lay on the ground. Inside the compound sat a dozen black cabs, their tyres slashed and windshields smashed. Laidlaw examined the surrounding buildings – disused warehouses and single-storey factory units.
‘Only likely witnesses that time of night would be tarts and their clients,’ Lilley commented, ‘judging by the johnnies strewn along the gutters.’
‘You paint a compelling picture, Bob.’
Crime-scene officers were dusting for prints and shooting roll upon roll of film. Laidlaw dislodged a sliver of bacon from between his teeth and flicked it towards the ground.
‘Hotel again last night?’ Lilley enquired. He watched Laidlaw shake his head. ‘Thanks for the meal, by the way.’
‘Don’t feel under any compunction to invite us round to yours too soon.’
‘Understood.’
‘I hope Cam Colvin’s premiums are up to date. Who fronts the place for him?’
‘Betty Fraser.’ Lilley watched one of Laidlaw’s eyebrows rise a fraction. ‘A rare enough commodity, I know, but she’s driven cabs for twenty years, knows her stuff, and her drivers are loyal to her.’
‘Meaning they don’t skim too much off each fare? Was the business always hers?’
Lilley nodded. ‘Colvin came in as a sleeping partner three or four years back. Seems he made her an offer she—’
‘I get the picture, Bob.’ The two detectives were walking around the inner perimeter of the compound, so as not to get in the way.
‘Tit for tat, isn’t it?’ Lilley commented.
‘And if the damage is covered by insurance, the only thing hurt is Colvin’s pride.’
‘You reckon John Rhodes is good for it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Just maybe?’
‘Just maybe,’ Laidlaw echoed.
‘So what does Colvin do now?’
‘He either sits on his hands or he escalates.’
‘Would it do any good to put the two of them in a room together?’
‘Only if you run a funeral business.’ Laidlaw was lighting a cigarette. There were only two left in the packet, and he needed new flints for his lighter. ‘Any chance I can hitch a lift?’
Lilley checked his watch. ‘We could grab a cuppa first – there’s another forty minutes before the morning briefing.’
‘I’m not going to the morning briefing, Bob.’
‘How far do you think you can push Milligan before the top of his head comes off?’
‘It’s an ongoing experiment.’
‘So where am I giving you a lift to?’
‘First stop’s a tobacconist, Bearsden after that.’
‘You’re going to see the widow?’
Laidlaw shook his head. ‘I thought I’d drop in on a convalescing friend.’
Lilley worked it out in a matter of seconds. ‘Matt Mason’s out of hospital?’
‘The very man,’ Laidlaw said.
‘Am I invited?’
‘Not really.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘It’s for your own good. If Milligan gets to hear that I’m freelancing, best that you can deny all knowledge.’
‘Except that I’m supposed to be babysitting you – and that’s the Commander’s orders rather than Ernie Milligan’s.’
‘You really think I need babysitting, Bob?’
‘What you need, Jack, is nothing short of a guardian bloody angel.’
Matt Mason’s home was an unassuming bungalow on a quiet street of well-kept flower beds and windows shielded by net curtains. Unassuming or no, it would be worth north of ten thousand pounds in this part of town. A Ford Escort RS1600 was parked on the road outside, while the driveway itself was empty. It was a conspicuous car, and intended to be so. Laidlaw tapped on the driver’s-side window and waited while the scowling figure within deigned to wind it down.
‘The name’s Detective Constable Laidlaw. Just here for a word with your boss, no dramatics needed.’
‘I’m waiting to pick up a pal.’
‘Of course you are, and so is the bulge under your armpit. It better fire nothing more deadly than caps, or I might need to haul you out of there and into a Black Maria.’ While he waited for his words to sink in, he looked up and down the empty street. ‘Any reason for Matt to feel the need for more firepower than usual? This thing you’re sat in is about as subtle as a tricolour at Ibrox.’ The driver wasn’t about to answer, so Laidlaw turned away, passed through the wrought-iron gate and rang the doorbell.
The woman who answered wore a floral apron and was wiping her hands on a dish towel.
‘Mrs Mason? I’m here to see Matt.’
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘I was hoping for the element of surprise.’ Laidlaw held up his warrant card and she dropped the impersonation of suburban housewife, her face becoming stony, eyes as cold as any mugger’s.
‘He’s just out of hospital.’
‘Which is why I’m here and not there.’
‘Have you got a search warrant?’
‘I’m only after a talk with the man, unless you think there’s something more serious I should be exploring?’
She half turned, as if to assure herself nothing incriminating was within view.
‘Matt won’t be happy,’ she stated. ‘He keeps family and business separate.’
‘That’s nice. Through here, aye?’ Laidlaw
began to squeeze past her. It was a calculated risk. One gesture from her and the gorilla in the car would come bounding up the path. But as he walked down the hall, his feet making no discernible sound as they stepped on a good half-inch depth of expensive-looking pale carpet, he heard the door behind him click shut. He glanced into the living room as he passed it. The voluminous three-piece suite looked new. Maybe there’d been a trip to Carrick Furniture.
‘He’s in the garden,’ she called out. ‘Through the dining room extension.’
Matt Mason was dressed for the weather, a fleecy jacket zipped to his neck and a flat cap on his head. Beneath the cap, the hair was thinning. He wasn’t much over five feet two in height, stocky with it. He sat at a round metal table, a walking stick propped next to him. The morning paper was open at the sports pages, alongside an empty mug.
‘I see Colin Stein’s leaving Rangers,’ Laidlaw said. ‘Who the hell are you?’ Mason responded, watching as Laidlaw dragged out the chair opposite and sat himself down.
‘I’m CID. The name’s Laidlaw.’
‘It’s a name I’ve heard.’
‘Just wanted to check that there’s no good news. You being up and about confirms it.’
‘You’re the owner of a smart mouth, Laidlaw. You want to be careful how you drive it though.’
‘A bit like one of Cam Colvin’s taxis, eh? Some garage proprietor is going to be popping the champagne and booking a week in the sunshine.’
‘I take it he got hit?’
‘Don’t pretend it’s coming as news to you.’
‘It is, though.’
Laidlaw shook his head slowly. ‘It’s not John Rhodes’s style, and Colvin isn’t canny enough to attack his own business so he could lay the blame on the opposition. You, though . . .’ He jabbed a finger towards Mason. ‘Seems to me you’ve got most to gain from Colvin and Rhodes fighting each other.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.’
Mason considered for a moment. ‘No, you’re probably right. All the same, I didn’t do anything to Colvin’s taxis. They belong to Betty Fraser, and I like Betty. I knew her father back in the day. She’s the one losing money while the cabs are being fixed. Colvin will still demand his cut at month’s end.’
Laidlaw was breaking the seal on a fresh packet of cigarettes. He paused. ‘If you don’t mind?’ he said. It was a small concession, but a concession nonetheless. Mason acknowledged as much with his eyes.
‘Puff away,’ he said.
Laidlaw used his lighter. The tobacconist had changed its flint and topped up the gas.
‘That’s a nice one,’ Mason said, admiring it.
‘Present from my brother. He didn’t like that I used to be fitter than him. Decided to hobble me by facilitating my habit.’
Mason smiled a thin smile. ‘What are you really doing here?’
‘Just getting a feel for things.’ Laidlaw took in his surroundings. ‘All your own work?’
‘We’ve got a gardener.’
‘Bearsden seems to be the place, eh? For men going up in the world, I mean. Cam Colvin’s not too far away, and Bobby Carter had recently moved into the vicinity. I know you grew up in the Gallowgate; not the easiest of upbringings. Yet here you are, and that’s what separates the likes of you and Colvin from John Rhodes.’
‘Because Rhodes still lives in the Calton? You think that makes him – what? – more authentic?’ Mason gave a sneer. ‘To my mind it makes him lazy. His world’s shrinking around him and he can’t even see it.’
‘Whereas you and Colvin are always hungry for more – more power, more money, more territory?’
‘It’s called capitalism, Laidlaw.’
‘Not the way you do it. Your style is more totalitarian regime with punishment beatings and disappearances. History isn’t on your side.’
‘In which case I say: fuck history.’
‘That’ll look perfect on your headstone. Seen much of Archie Love lately?’
‘Who?’
‘What drugs did they give you in hospital, Matt? They seem to have affected your brainpan. Love’s the guy who gets players to throw games so you can make the extra few quid you so sorely don’t need while heaping on them a lifetime of guilt and self-loathing. He’s also the father of Jenni Love, who was seeing Bobby Carter on the fly. Ringing any bells now? You might have thought you were doing Love a favour by getting rid of Carter. Maybe you didn’t know Jenni had split up with him. Maybe you thought you’d be wrapping your tentacles around her father that bit tighter, so he wouldn’t suddenly get cold feet. And wouldn’t it be grand if Carter’s death could in some way be pinned either on John Rhodes or one of Cam Colvin’s own team?’
Laidlaw broke off, studying Mason’s face as if he were a surgeon about to operate on its owner. ‘I’m just wondering if you’re clever enough to have thought all that through, and now that I’ve seen you in the flesh, I’m having grave doubts. Very grave doubts. Added to which, the armed guard out front tells me you think you’re under threat. Question is: who from? I doubt you’re going to tell me. In fact, I’d guess you don’t really know. If you did, you’d have felt compelled to do something noisy and public about it. So there you are, that’s why I came here – like I said, to get a feel for things.’ He rose to his feet.
‘How long have you been in the police?’ Mason asked.
‘Long enough.’
‘What was it about the job that attracted you?’
‘The privilege of studying human nature close up. That and the pension plan.’
Mason managed another thin smile. ‘See, most cops I meet, there’s not much behind the eyes, your boss Ernie Milligan being a prime example, but you strike me as different.’
‘Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr Mason.’
‘I’m not flattering you, son, but you already know that. You’ve a good enough conceit of yourself. You know your strengths, but remember to watch out for your weaknesses, too.’
‘And what might those be?’
‘I think you’re maybe a bit more idealistic than you let on. You believe in things like justice and fair play.’
‘And you’ve culled all of that from our chat here today? You should open a psychiatric practice.’
‘One more thing, then. Just remember that you might be guilty, too – guilty of overthinking things.’
‘I’ve faced that accusation before; I dare say I’ll face it again.’ Laidlaw’s eyes went to Mason’s walking stick. ‘I’ll be hopping along now.’
‘Do that – and don’t ever think about coming back.’
Halfway to the house, Laidlaw paused and turned his face towards Mason. ‘Does that guy still work for you, the one who bites chunks off people’s faces for a living?’
‘The Snapper, you mean? He got gum disease. They had to whip out all his teeth.’
‘Ending his business model in the process? I suppose that’s the problem when you only have the one skill. A bit like taking Spanner Thomson’s spanner away from him. Without it, he’s just a guy called Thomson with an empty pocket. Maybe that’s how you see Cam Colvin without Bobby Carter. Must be nice to sit here in your garden relaxing and protected while Colvin and Rhodes burn each other’s houses down.’
‘I’d be lying if I said the thought didn’t give me a nice warm glow.’ Mason picked up his paper again and started perusing the racing section. Laidlaw couldn’t be sure that he was a betting man necessarily. Maybe he just liked studying the form.
There was no sign of Mason’s wife in the house. Laidlaw continued smoking as he walked down the deserted hallway, flicking cigarette ash onto the carpet in his wake.
27
It was a ten-minute walk to Bobby Carter’s street. Laidlaw stopped outside the house opposite and, there being no obvious bell, thumped on the door with his fist. When no one answered, he peered through first the letter box and then the living room window. It was obvious no one was home. He turned his collar up as he
prepared for the walk to the nearest bus stop, but then saw a figure emerging from Carter’s home. It was Ernie Milligan. Milligan did a double take and a scowl replaced the more relaxed look he’d been sporting. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets as he crossed the road and confronted Laidlaw.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he snarled.
‘I was just thinking the same thing – keeping the widow to yourself, eh?’
‘I was merely providing an update.’
‘Including Jennifer Love?’
‘Monica’s got enough on her plate as it is.’
‘First names now, Ernie? How’s everything on the home front – Lucille happy and well?’
Milligan’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re one to talk. I hear you spend more time in hotel beds than your own.’
Laidlaw was looking over Milligan’s shoulder towards the Carter house. ‘She’s a fine-looking woman, though, and with money coming to her. Can’t say I’d blame you for trying, though I doubt you’ve a cat in hell’s chance, not when the competition includes Cam Colvin.’
Blood was creeping up Milligan’s neck. ‘I don’t want you bothering that family.’
‘Perish the thought.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘Just following up the door-to-doors, double-checking what light the neighbours can shed.’
‘I don’t remember that being something I asked for.’
‘Working on my own initiative, DI Milligan.’
‘You were at the taxi pound this morning, weren’t you? Looks like John Rhodes is preparing for war. Bob Lilley reckons I should try to broker peace.’
‘Is that right?’
‘You don’t think I’m up to it?’
‘I’m not convinced Gandhi himself would be up to it, but if Bob thinks it’s worth a try . . .’ Laidlaw gave a shrug.
Milligan was looking past him to where an unmarked Ford Cortina was entering the street, driven by one of the faces from Central. ‘My lift’s here,’ he stated.
‘Room for one in the back?’ Laidlaw enquired.
Milligan waited until the car had pulled to a halt before shaking his head with obvious relish. He closed the passenger-side door after him and the car started moving off again, the driver offering an apologetic look in Laidlaw’s direction.
