The Dark Remains

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Fuck you too, pal,’ Laidlaw muttered.

  Laidlaw hadn’t quite reached the end of the street when he heard a door bang shut behind him. He paused as if to light a cigarette and watched as a young woman approached, chin tucked into the tartan scarf around her neck. She was in her late teens and sported long, straight dark hair, the fringe of which stopped just short of her eyes. He searched for her name: Stella, that was it.

  ‘Stella Carter?’ he said as she made to give him a wide berth.

  ‘Which paper are you?’

  ‘I’m police. My colleague DI Milligan just paid you a visit.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  Laidlaw handed her his warrant card. She took her time before returning it.

  ‘He wasn’t visiting me,’ she eventually confided.

  ‘Your mum then. Can I just say how sorry I am about your dad?’

  ‘Stepdad,’ she corrected him. She had commenced walking again, Laidlaw falling into step beside her.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ he asked.

  ‘The shop.’ After a dozen more steps, she stopped, half turning to stare at him with dark, tired-looking eyes. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Twenty Embassy, if you’re offering.’

  She decided to reward him with a fleeting smile. When she recommenced her walk, he stayed with her.

  ‘I didn’t know your mum had been married before.’

  ‘It didn’t last long.’

  ‘Long enough to produce you, though.’

  ‘I’m the reason for the wedding.’

  ‘Some good came of it, then.’

  ‘Are you allowed to be chatting me up?’

  ‘Trust me, that’s not what I’m doing. Are you in college or anything?’

  ‘Compassionate leave.’

  Laidlaw nodded his understanding. ‘What are you studying?’

  ‘Accountancy.’

  ‘Your choice or your stepdad’s?’ When she looked at him, he gave a sympathetic smile. ‘I went through much the same – literature wasn’t going to get me a job, according to my mum and dad. They wanted a doctor, dentist, lawyer, as if the working classes are only allowed higher education as a road towards a trade.’

  ‘But you did it anyway? English, I mean?’

  ‘Gave up after a year.’

  ‘Drama’s what I really wanted to do,’ she confessed, her tone almost wistful for a moment before she remembered who she was with and the circumstances that had brought them together.

  ‘What was DI Milligan talking to your mum about?’ Laidlaw asked into the silence.

  ‘How he’s working like a Trojan, not letting up for a second.’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  ‘He also offered to help move the wall units back now the decorating’s finished. Is that part of your normal service?’

  ‘No,’ Laidlaw conceded. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘He just likes my mum – no surprise there.’

  ‘I’d say Cam Colvin likes your mum, too.’

  Stella stared at him and looked suddenly chastened. ‘Bobby drilled it into us: don’t talk to the police. They’re not your friends.’

  ‘And yet here we are.’ Laidlaw could see the shop. It was on the next corner, a sandwich board outside tempting customers with offers of cut-price lager and vodka. Time, he knew, was limited. A woman in her seventies had just exited, carrying a string bag containing not much more than a box of loose tea and a bottle of gin.

  ‘Hello there, Stella,’ she said as she passed them.

  ‘Mrs Jamieson,’ Stella replied, the greeting half-hearted at best.

  ‘Cam Colvin does still look in on your mum, though?’ Laidlaw asked once they were past.

  ‘He phones mostly. He’s arranging the funeral, wants a big show.’ She paused. ‘I don’t think he was happy when he turned up the same time as Roy.’

  ‘Roy?’

  ‘My dad.’

  ‘So your mum and him are still close?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘That’s because I’m nosy.’

  ‘He takes me out once a fortnight, maybe the pictures or Rothesay or just shopping.’

  ‘What does he do for a living?’

  ‘Painter and decorator – thinking of offering him some work?’

  ‘Not a bad idea. My wife’s been nagging me for months.’

  He waited for another smile, but none was being offered.

  ‘You think they might get together again?’ he pressed on. ‘Your mum and dad?’

  Stella gave a snort. ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened.’ They had reached the shop’s doorway. She pushed her way inside, leaving him standing there. Peering through the glass, he saw her produce a string bag of her own from a pocket, along with a shopping list. Weighing up his options, he turned and headed back the way he’d just come, catching up with Mrs Jamieson before long, aided by the fact that she seemed to be X-raying every dwelling she passed.

  ‘Carry your bag for you?’ he offered.

  ‘No thank you.’ Her eyes were piercing. ‘You’re the police? I saw you the other day.’

  Laidlaw nodded. ‘Not much gets past you,’ he said. ‘Must be a shock for the whole street, what happened to Mr Carter.’

  ‘I doubt anybody with eyes and ears was shocked,’ she snapped back. ‘The man was a gangster. There was only ever one way that was going to end. You know his boss has been here? Supposedly helping plan the funeral, but I reckon he’s digging.’

  ‘Digging?’

  ‘Bobby Carter was a lawyer, making him privy to people’s secrets.’

  ‘We’ve not had much luck finding evidence of that.’

  Mrs Jamieson shrugged her bony shoulders. Laidlaw scratched at his chin. ‘Did he have much to do with Stella’s real father?’

  ‘Wouldn’t let him over the threshold. Probably the cause of all the shouting that went on.’ There was a gleam in the old woman’s eye now, and Laidlaw realised she’d been aching to tell someone. He felt like a priest hearing the confession of an over-eager parishioner.

  ‘Shouting, eh?’ he prompted. ‘Husband and wife?’

  ‘Most probably. There’s a whole roadway between our houses, you know.’

  ‘You were hearing two voices, though?’

  ‘His louder than hers.’

  ‘To be clear, this was Bobby and Monica Carter?’

  ‘I couldn’t swear it in a court of law.’

  Perhaps not, Laidlaw thought, but you’d like to try it out for size all the same.

  ‘Arguing about Monica’s ex-husband?’

  ‘Some marriages are more volatile than others. They thrive on a bit of argy-bargy.’

  ‘You sound as if you speak from experience.’

  ‘I threw him out thirty-five years ago.’ They had reached her gate. Laidlaw undid the latch and pushed it open for her.

  ‘I’m not going to ask the source of discord.’

  ‘He just bored me, that’s all. Bored me to the back teeth. Being on my own again came as blessed relief.’ She glanced across the street. ‘If Monica knows what’s good for her, she’ll pause for breath before jumping again.’

  ‘You’re not convinced she will, though?’

  ‘Between her ex and that man Colvin . . .’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Not to mention your own colleague. Men seem to have no trouble falling for Monica Carter, so be warned.’ She took two steps up the path before pausing. ‘I’d invite you in for tea, but I’m not feeling particularly sociable.’

  ‘Another time, then.’ Laidlaw gave a little bow of the head. He knew she had a prior appointment with the bottle of gin in her bag. The memory of its predecessor had been lingering on her breath as they’d talked.

  28

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Bob Lilley asked, a look of disbelief on his face.

  ‘I thought I worked here,’ Laidlaw answered. ‘I was beginning to have my doubts.’ Lilley slung his jacket over the back of his chair and approache
d Laidlaw’s desk. ‘Seen this?’ He held out the front page of the Herald. There was a photo of a DCI they both knew. He was crouched by the incinerator in the HQ’s boiler room, disposing of a large haul of cannabis.

  ‘Somebody’s hopes and dreams going up in smoke,’ Laidlaw commented. He had tipped his chair back, his feet on his desk. Paperwork was piled on his lap, discarded sheets strewn across the floor beneath him. Lilley picked one up and studied it.

  ‘The victim’s background?’

  ‘Background and personal life, Bob.’ Laidlaw took the biro from between his teeth and underlined a couple of typed sentences. ‘Why did we give it such short shrift?’

  ‘I’m not convinced we did, though you might have.’

  Laidlaw ignored the dig. ‘Monica was married before, to a guy called Roy Chambers. He’s a decorator. Stella’s his daughter.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Hardly a year after she split with Chambers, she was with Bobby Carter. Stella would have been three or thereabouts. Then along come two half-brothers for her, Peter and Christopher.’

  ‘Your point being?’

  ‘Roy kept in touch, but he was persona non grata as far as Bobby Carter was concerned.’ Laidlaw had picked up a photograph of Monica. ‘She’s handsome rather than beautiful, that’s my opinion anyway. But she’s wearing well. She’s four years older than Bobby – did you know that?’

  ‘The allure of the older woman.’ Lilley had rested his backside against the corner of Laidlaw’s desk.

  ‘Where have you been anyway?’

  ‘Various doorsteps.’

  ‘Did they get you anywhere?’

  ‘What do you think? So why the sudden interest in the family? You thinking we need to talk to this Roy character?’

  ‘Bobby and Monica had arguments – a neighbour heard them. Though it could have been Bobby and Stella, or maybe one of the brothers and Stella . . .’

  ‘Or one of the boys and his mum,’ Lilley added. ‘I had a few shouting matches with mine when they were in their teens.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Just the usual – if they’d been drinking or stayed out past curfew. Those joys are doubtless waiting for you in your future.’

  ‘My kids are never growing up, not if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

  ‘Doesn’t work that way, though.’

  ‘Let’s see. Meantime, this Roy Chambers doesn’t seem to have a record. I’ve not got a photo of him yet, either.’ Another sheet of paper dropped to the floor from Laidlaw’s hand. Lilley noted something missing from the desk.

  ‘What happened to your books?’

  Laidlaw reached into a drawer, pulling one of them out. Its cover had been vandalised with a cock and balls.

  ‘Nice,’ Lilley commented.

  ‘I’ve drawn up a list of suspects.’ Laidlaw’s glare took in the whole room.

  ‘Am I on it?’ Lilley watched Laidlaw shake his head, toss the book back into the drawer and slam it shut. ‘I meant to ask, what did you get out of Matt Mason?’

  ‘The verbal equivalent of a defaced book jacket.’

  ‘One of these days, sticking your head in every lion’s mouth you pass is going to end badly.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Winners and losers, though, Bob – who stands to gain from Carter’s demise? Long term as well as short term.’

  Lilley puckered his mouth in thought. ‘Could this guy Chambers want back in his ex-wife’s knickers?’

  ‘Probably black, silky and lacy. Milligan was sniffing around again, too.’

  ‘You’ve been out to the house, then?’

  ‘Happened to be passing through after my chat with Mason.’

  ‘To go back to your earlier question – Mason definitely stands to gain from any feud between Cam Colvin and John Rhodes.’

  Laidlaw nodded. ‘Which doesn’t necessarily mean he’s our man. There’s a goon posted at his front door with what looks remarkably like a gun tucked inside his jacket. What does that tell you?’

  ‘He’s worried that either Rhodes or Colvin will put two and two together and come looking for him?’

  ‘Or else he’s jittery because he has no bloody idea who’s behind any of it.’

  ‘Reading between the lines, though, sounds to me like you think you’re narrowing it down.’

  ‘I think I am, too. Problem is, it’s almost too narrow for my liking.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Laidlaw shook his head. ‘I need to get back to this lot,’ he said, gesturing towards the case notes.

  ‘Pint later, then?’

  ‘I could be tempted by some thinking juice.’

  ‘At which point I’ll become privy to that thinking?’

  Laidlaw looked up at him. ‘You’re the second person to use that word in as many hours.’

  ‘Privy?’

  ‘I thought you’d be like me, Bob, thinking it only meant shitehouse.’

  Lilley looked at the mess of papers on the floor. ‘Don’t be surprised if Ernie Milligan accuses you of living in one when he gets back.’

  He waited for a response, but Laidlaw’s attention was on the latest batch of notes, so he left him to it.

  29

  Archie Love was always the last to leave the park. There was a single-storey prefab building that the players used as a changing room. No showers, just a single WC, benches ranged down two walls and another wall of lockers. He liked to linger once everyone else had gone, allowing him to think back to his early days as a player. In the junior leagues, he’d got used to being the star of the show, the one the opposition had in their sights for a studs-up sliding tackle or a sly dig in the kidneys. Later, having signed as a professional, he discovered he was no longer the best. The advice he’d been given was to stick in and he might get there. He body-swerved alcohol and too many late nights, was out exercising from first light, and never shirked a practice session or tactics talk. He knew his playing career could be ended at any moment by injury or a clash of personalities. Even if he stayed lucky, he had between five and ten good years in him. Management was his goal, but he’d never been offered the chance. Nowadays he told the best of his young players that they had to think long term, had to put money aside for the rainy days ahead, and whatever they did, they should on no account open a pub. There were only two ways that ever ended: penury or alcoholism.

  He didn’t feel particularly bad about the ones he approached to sway a result. He always did his research. Speaking of which, the bugger was ten minutes late. But then the door creaked and Love adjusted his posture accordingly. The man who walked in looked prosperous enough and fit enough. The coat he wore was new, and there was a chunky gold ID bracelet dangling from one wrist. There was a bit of a glow still left around him, telling those he met that he had a reputation. But Archie Love knew that Geoff Inglis had already passed his personal high-water mark; now he was in his thickening thirties. He might keep splashing, but he was in a pool growing shallower all the time.

  ‘Mr Love,’ Inglis said by way of greeting.

  ‘I always liked that about you, Geoff,’ Love replied with an indulgent smile. ‘You show respect.’

  Inglis shrugged and began looking around the changing room. He wasn’t tall, but in his day he had commanded the midfield with a no-nonsense pugnacity. ‘You taught me a hell of a lot, back in the day.’

  ‘All started here, didn’t it, Geoff? Not here exactly, but a set-up just like it, muddy pitch outside and makeshift goalposts. But you applied yourself and you went places. I was always proud of you.’ Love glanced at the mirror opposite, checking he looked sincere.

  ‘Never quite got that Scotland cap, though.’

  ‘Not for want of trying.’

  ‘So what is it I can do for you, Mr Love?’

  Love gave an extended sigh. ‘I hate the way they’re treating you, Geoff. Focusing on the younger faces, the fresher legs. We both know you’re on the transfer list. By the summer, you could even be on a free.’


  Geoff Inglis pulled back his shoulders. ‘Might not come to that.’

  ‘You’re not daft, Geoff. It will exactly come to that. Loyalty counts for nothing these days. You’ve given your life to this game and you end up overlooked and unrewarded. I hate to see that happen, especially to a decent individual like yourself. We both know there’s a slow descent coming – lower leagues, maybe semi-pro, and then you’re on your arse.’ Love paused, locking eyes with Inglis. He had the man’s attention. It was time for a change of pace. He allowed his face to droop a little. ‘I had a son, did you know that?

  ‘I don’t think I did.’

  ‘He died young, far too young. He had a bit of talent, maybe could have made it. All of you boys, the ones I helped climb the ladder . . . well, it’s almost embarrassing to say it out loud . . .’

  ‘What is?’

  Love’s eyes were growing liquid. ‘You’re all like sons to me.’ He inhaled and exhaled. ‘Which is why I try to help when I can.’

  ‘Help how?’

  ‘Something to cushion your backside as you slide down that hill.’

  Inglis’s brow had furrowed. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  Then you dress sharper than you think . . .

  Love wafted a hand in front of him as if to dismiss the idea. ‘Look, it’s just something that I can sometimes make happen. But I’d have to be sure you really wanted it. Will you do me a huge favour? Go away and mull it over. Think about your future and what you’d like to see there. I’ve got some contacts and they can maybe help those dreams become reality.’

  ‘I don’t know exactly what it is you’re asking of me.’

  Love could see that right enough, but nor did he want to spell it out. Inglis had to join the dots for himself. The less Love said, the less there was to incriminate him. If Geoff Inglis did work it out, he would come back and ask the question, and Archie Love would answer ‘maybe’. Then Inglis would ask: how much money are we talking about? But Love would be coy about that, too, while emphasising that his friends could prove very helpful to Geoff in the future. They would be in his debt and they wouldn’t forget. They were people to whom loyalty was still a point of principle.