by Ian Rankin
‘You’re some boy, Spanner. Drinks are on me when we get to Whiskies.’
‘Price they charge in there, I just might take you up on that.’
The two men started walking, their destination not far now. Thomson tossed the empty bottle over one shoulder. It shattered as it hit the pavement. Neither man so much as turned their head.
Eyes front.
Never look back.
Quiet all the way to the club, each digging deep into his own thoughts and schemes.
31
Spanner had the taxi drop him off outside Springburn Park. It was well enough lit and the teenagers hanging around there knew better than to try messing with him. He found himself standing next to the taped-off section where the knife had been planted. It wasn’t near any stretch of roadway or pavement. You had to walk towards the centre of the park to reach it. He wondered if whoever had left the knife there had been crossing the park, maybe intending to deposit it closer to the house. But that would have been too obvious a set-up. Further away was better; further away told the story of a killer who finds panic setting in as they return to their senses. So they toss the weapon, suddenly keen to get rid of it.
Putting Spanner Thomson firmly in the frame.
He had told Ballater that he doubted John Rhodes had known his address until the police had come to call. But Mickey Ballater himself knew it, as did Panda Paterson and Dod Menzies. Several times he’d treated them to drinks in the back garden, Mary handing round meat-paste sandwiches from which she’d removed the crusts. Cam had been there too, of course, taking him aside to try to persuade him to buy somewhere grander in a nicer part of town.
‘Otherwise people will start saying I’m not looking after you – and we both know that’s not true.’
But Spanner had grown up on the streets of Balornock. He felt safe there. And with no kids to show for his fourteen years of marriage, why would he need anything bigger? The money he brought home went to Mary, and she squirrelled anything they didn’t need into a building society account. There was some cash she didn’t know about, of course, set aside by Spanner in case he ever needed a quick getaway. He’d actually thought about it after that visit to Central Division. Two things stopped him. One was that it would make him look all the guiltier in everyone’s eyes, Cam included. The other was that he was raging inside, with a need to find out who was stitching him up.
Someone who knew that empty chair was his by right.
Someone who knew his address.
Someone very like Mickey Ballater.
He paused at the gate leading to his house, then continued past to the nearest phone box. It smelled of pee inside, but at least there was a dial tone when he lifted the receiver, having first pulled his sleeve down to cover his hand, wary of germs. He dialled the number and pushed home a coin when Cam Colvin answered.
‘It’s me, Cam.’
‘I know that, Spanner – who else calls me from a public phone? What’s on your mind at this time of night?’
Thomson could hear soft music playing in the background, either a record or the radio.
‘Sorry to be interrupting your evening.’
‘I assume there’s news that can’t wait.’
He exhaled noisily. ‘It’s maybe nothing, but I’ve been talking to Mickey.’
‘Oh aye?’ ‘I’m not sure you can trust him. I mean, you maybe think you can’t trust me either – he told me you’d ordered him to keep an eye on me . . .’
‘Did he now?’
‘But swear to God I’m not the one you should be watching,’ Thomson blurted out. ‘It won’t take much for him to jump ship – always supposing he can’t have your job. That’s what I think he’s interested in; not Bobby’s chair but yours, and I doubt he’s too bothered how that comes about.’ He paused. ‘And there’s another thing – I saw him with Monica, at that party of Bobby’s back in the summer. They were having a snog.’
There was a lengthening silence on the line.
‘Are you sure about that, Spanner?’ Colvin eventually asked, sounding as if he were working hard to keep his emotions in check.
You really think you’re in with a chance there, don’t you, Cam, now that Bobby’s out of the picture? Could that really be why he had to be got rid of?
‘I know what I saw,’ Thomson heard himself say. It was as if he were floating in the space between the top of his head and the roof of the phone box, watching someone else inhabit his body. ‘Mickey says he tried his luck but she was having none of it. That’s not how it looked to me, though.’
‘You think they were seeing one another behind Bobby’s back?’
‘Honest answer is, I don’t know. Maybe you should ask him.’
‘I might have to do that, Spanner.’
Thomson opened his mouth to say something further, but the line had already gone dead.
As he navigated the short distance back to his home, his bed and his waiting wife, he felt a sadness wrapping itself around him. His universe had been both comprehensible and robust until Bobby Carter’s death. Now it was anything but. The feeling of unease was both unusual and unwelcome. Something would have to be done about it.
Something would be done about it.
DAY SIX
32
Roy Chambers’ decorating business had its headquarters in Partick. The mid-morning air was chill, Laidlaw’s breath appearing before him in little puffs as he strode along the pavement. A double-decker wheezed past, its windows misted over. None of the passengers had bothered wiping them clean, there being nothing outside worthy of their attention. RC Interiors boasted a swish name but comprised a single window containing a display of wallpaper sample books and two rolls of wood-chip, and a door whose glazed upper half was stickered with adverts for paint manufacturers. There was also a sign. The sign read CLOSED. Laidlaw tried the door anyway. It was locked. He gave it a thump and a kick. Eventually a young woman appeared from the back of the shop. She peered at him and kept the chain on when she unlocked the door. He pressed his warrant card into the gap.
‘I’m looking to speak to Roy,’ he said.
She closed the door long enough to remove the chain, then opened it again.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ she said.
‘Especially when there’s so much treasure within,’ Laidlaw agreed.
‘Roy’s out on a job. I run the office for him.’
Laidlaw nodded his understanding. She was in her late teens, stout but self-aware and comfortable with the fact. She was done up to the nines, as though at any moment she might have to present herself as the public face of RC Interiors. She had been raised to dress well, give a good account of herself and take no nonsense.
‘Are you family?’
‘I’m his niece. What has he done wrong?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
‘I didn’t ask because I can’t imagine him ever doing something that would bring the likes of you running.’
‘Yet here the likes of me stands, unless you’re going to invite me in.’
‘What’s the point? I’ve already told you he’s not here.’
‘Then give me an address and I’ll be on my way.’
‘Is it to do with what happened to Bobby Carter?’
‘What makes you say that?’
She smiled to herself. ‘It is, though, isn’t it? Because Roy used to be married to Monica. I told him the police would be interested.’
‘Clever girl. Now about that address . . .’
‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘You won’t, though, will you? You still need to talk to him?’
‘Unfortunately that’s the way things work.’
‘I’ve applied to join the police, you know.’
‘Want me to put in a word?’
‘That’s not how it’s done. I’m not daft.’
‘I’m well aware of that, even from this brief exchange.’
They s
tood in silence for a moment as she gnawed at her bottom lip. Then she spun round and headed to her office, sidestepping pots of paint and bottles of turps. Laidlaw followed her.
The shop’s interior had an inviting aroma. He wondered if it was coming from the wallpaper samples piled up on the room’s only table. Radio 1 was playing, the transistor perched on a shelf above the office desk. This back room was a cramped space, with a door off that gave a view of a toilet pan and washbasin. Anyone breaking in through the narrow and barred window to the rear would have to manoeuvre their way past the variety of ladders stored there. The girl was leafing through an old-fashioned ledger. Finding the address, she snatched up a pencil and jotted it down on a notepad for him, tearing off the sheet once finished and handing it over with a flourish.
‘I never caught your name,’ he said.
‘Janine.’
‘Any other career plans apart from the police, Janine?’
‘Art school maybe. I’ve done a bit of modelling and it looks interesting.’
‘Strikes me, whatever you decide to do with your life you’ll make a go of it. Is Roy a one-man outfit?’
‘It’s a big job, this.’ She nodded towards the scrap of paper. ‘He’ll have Gordy with him.’ She unwrapped a stick of chewing gum and popped it between her lips. ‘Is being a detective as exciting as it looks on TV?’
‘Never a dull moment.’
‘You’re saying that tongue in cheek, aren’t you?’
‘I’m saying I wish I was still an artist’s model. Thanks for the address, Janine.’
Kelvingrove wasn’t far from Partick if you were talking in terms of miles, yards and feet. On the other hand, it was an entirely separate world of grand nineteenth-century sandstone terraces plus the elegant park and busy museum. Laidlaw had last visited the museum with his kids, wondering why they hadn’t been half as keen on the Dali Christ as he was. The house outside which Roy Chambers’ van was parked had obviously already had a lot of work done to its facade. Laidlaw could tell where new stonework had replaced old. The front door gaped, but before heading inside, he stopped at the van, whose rear door was open, a young man seated there next to a flask of tea.
‘You must be Gordy,’ he said. The lad squinted up at him. He wore bespattered white overalls with a pale blue T-shirt beneath and didn’t seem to be feeling the cold. ‘I take it Roy’s indoors?’
Gordy merely shrugged and began rolling a cigarette.
‘How much time did you do?’ Laidlaw enquired.
‘Knew straight off you were polis.’
‘Same as I knew you’ve seen the inside of Barlinnie. A wee thin roll-up like that, not wanting to use too much precious tobacco, is a classic tell. Then there are the tattoos.’
Gordy examined his arms.
‘Somewhere between home-made and professional,’ Laidlaw went on. ‘I’ve seen more than a few in my time.’
‘I was a daft laddie,’ Gordy commented. ‘That’s all it boils down to.’
‘Picked up a trade while you were inside, though. That speaks of something. How long have you known Roy?’
‘Go ask him.’ Gordy poured the dregs of his tea onto the ground so that splashes hit Laidlaw’s shoes.
‘I intend to. How long have you been out?’
‘I’m done talking.’ The young man rose to his feet, closed and locked the van doors and headed up the steps to the imposing front door. It had been given several coats of black gloss paint and the Greek-style columns flanking it were both recent replacements. Beyond lay a black and white tiled floor, several doors off, and a sweeping staircase. Scaffolding had been erected in the middle of the floor, dust sheets spread beneath it. The stairs were similarly protected.
‘We’ve got company!’ Gordy yelled, his voice echoing in the vast space. A head appeared from one of the rooms on the first floor, peering over the stair rail.
‘The name’s Detective Constable Laidlaw,’ Laidlaw explained. ‘Wondered if I could have a word with you.’
‘Did Janine give you the address?’ The man was already descending the stairs. He was dressed in identical overalls to his junior partner, though the T-shirt beneath was black and dotted with smears of paint. The freckles on Roy Chambers’ face turned out, on closer inspection, to be spots of paint too. He wore socks with no shoes and Laidlaw noticed that, now he was indoors, Gordy had removed his own Doc Martens.
‘She did.’
‘She’s thinking of applying to the police.’
‘She mentioned it,’ Laidlaw said, while behind him Gordy gave a snort of derision.
Chambers had taken a rag from his pocket and was wiping his hands. His hair was short and russet-coloured, his frame tall and wiry. Laidlaw judged him to be a few years younger than his ex-wife; more Bobby Carter’s age, in fact.
‘I was talking to your daughter,’ Laidlaw went on, ‘and she said you’d been to the house. Since Mr Carter died, I mean.’
Chambers gave a thoughtful nod. ‘Cam Colvin was there, so I never got past the threshold, much like old times.’
‘Stella told me Carter didn’t take to you.’
‘Understandable, I suppose. That what this is about – I’m supposed to have done him in?’
‘Did you?’
‘No.’
‘Ever think about doing it?’
Chambers shrugged and stuffed the rag back into his pocket. ‘Monica and me still got on. Then there was Stella to consider. I wanted to be part of her life. At one point, she was thinking of moving into my flat.’
‘That didn’t happen, though?’
‘I think Carter put his foot down. And just when Monica’s shot of him, along comes Cam bloody Colvin.’
‘Colvin and Carter were close; it’s only natural he’d want to do right by the family.’
‘It’s not the family he wants, though, is it? It’s Monica.’
‘Now that Carter presents no barrier, do you think Stella might come live with you?’
‘That’s one of the things I wanted to discuss with her and her mum.’
‘But Colvin had other ideas?’
‘You don’t want to get on the wrong side of Cam Colvin,’ Gordy commented. Laidlaw got the feeling he’d given the warning to his employer more than once in the past.
Laidlaw made show of studying the pristine surroundings. ‘Whoever owns this place must have a few bob.’
‘Some professor at the uni,’ Chambers said, ‘yet teachers are always moaning about their pay. We’ve got until Friday to finish it.’ He glanced towards Gordy. ‘Few late nights still ahead.’
‘Maybe once you finish, you can take over the decorating at your ex-wife’s house,’ Laidlaw said, readying to leave. ‘Now that Bobby Carter’s not around to say no.’
Chambers’ eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. ‘She’s redecorating already? It was only done a couple of months back.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Mind you, I told her the paint choices were all wrong, and the firm Carter hired were absolute bloody cowboys . . .’
33
Laidlaw’s head was spinning as he left Kelvingrove on foot. Nearing a bus stop as a double-decker paused to let off a passenger, he climbed aboard and headed upstairs. The seats near the front were taken, but that didn’t bother him. It wasn’t the view he was interested in; he just needed to think. He dug out a few coins at the conductor’s approach and gripped the resultant ticket, managing to light a cigarette at the same time, sucking the smoke deep. Before he knew it, it had been reduced to a stub. He crushed it under his heel and lit another. Outside he saw a group of young men wearing football scarves. Was today Saturday? Who was playing? He had no idea. Time had ceased to mean anything. He had listened to murderers tell him during their confession that time stopped at the exact moment their victim stopped breathing, while the assailant felt as if they had departed their corporeal form and were hovering overhead, looking down on the frozen tableau. Seconds became hours, or else hours became compressed into mere blinks of the eye. No, they co
uldn’t remember the moments leading up to the crime, or telephoning 999, or washing the blood from their hands. Was it a Saturday, though? He hoped to hell the Old Firm weren’t playing. Those were the worst, the losing fans filled with rage as they headed home to families who held their collective breath for fear of reprisal.
Domestics: that was the term that was starting to be used. Violence carried out against you in the one place that was meant to be your refuge, your domain, your nest. Wives would go out shopping or to work on a Monday morning with a thick layer of make-up covering the damage. They would look haunted and broken, shunning eye contact, answers prepared for the questions they’d be asked by neighbours, friends, office or factory colleagues.
It was a wonder more didn’t do something about it.
Some did, though. Some did.
As Laidlaw became aware of the route the bus was taking, he realised he was nearing Central Division’s orbit. He got off at the next stop, lingering in the graffitied shelter as he finished the cigarette – it was either his second or third of the trip. He paced as he smoked. Redecorating already . . . absolute bloody cowboys.
‘Stupid, Jack, stupid, stupid,’ he muttered to himself, beyond caring if anyone thought him odd. He was odd – odd and stupid and sometimes wrong. But not this time. Because it made sense. For the first time since Bobby Carter’s death, everything made perfect sense.
He walked the rest of the short distance to the HQ building blinded to everything except the simplicity of what had occurred. He went straight to the crime squad office and looked around, ignoring Bob Lilley as he sought the one person he needed. Lilley, however, was not to be thwarted. He approached with what could have passed for a penitent look.
‘I’m under orders to fix a return date for a meal.’ He broke off as he noticed Laidlaw’s agitation. ‘What’s happened?’
