Butcher

by Campbell Armstrong

  He gave her two sleeping-pills he found in his bathroom cabinet and hoped they’d knock her out. He covered her with a blanket and sat for a long time beside her as she curled up, mute and tiny, on his sofa. Once or twice he’d stroked the side of her face or her arm, and murmured words of condolence, but she seemed neither to feel his touch nor hear his voice.

  Sooner or later, she’d have to make an identification, unless Kirk’s wife Deborah could be found first – but the phone rang unanswered in Deborah’s flat when he’d tried the number, and she didn’t respond to the two patrol cops who’d been sent from E Division to knock at her door. Gone AWOL, a late-nighter, a petty little jab of vengeance at her errant husband maybe. Bad timing.

  He watched the medical examiner scratch the tip of his nose. He was a tall stately man with grey hair that overhung the collar of his white coat. He was fastidious, solemn. Perlman had run into coroners who were jokers, comics lightening the gloom of their profession. Dead end job this, chuckle. Nothing but grave prospects here, ho ho. Harry Whelan was no stand-up act. He worked in silence, and when he had to record his observations into a microphone he spoke softly.

  Perlman wanted cold fresh air, away from the confines of this place. But he had a responsibility as a substitute for the boy’s mother.

  Harry Whelan switched off his recorder. ‘Long night,’ he said.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Adamski said.

  ‘You’ll get my written report in time, gentlemen, but I imagine you already know roughly what I’m going to say in it … you’ve been listening to me talk long enough, after all.’ He gazed at the silver instruments of his trade lying in a bloodstained tray beside the bed.

  Perlman felt light-headed. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. Christ, all his professional life he’d dealt with violent death: stab and gunshot victims, the strangulated, the ledge-jumpers. Had he reached that point where he’d become too thin-skinned to cope with the faces and bodies of corpses? It happens, cops lose their objectivity, they grow sick and jaded, and every morning shades seamlessly into the one before. The grim sameness of things. Other polis developed a shell of indifference: dead meat on a slab, too bad, another stat. Or was it because he knew Kirk’s mother that he was more sensitive than before? Knew her, liked her. When he thought about it he realized he’d liked her from that first meeting, her candour, the honest way she looked you straight in the eye.

  He wanted to hurry back to his house: if the pills had worked, they’d wear off soon enough, and he didn’t want her waking alone. And then he had the dilemma of how to break this news to her – the manner in which Kirk’s life had been ended.

  Harry Whelan, who’d undone the stitches on Kirk’s body to perform the internal examination, and then carefully closed the corpse up again, said, ‘Both kidneys removed. Also the liver. And the heart. The surgery was good, economical. Somebody with experience. No question.’

  Perlman’s thoughts immediately rushed to Jackie Ace. He’d found him convincing. Maybe a second interview would reveal something else, but he didn’t expect wild revelations. I got tired of bodies, Sergeant. It was a simple, credible reason for giving up surgery. No matter, Perlman would make a point of talking to him again.

  Whelan said, ‘Organs. Lucrative business, sadly.’

  Perlman asked, ‘Why go to the trouble of plundering the organs and then stitching up the body again? Why not just dump the corpse as is?’

  ‘A compulsion. Likes to do a tidy job, feels an obligation to finish. Who knows?’

  ‘I don’t mean to sound callous,’ Adamski said, ‘but if it was me I’d just toss the remains. I wouldn’t waste time sewing, especially if time’s a factor. You’ve got what you want, why bother with needlework?’

  Whelan shrugged. He drew a sheet across Kirk McLatchie, glancing at Lou. ‘We still need somebody connected to the family to come down and identify him. Meantime, gents, thanks for the company. It can get lonely here at four in the morning.’

  The silent company of the dead, Perlman thought. You bet it’s fucking lonely. Betty’s going to be lonely. He walked out of the room into the corridor.

  Adamski followed him. ‘Sorry it turned out this way, Lou.’

  ‘I asked for help. You gave it. I’m grateful.’

  Adamski looked balefully at the lights along the corridor. ‘The older I get the more I want happy endings. What does that make me? A sentimental fool?’

  ‘A human being.’ Perlman clapped a hand on Adamski’s shoulder. ‘You have a smoke I can borrow?’

  ‘I quit last year.’

  ‘Smart move.’ Perlman stepped into the street. The clear night air was starry and cold.

  Adamski said, ‘I’ll keep you up to snuff with developments.’

  ‘And anything I can do,’ Perlman said, ‘just ask.’

  Lou walked to his car and turned once to wave at Adamski.

  He drove back to Egypt.

  Betty McLatchie was lying on the sofa where he’d left her, buried by the blanket. Her breathing was so light he had to lean close to her to hear it. He watched her for a while. Soon she’d wake, and crash straight into the truth she was escaping from in deep drugged sleep.

  He walked the room in slow steps, waiting. The two brown candles on the window sill were out.

  20

  Reuben Chuck woke in his penthouse bedroom to find Sandy Scullion sitting in the raffia chair by the balcony door. Chuck never needed time to drag himself out of sleep: instantly alert, always. He sat up in bed, looked at Scullion and said, ‘New hairstyle, and moustache. Makes you look – what’s the word? Mature. Man about town.’

  ‘I don’t need a scumbag’s opinion.’

  ‘Scumbag? My oh my. Strong stuff. And I thought you’d just broken in for a wee chat.’ Chuck stepped out of bed. He wore black silk pyjamas. He slipped his feet into a pair of kidskin slippers, and strolled to the balcony window where he yanked the curtain all the way open. ‘What a view. Stunnin, intit?’

  Scullion said, ‘I’m not in a view mood.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Chuck stared out across the river. The day was standard Glasgow issue, dour and unpromising, but the vista enthralled him. He could see all the way beyond the south bank and past the new Gorbals and King’s Park and Cathcart as far as Castlemilk, where the Cathkin Braes rose, a great sweep of this fractious profitable city.

  ‘I phoned, you never got back to me,’ Scullion said.

  ‘Couldn’t find a spare moment. How did you get in?’

  ‘Your doorman’s frightened of cops. I threatened him.’

  ‘He’s a wee nyaff. I could have him fired.’

  ‘But in your infinite compassion you won’t.’ Scullion rose, the wicker creaked. He strolled the room, ducking under hanging crystals. He touched one and it twisted, turned like a wandering glass eye. ‘What’s with all the beads, Chuck?’

  ‘Crystals,’ Chuck said.

  ‘Crystals, oh, excuse me.’

  ‘I’m on a certain path.’

  ‘Damnation alley?’

  Chuck smiled. He had a smile that could freeze a budgie from twenty feet. ‘I don’t think you’re in tune, Scullion.’

  ‘Let me guess. You’re a New Ager all of a sudden?’

  ‘Foo, simplistic label.’

  ‘You’re seeking what … enlightenment? Is that the word du jour?’

  Chuck said, ‘I could talk my arse off and you still wouldn’t get it.’ He picked up the black robe that matched his pyjamas and put it on. Silk made him feel good. He wondered how many worms did it take to make this ensemble, and how many Chinamen. And how many of these worms were reincarnations.

  ‘What’s the story, Scullion? Polisman breaks into exclusive high-rise apartment. I don’t spose you happen to have anythin like authorization, a piece of paper, a warrant.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Thought so. It’s funny seein you on your own. You look a wee bit lost. Where’s your sidekick anyway?’

  ‘Sick leav
e.’

  ‘Oh aye, the gunshot. Unfortunate matter. You must miss him.’

  ‘Forget Perlman, Chuck. Your main worry right now is me.’

  Tough guy act. Unconvincing. Reuben Chuck had always thought Perlman was the one who gave the partnership its sting. Scullion was heavy-fistit. It was the Jew you had to be wary of. He had a cheeky habit of provoking your anger – and anger wasn’t cool, because it meant you’d transferred your power to somebody else.

  ‘Spose you tell me why I should be worried about anythin, Scullion.’

  ‘Start with your dead competitors.’

  Chuck shook his head in feigned disappointment. ‘Aw, you’re goin about this the wrong way, Scullion. Perlman wouldn’t come out and say anythin as obvious as that. He’d shadow-box, this way, that way, mibbe throw out a puzzlin wee remark to draw you in, then he’d come up with a punch you never saw. Confrontational approach gets you nothin.’

  ‘I’m not here to discuss Perlman’s fucking technique, Chuck. Let me recite the roll-call of the dead to refresh your memory. Jimmy Stoker. Plus Stoker’s muscle, the brothers Jack and Tony McAlpine. Gordy Curdy. And Curdy’s wife. And no doubt we’ll dig up a few more bodies along the way.’ Scullion flicked another crystal and it swayed up and back.

  ‘And what has all this got to do with me precisely?’

  ‘You’re a vicious hungry bastard and you reached out and grabbed this territory and that, and in the process you left a lot of blood—’

  ‘Hang on, sonny boy. I left a lot of blood? Where and when? You want me to account for my movements at specific times? Go ahead. Ask me. Any day. Any time. Go ahead—’

  ‘We both know that would be a total waste of effort, Chuck.’

  ‘You’re makin a serious accusation here, if I understand you.’

  ‘And I want you to know it.’

  ‘You’re awfy lucky I’m not the kind of man who goes runnin to his lawyer every time some polisman makes a blunderin arse of himself.’

  Scullion pointed a finger. ‘Lawyers don’t bother me. You’ll fuck up with or without one. Somebody close to you will say the wrong thing in the wrong place. Somebody you trust will speak out of turn. A ned with a grievance, a drunk in a pub shooting his fat mouth off. You scum are all so fucking predictable I can sit back and wait for it to happen, then I pounce. Today, tomorrow, next month. Doesn’t matter. I’m a patient man. All the time in the world.’

  ‘And this is what – a wee warnin?’

  ‘Call it anything you like.’

  ‘You’re pissin into a force nine gale, pal.’

  ‘Not me. I don’t like splashback.’ Scullion reached up and stilled a swinging crystal, holding it in his fist.

  Chuck thought: I’d like to shove that crystal up your jaxie.

  Scullion said, ‘The lines are drawn.’

  Lines are drawn, my arse. Only in your heid, Scullion. ‘You fancy a cappuccino? I bought this new Italian machine. It’s a doddle. Froths milk, a wean could work it. Here,’ and he went into the kitchen, Italian marble floor, slatted granite-grey blinds, stainless steel appliances. He indicated a Gaggia de Luxe. ‘Top of the range, that one. I’ll brew you a cup.’

  ‘I’ll pass.’ Scullion looked around. ‘Nice kitchen.’

  ‘Costa fortune.’

  ‘You’re doing well.’

  ‘Keepin my heid above water. It’s a hard world. Lissen, do yourself a favour and come to my bistro some night. The Potted Calf, Broomhill Road. Chef’s a French-trained Korean. Top man, cooked all over Europe. He does a terrific pork gitane and his fegato Venezia’s out of this world, although I don’t eat meat myself. Keep your wallet in your pocket if you come.’

  ‘A bribe, Chuck?’

  ‘You’ve got a suspicious turn of mind. Your Superintendent Tay’s been known to sup at the Calf, and some of his pals. They always leave happy.’

  ‘And do they pay?’

  ‘I’m not runnin a soup kitchen. They pay through the fuckin nose. But I always throw in a free sambuca. They’re top brass, they expect somethin extra. You know how it is.’

  ‘I’m not sure I do.’

  ‘The way I look at it …’ Chuck unscrewed the coffee-basket and measured dark brown oily grounds into it, sniffed the aroma with a smile of anticipation, then slotted the basket back in place. ‘What’s a free after-dinner drink anyway? It makes the customers happy. I try to spread a little cheer as I pass through my journey, Scullion. And this is only one level.’

  ‘Don’t tell me there are others?’

  ‘For those of us who follow the path.’

  ‘Tell me more about this path.’

  ‘It’s the true way of the Baba.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘Baba Ragada. Here, you might give him a shot yourself. Helps you relax, offers you new insights. Ask me, you’re too tense.’

  Scullion smiled. ‘Three pints of Tennents soothes all my pains.’

  ‘Joke and smirk, pal. Booze is a poison. The Baba offers another way.’

  ‘I’m sure he does.’ Scullion moved toward the door.

  ‘You leavin already?’

  ‘Very heavy schedule. An appointment with my hair stylist, then my harpsichord lesson after that, followed by my pastry class. We’re doing choux today.’

  ‘If the choux fits,’ Chuck said. ‘You see Lou, give him my best.’

  ‘That’ll brighten his day.’

  Chuck heard the door close. He flipped a switch on the Gaggia, and made himself a small shot of espresso which he carried to the kitchen banquette. One sip, a quick poke to the system.

  OK, what have we got here? Scullion comes to dust me with menace, so he thinks. The polis has its eye on me. I am under observation. They’re watchin, they’re waitin. Somebody will slip up. Bang. A shiver runs through me. I’m scared shiteless.

  Scullion’s a one-legged man without Perlman.

  He stuck a sugar cube in his mouth and wondered if Farl the roofer had gone to fix the leak at the Temple, and if the cracked Jesus eye had been replaced. Then he picked up the phone and called Ronnie Mathieson and said, ‘Your lot moved yet?’

  21

  Samuel Montague was at his desk by 9 a.m. He tapped the keyboard of his computer with fingers that were stiff and ached, and scanned the financial news, watching ever-changing yellow figures scroll across the screen. Usually he absorbed them in microseconds. He had a slick brain. But the numbers were Aramaic to him today.

  His secretary came in, laid his post on the desk. ‘Good morning, Mr Montague,’ she said. A wide-hipped woman of forty-three, Mrs Liddle was cheerful, anxious to please. She’d been with the Bank all her adult life. She thought Montague seemed distant this morning. Also a little pale, weathered. Usually he was warm and smiling.

  ‘Fair amount of post,’ she said.

  ‘I see that, Mrs Liddle.’

  ‘Call me when you want to dictate.’

  ‘I may have to go out of the office for an hour or so,’ he said. ‘Family matter.’

  ‘Is everything OK, Mr Montague?’

  ‘Everything is just fine, Mrs Liddle.’

  Mrs Liddle lingered, unconvinced. She waited for Montague to elaborate on this family matter he’d mentioned, but he didn’t. Something was just not right. She was very fond of Montague, she knew his expressions and moods. And today he was not himself, although it was difficult to put a finger on it precisely. His pallor suggested ill health, a cold coming on. Or maybe his wife was unwell, and he was worrying about her.

  She’d worked for some skinflint miseryguts in her time at the Bank. Mr Montague was different. He gave generously for staff birthday presents, and when somebody was sick he was head of the line to send flowers or a basket of fruit. When he’d married about a year ago he’d invited everybody in the Bank to his wedding at the St Andrews Scottish Episcopal Church in Milngavie. She’d never seen him so happy before, nor indeed so handsome. He looked filmstarry in a grey morning suit with a dark cravat. And his bride, Meg, what a joyous
girl, everybody commented on her beauty and grace, and the gift she had for putting people at ease. They were a perfect match, universally agreed.

  They honeymooned in Barbados at a five star resort. The younger tellers went around looking dreamy-eyed for a whole week, exchanging fairytales about what it would be like to be Mrs Meg Montague, canoodling in the Caribbean. In the canteen one day, Mrs Liddle overheard Joyce McMillan say to Emma McCall, ‘They probably spend all day in bed.’

  Emma McCall, bony-faced, huge glasses, said, ‘I bet they’re hot together.’

  Joyce McMillan looked up from her copy of Elle. ‘Oh hot, of course they are. You only have to look at his brown eyes and you can tell. And she’s definitely all fire underneath those lovely manners. Hot? Scalding, you ask me.’ She blew on her fingertips and said, ‘Whoooo.’

  ‘When he’s not a banker, he’s a bonker,’ Emma said, and giggled.

  ‘Chatter chatter.’ Mrs Liddle tut-tutted the girls as she passed, but found herself thinking of moonlight, palm trees, two newly-weds leaving footprints along a beach, passion in a bamboo bed, the whole tourist brochure.

  Montague said, ‘I’ll buzz you if I need you, Mrs Liddle.’

  Startled from her reverie, Mrs Liddle said, ‘Yes, of course.’

  The frosted glass panel of Montague’s office door caught a flash of light as it shut behind her. He checked his watch, a birthday present from Meg. Then he tapped his keyboard and entered the personal files of his customers. He found the name he needed, then wrote the number of a safe-deposit box on a notepad, ripped the sheet off, folded it and placed it in the right-hand pocket of his trousers.

  If you don’t come through, your wife’s gonny be deid by ten-thirty sharp, Monty. After she’s been shagged stewpit, that is.