Butcher

by Campbell Armstrong

  ‘We need to dump these wheels first chance we get. How many people did Chuck tell he was coming to visit you? We don’t know, do we? But I know this – somebody will come looking for him. And for us.’

  Dorcus turned the van out of the yard. ‘And what will they find?’

  Jackie Ace said, ‘They’d need to look a long, long time before they find anything.’

  Dorcus drove past the old abattoir.

  ‘I think London, Dorcus.’

  Dorcus thought about his dogs again. Somebody would find them, take them to an animal shelter, they’d get a good home eventually.

  ‘Anywhere you like, Nurse.’

  47

  It was just after noon when Perlman arrived at Scullion’s house in Drumbeck, at the edge of Bellahouston Park. Sandy, in off-duty blue jeans and loose-fitting v-neck sweater, led him into a glass conservatory. The room was airy and comfortable, armchairs covered with a bright floral motif. It looked out over a tidy lawn, a kiddy’s swing, a rubber paddling pool.

  Sandy picked up a copy of the Sunday Herald from a chair, and gestured for Lou to sit down.

  ‘Where’s Maddie and the kids?’ Perlman asked.

  ‘Church.’

  ‘You don’t go with them?’

  ‘My faith doesn’t quite fit churches. I’ll tell you about it some time.’

  That faith again: one day Perlman would ask for an explanation. ‘All right to smoke?’

  ‘I don’t care, but Maddie hates the smell.’

  ‘House rules, have to obey,’ Perlman said. Smoking verboten: he knew he wouldn’t stay long. He didn’t sit in the chair Sandy had offered. Instead he walked to the glass walls and looked out and wondered if he would have been happy with this kind of life, the wife, the kids, the accoutrements and the obligations. He didn’t miss it because he’d never had it. So there was no pang, no yearning, no sense of a lost opportunity to produce little Perlmans.

  ‘Nice,’ he said, watching the lawn in sunlight. And it was, if you liked the suburban way. ‘How did your raid go?’

  ‘We hauled away a fair pile of documents relating to Reuben Chuck’s business enterprises. I don’t believe we got everything. I have a feeling there’s a stash hidden somewhere else. These lawyers are cunning. Meantime, the big man himself is nowhere to be found.’

  Maybe you’ll never find him, Perlman thought.

  ‘Tell me how you are, Lou.’

  Perlman shrugged, and talked quietly about going to visit Tartakower, and his experience with the man, which, in recollection, felt as if it had happened to somebody else – a Perlman in another dimension. He remembered the scorched darkness, and Tartakower dropping from the window, and it was like watching an illusion. He thought of the hoodies, and their martyred ferret. Issy’s blood was sacred. Would they stuff her – or skin her and make a jacket for their leader?

  Scullion said, ‘Did Tartakower confess?’

  ‘Confess? Not exactly. He hinted. He loved enigmatic statements. What he said wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, but I’m convinced he amputated the hand.’ He spoke the words, denied himself access to the image. ‘He could’ve invented the story, of course, complete with realistic details. Maybe he wanted to feel important, maybe he needed a big performance in front of his teen gang … I don’t doubt he was telling the truth about his feelings for my family, and I don’t doubt he wanted me dead. But what am I left with? Loose ends.’

  ‘I know, you think you’ve got closure, then another door opens, and fuck knows where it’s going to take you.’

  Closure. Perlman thought the only true closure was death – and maybe not even then. Tartakower was dead. Chuck was merely missing at this stage. But Dysart and Ace, who knew? He wasn’t worried – they’d show up sooner or later, in another city, England or overseas. According to a weary Adamski, who’d called earlier, his team had rigged up lights and, working through the night, found human tissue clogged in the sewage system, and bundles of bloodstained decaying towels stuffed inside a basement furnace that didn’t work, and so was useless when it came to destroying evidence. Dysart must have intended to have it mended at some stage, and procrastinated, or didn’t have the cash, or never imagined anyone would go down there and look – and then it was too late.

  It’s going to be a long job, Adamski had said, and a fucking nasty one.

  ‘We really need something to wipe in Latta’s face,’ Scullion said.

  ‘If these kids would talk about Miriam’s burial, the before and the after, we’d have something. But they won’t talk unless somebody brings back the rack or thumbscrews. Hindsight’s a curse – I wish I’d had the presence of mind to grab the saw and take it with me, it might have helped Sid Linklater’s forensic effort – assuming Tartakower’s saw was the one used on Miriam. But I just wanted out, Sandy. That’s all I could think of, getting out. Getting away.’

  Scullion strolled his conservatory with the confident step of ownership. ‘Maybe we can retrieve the saw.’

  ‘How?’

  Scullion grinned. ‘Some hard men in that part of the world owe me favours.’

  ‘Sandy, you surprise me, travelling in rough circles.’

  ‘I learned it all from you.’

  ‘I take that as praise. Would these hard men bully a bunch of kids in hoods?’

  ‘Kidding? They’d love it.’

  Perlman saw sunlight flash on the surface of the paddling pool. ‘Also it would be helpful if we knew where Tartakower performed the amputation. Linklater might like that, scratching round for evidence.’

  ‘Leave it with me. You want a beer?’

  Perlman patted his stomach, indicating gastric uncertainty. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘One way or another we’ll get enough to scupper that fucker Latta. It’ll come together.’

  ‘I believe that,’ Perlman remarked, cheered by the possibility of Latta’s disgrace and downfall. ‘I’m not resigning. I’m definitely not resigning. Fuck Tay. Fuck Latta.’

  ‘You sure about that beer?’

  ‘Positive.’

  Scullion patted his back. ‘Next time. Maddie says you’re coming to dinner this week.’

  ‘So I am.’ He’d forgotten.

  Perlman drove to Betty’s flat in London Road. There was no sign of the reporters who’d been there before. The value of news receded quickly, hot topics turned cold, the world rolled on in a series of fresh atrocities. He took out his phone and called Hilda.

  ‘It’s the prodigal,’ Hilda said.

  ‘The wandering Jew,’ Perlman said.

  ‘You should wander down this side of the city one day.’

  Here comes the guilt express. He asked after her health, and Marlene’s. This was risky, since it sometimes involved a catalogue of complaints. He was relieved to be told only that Marlene had passed a gallstone in the night without severe pain, just some small discomfort. End of bulletin.

  He wasn’t going to tell Hilda over the phone about Miriam. Such news meant a personal visit.

  ‘So this phone call is what – just saying hello?’

  ‘I was thinking I’d come over later tonight.’

  ‘Say again what you said.’

  ‘You heard me, Hilda.’

  ‘So tonight I’ll be baking?’

  ‘Don’t make a fuss, I’ll bring something.’ He looked at the curtains drawn across Betty’s window. Was she asleep, awake? ‘I have a question for you. Do you remember a guy you used to see … The Slob, you called him.’

  ‘Who told you about the Slob?’

  ‘Was this Ben Tartakower?’

  ‘Some questions you have no right to ask.’ Hilda’s tone was clipped.

  ‘He proposed to you. Yes? No?’

  ‘Here I close a door. Slam.’

  ‘I was just curious.’

  ‘And curious you’ll stay.’

  ‘Eight o’clock OK?’

  ‘Eight is good. And don’t forget the cheesecake, Louis.’ She hung up.

  She reveals h
erself in her refusals. Perlman put his phone away.

  He got out of the car. Betty was on the pavement, smiling warmly at him. He followed her along the close to her flat. Music played quietly on her stereo. He recognized it, old Credence Clearwater.

  ‘I’ve just made some coffee.’

  She went inside the kitchen and came out with a coffee jug, cups and saucers, and a plate of assorted biscuits on a tray. She poured for him, and he sipped. She was waiting for his reaction to the coffee. He told her it was good, strong, the way he enjoyed it. Small appreciations pleased her. He liked this about her. He liked a lot of things about her.

  ‘You look good,’ he said.

  ‘That’s probably the first compliment you’ve ever paid me. Except when you told me how well I cleaned your house.’

  ‘I’ve been remiss.’

  ‘More like preoccupied.’

  ‘Here’s another compliment. I like the way you’re dressed.’ He was unaccustomed to making compliments.

  ‘I’ve never worn this before,’ she said.

  ‘It suits you.’ And it did – a well-cut dress of dark blue, knee-length. She’d done something to her hair, rearranged it, cut some of it, he wasn’t sure how she’d made it different. Also she wore light makeup, subdued lipstick, a mere touch of eyeliner. So little, and yet it redefined her face, brought new light to her eyes.

  She sat beside him on the sofa, holding her cup in her lap. ‘I had a phone call this morning, by the way. From Annie. Remember? You were quite taken by her.’

  ‘What did she have to say?’

  ‘It was a goodbye call. She’s going to America.’

  ‘Good move for her.’

  ‘She has ambitions,’ Betty said. ‘Music OK for you?’

  ‘Takes me back.’

  ‘That’s what I like about it. Better days.’ She drank some coffee, offered him a biscuit. He chose a chocolate bourbon.

  He said, ‘When I was a kid, I used to eat the outside bits and leave the chocolate centre for last.’

  ‘Is there any other way?’

  Barefoot girl dancin in the moonlight. He listened to the music and imagined Betty in her hippy days, and thought of her dancing shoeless like the girl in the song. He touched the back of her hand and then, beset by nervousness, drew it away.

  ‘You’re shy,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you, Lou?’

  ‘Uncertain more than shy. Maybe both in equal measures.’

  She laughed. ‘Do people tell you you’re funny?’

  ‘Complete stand-up,’ he said.

  ‘Sometimes I hear you think before you speak … I hear you weigh things in your head, trying to balance your words.’

  ‘It’s all show. Usually it’s off the top of my head with no thought beforehand.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m madly impulsive?’

  ‘You have impulses, I don’t know how madly.’

  He reached across and placed the palm of his hand against the back of her neck. She sighed, tipped her head back, enjoying the connection.

  ‘Is this one of the mad ones?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, it could be, Lou, it could well be …’

  He gently pushed aside a strand of hair and kissed her ear.

  She leaned forward, set her cup down on the coffee-table. Then she turned to gaze at him. He saw it in her eyes – anticipation and hesitancy. And he thought: we’re postponing an event that’s waiting inevitably to take place. How does it happen, what whispered promptings of the heart tell you that one day, when enough time has passed to let cowls of grief and sorrow blow away, you’re going to be lovers – even before you know it?

  She wrapped her hands firmly round his. He understood. The dead still had claims on their behaviour. He kissed her again anyway and she yielded a moment and he realized how easy it would be to expel the dead, and how difficult.

  His phone rang in his pocket and he was tempted to leave it, but Betty had drawn slightly back from him, apparently lost in misgivings of her own, and so he answered.

  The Pickler said, ‘If you’re still interested, Mr Perlman, I think I might have a wee lead on that heidless clown.’

  The author thanks the following people:

  Superintendent Iain Gordon, Strathclyde Police, for his endless patience with my questions

  Alex Reilly, for the illuminating tour

  Ed Breslin, for his encouragement

  Netta White, and Hazel Frew, for their help with Glasgowspeak

  Fraser Campbell, for his memories and bon mots

  Patrick Killian, master locksmith and Detective, for his skills

  The Editor of The Jaggy Thistle, for fun

  Marie-Caroline Aubert, for her kindness

  Susie Dunlop, for taking a chance

  Dave Read, for Manning the Web

  Jarno Mattila, for the Korskenkorva

  Wilma McFarlane, for research

  Sam Sinclair, for the Dolmio

  Erl and Ann, for accommodating me

  Elsie B, specially, for the stones

  About the Author

  Campbell Armstrong (1944–2013) was an international bestselling author best known for his thriller series featuring British counterterrorism agent Frank Pagan, and his quartet of Glasgow Novels, featuring detective Lou Perlman. Two of these, White Rage and Butcher, were nominated for France’s Prix du Polar. Armstrong’s novels Assassins & Victims and The Punctual Rape won Scottish Arts Council Book of the Year Awards.

  Born in Glasgow and educated at the University of Sussex, Armstrong worked as a book editor in London and taught creative writing at universities in the United States.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by Campbell Armstrong

  Cover design by Angela Goddard

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-0714-6

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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