The Papers of Tony Veitch

by William McIlvanney

  ‘You don’t have a job in the summer?’ Laidlaw asked.

  ‘I’ve managed to get part-time in a pub. You want a can of beer?’

  Laidlaw did. Gus fetched him a can. Sitting back down to sip his own beer, Gus waited. His eyes had lost their abstractedness of when he answered the door. His recovery from that state made it occur to him to explain it.

  ‘I didn’t know who you were at first there. If something happens when I’m working, takes me a week to focus. I’m only even money to remember my name.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  Laidlaw pulled the tag on his can and it made a small geyser of escaping gas.

  ‘I didn’t know the polis drank on duty.’

  That inflection of aggressiveness in his voice towards the police, something Laidlaw sometimes felt must be taught in the West of Scotland along with ‘choo-choo’, disturbed the idle pleasure of the moment. Laidlaw’s mind put on its working clothes. He took a drink.

  ‘Who’s on duty?’ Laidlaw said. ‘This is a discourtesy call. You’ve heard about Tony Veitch?’

  Gus nodded.

  ‘We found his papers, by the way. Burnt to ash in a lavatory pan. Those papers interest me. He writes to his father, Lynsey Farren, you. But none of you keeps the letter. He writes reams of other stuff. It’s all destroyed. Why is that? It’s almost as if he was trying to say what nobody wanted to hear. What was it, I wonder?’

  ‘A lot of things, I suppose.’

  ‘You’ve read some of them, have you?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘I mean, what were they about?’

  ‘Just trying to understand things, I think. Anyway, surely Tony destroyed them himself.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘What else could it be?’

  Laidlaw took a drink and seemed nonplussed.

  ‘Anyway, he’s dead,’ Laidlaw said. ‘How does that strike you?’

  ‘As a fact.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s not enough? I mean, I can think of a couple of other people I wouldn’t mind volunteering to take his place. But they probably wouldn’t agree. So there we are.’

  ‘I thought you liked him.’

  ‘I did. But now he’s dead.’

  ‘God preserve me from you as a friend.’

  ‘Your wish is granted.’

  Laidlaw looked at him – so sure, so young. Laidlaw himself seemed to know less every day. If it kept on this way, he would die in the foetal position with his thumb in his mouth, but probably still looking apprehensively around him, his wonderment as strong as it was now.

  ‘How do you do that?’ he said. ‘Be so unconcerned. So bloody unsad.’

  ‘There are bigger sadnesses about.’

  ‘Like what? You mean the Third World and capitalist oppression and that?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘But pity for one precludes pity for the other, does it? What if I tell you I reckon Tony was murdered?’

  Gus Hawkins looked at the open pages of Freud as if consulting his notes, glanced at the window, stared back at Laidlaw. A lot was happening behind his eyes but none of it was for release.

  ‘You think that?’ he asked.

  ‘I feel sure he was. If he was, can you think of any contenders?’

  Gus shook his head immediately.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Laidlaw said. He was holding his beercan so tightly it buckled a bit and sent a small splash of beer on to the frayed carpet. He wiped it with a handkerchief as he went on. ‘You’re a cracker. Brain of Britain. You answer a question like that off the top of your head. It’s like talking to a computer. Or a balloon. And I think you’re a balloon.’

  Gus’s shoulders went rigid under the sweater.

  ‘If you’ve finished your beer, I think you’d better go. In fact, whether you’ve finished or not. Don’t sit and drink my beer and insult me.’

  Laidlaw smiled at him slowly.

  ‘It didn’t take long for the cosmic objectivity to turn personal,’ he said. ‘A wee bit of the embourgeoisement there, Gus, eh? Fair enough. I’ve had enough spunk in my eye for one day, anyway.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you’re a wanker. I noticed it quick. You offer a man a drink and then, before he can get it to his mouth, you dig him up about drinking on duty. What’s that about?’ Knowing he had put himself on his way out, Laidlaw saw no point in going quietly. ‘But a lot more than that. Tony’s supposed to have destroyed his papers. That doesn’t give you a tremor. Do you think that’s likely? Did you know him? I never met him and I know that’s hardly on the cards for him to do. You better lay into old Sigmund there. You’re not exactly a great reader of the human heart. I doubt Tony wasn’t either. He could’ve got better friends in a lucky bag. Look at the people near him. You and Lynsey Farren. And his father. But at least those other two practise an honest selfishness. You’ve got to dress it up in a lot of sanctimonious theories. Why not admit it? You just don’t give a shit. I’ve seen more compassion in a fucking wolverine. How do you manage to make love to your girlfriend, Gus? You put it together like an identikit from what you read in books? Do you? Because there can’t be anything in the middle of you but theory.’

  Gus looked at him steadily. The word he said was a small one but it seemed to grow as slowly as a glacier and, spoken, it filled the room with chill.

  ‘Cheerio.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. I fancy doing something jollier. Like kissing lepers. Most of that beer’s still there, by the way. You could maybe send it to the Third World.’

  Laidlaw stood up. The rage he felt frightened him. His hatred for the prevarications people practised was hardly containable. He knew the sensible way to live was to leave this alone. But he couldn’t leave it alone. He believed three people had been murdered. And nobody seriously cared who did it. It wouldn’t do.

  ‘Your kind of intellectual sickens me,’ he said, and had no idea what else to say.

  He stood looking at the wall. Like a stag at bay, he was who he was, he was what he was, and nothing else. He saw no hope of proving what he suspected. He had half a vision and nobody else would begin to admit the possibility of the other half. He knew they were lying. It was all he knew. For the moment, it was all he cared about.

  ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘Where you are. You’re protecting your brother. And your friend can go die as he likes. It’s not your business. But it is. It’s everybody’s business. There’s no other business we have. How each of us dies matters. Eck Adamson is dead. I’ll bury him proper. You better believe it. You’ll help me or you won’t. But I’ll bury him proper. I mean, in my mind. He’ll have a proper funeral in meaning. Or I’ll cause so much trouble even I won’t believe it. I don’t want your brother, Gus Hawkins. Unless he did it, I don’t want him. But I’ll understand what happened. Yes, I will. You better believe it.’

  Laidlaw himself couldn’t see how until Gus Hawkins rose and put on a parka. He looked round the room, then at Laidlaw. It was a strange moment. Laidlaw felt that at last someone had heard not just the words of his anger but the pain behind them and was admitting that he shared it. They were in contact with each other.

  ‘You got a car?’ Gus said.

  Laidlaw nodded.

  ‘I’ll take you one place. That’s all I’ll do. It’s up to you.’

  In the car Gus explained her name was Gina. She was Italian. Tony Veitch had been with her. Gus didn’t know her surname but he knew the tenement she lived in. When he got out of the car and said he would walk back home, they smiled at each other like a shared secret.

  ‘I hope you get it right,’ Gus said.

  ‘For both our sakes,’ Laidlaw said. ‘Eh?’

  Gus nodded.

  32

  The name on the door was the first Italian one he had come to. He rang the bell. She was wearing black cords and a black blouse loose at the waist. She looked like a woman you might jump a few lights to get home to.

/>   ‘Gina?’

  She appraised him for a moment and he saw her generous smile bloom on a misunderstanding, like a flower that comes out too early. She had assumed he had been told about her, was chancing his arm. He felt as if he had picked her purse.

  ‘I have little time this now. But—’ She looked at her watch. ‘You come in for a few minutes. Only a few. All right?’

  He came in. She closed the door and walked ahead of him into the sitting-room. She was wearing backless high-heeled shoes. As he gave her a cigarette, lit it and sat down opposite her to light his own, he thought again that such trustingness was a dangerous trade to practise. There was an open travelling-bag on the floor with three freshly ironed shirts lying on top of it.

  ‘I’m not havin’ much time,’ she said, and smiled again. ‘You’re nice.’

  ‘That’s you and my mammy think that,’ Laidlaw said.

  He had a brief reluctance to process the moment into practicalities. This was a pleasant hiatus. He liked the decadent innocence of her assumption. But it was unfair to prolong it.

  ‘You are shy?’

  He laughed.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d notice.’

  ‘You want to talk? You have a problem?’

  ‘Thousands,’ Laidlaw said. ‘You got a spare year? No. Listen, love. There’s something I better explain. I’m a policeman.’

  It was farewell to commercial Eden. Suddenly, what had looked like growing into an uncomplicated exchange was a computer job. Complex things were happening in her eyes. Her face had set like concrete. To complete the alienation, he resignedly passed across his card.

  ‘This is unfair,’ she said, giving it back. ‘I don’t like policemen. Some take without payment. You didn’t say.’

  ‘I’m saying now. Come on. You would’ve let me in anyway, love. Look, I just want to ask you some questions. About somebody who’s dead.’

  ‘I don’t know anybody who’s dead.’

  ‘We all do. Some of them still walking about as well. This was a boy called Tony Veitch.’

  She hadn’t known he was dead, he was sure. Her face showed the first shock of impact and then a series of withdrawals into the implications of the fact. She didn’t know how to react. What had looked like being sadness became thoughtfulness, worry and then panic.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You have to go. I’m expecting someone.’

  She half-rose.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Laidlaw said. ‘That was a sudden decision.’

  ‘He is coming,’ she said.

  She made it sound like a tidal wave, or Grendel at least. She crossed and put the shirts carefully into the travelling-bag, as if that solved everything. She turned vaguely, seeming to look for something she couldn’t find. Laidlaw wondered if it might be sandbags. He stood up.

  ‘Gina. Who is it?’

  As her head swivelled, Laidlaw appeared again in her vision and her hand gestured him away like a midgie.

  ‘He didn’t tell me any of this.’ Her hand went to her mouth, sealing it. ‘I can’t talk to you. He is coming soon.’

  She was starting to cry. Laidlaw took her by the shoulders and felt the tremors of her panic, like a small earthquake. He held her firmly, earthing the hysteria. The comfort of his contact, perhaps a gentleness of touch she was starved of, finally released the emotion in her and she lay against him and abandoned herself to crying. With his arms round her, he let her cry. She needed the confession of tears to admit to herself that she could no longer cope with what was happening.

  Eventually he said, ‘Sit down, Gina.’

  She sat down slowly. He gave her a handkerchief and, as she dabbed at her face, he lit a cigarette and gave it to her. He walked through to the small kitchen, filled the kettle, plugged it in. He watched her from the doorway.

  ‘I’ll make a cup of tea.’

  The realisation that he was staying renewed the panic in her.

  ‘But he’s coming.’

  ‘Gina, who the hell is coming? Unless it’s Godzilla, you’re over-reacting, love. Let him come. I’ll wait with you. Who is it?’

  ‘A man.’

  ‘I’m a detective, Gina. I’d worked that out.’

  His attempt to make her laugh hadn’t succeeded but she did look at him as if she was actually seeing him. She sniffed determinedly and the hiccoughing of her body subsided. A small calm had been achieved.

  He rinsed out a couple of mugs, found the necessary things and made the tea. She didn’t take sugar. With their cups of tea they looked like a nice couple nicely at home.

  ‘Who is he, Gina?’ he asked.

  He had given her time to make her decision.

  ‘His name is Mickey Ballater.’

  ‘Tricky Mickey,’ Laidlaw said. ‘That’s what they used to call him. So that’s who’s turned private detective. The Birmingham snooper. What’s the connection with you?’

  He could see her wondering about catching amnesia.

  ‘Gina. I’m going to wait here till he comes anyway. It would be better, for me and you, if I knew what I was getting into.’

  ‘He comes to the door last week. And he is staying here since.’

  ‘But why? Why does he come to your door?’

  She closed her eyes, shaking her head.

  ‘It is a dirty story.’

  ‘Most of them are. Some folk just tell them nice.’

  ‘Paddy Collins?’

  Laidlaw nodded.

  ‘I am from Naples. My husband is from Naples. We are married and come here. My husband is cousin with a family with a café. He is to work. But he doesn’t work. We quarrel, he leaves me pregnant. I have the baby. I meet Paddy Collins. He is all right. But soon he makes a suggestion. How I should manage to live. I am not going to do it. But I do it.’

  Laidlaw wondered how often he had heard the poignancy of whole lives reduced to the compass of a small ad. Was it her problem with the language that made it sound so simple? He imagined a terrible inarticulate pain behind the words, but perhaps he was being fanciful.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand. I am not blaming Paddy. Perhaps I do this anyway.’ She looked at him defiantly. ‘Sometimes I don’t dislike it.’

  He shrugged, abjuring judgment.

  ‘But then a bad thing. A very bad thing. Paddy takes me to meet someone. He is not to know what I do for living. Then I did not know why. Now I know. His name is Tony Veitch.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Laidlaw said. ‘It sounds like an old script. You and Tony get together, right? But after a time you develop a husband. And it’s going to take money to buy him off. Because he’s found out.’

  She looked at Laidlaw, relieved that he had got there without the pain of having to tell him.

  ‘I did not know this. When I do, I am too afraid to get out.’

  ‘So who’s the husband?’

  ‘Mickey Ballater.’

  ‘You picked a beauty.’

  ‘I did not pick.’

  ‘No, I know, love. So that’s the story. That’s why Ballater’s been looking for Tony Veitch?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Maybe he found him. Trickey Mickey. I wonder. Paddy Collins was demanding money from Tony Veitch? And Ballater was the way of getting it out of him?’

  ‘But Tony disappears. I felt glad. Tony was nice.’

  ‘Do you know if Mickey Ballater found where Tony was?’

  ‘He tells me nothin’.’

  ‘Did he ever mention Eck Adamson to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When was it Ballater came here?’

  She thought about it.

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘Did you get the impression he had only just arrived in Glasgow?’

  ‘He comes at night. Next day he says he will get his things from left luggage. He brings this.’

  She nodded towards the travelling-bag.

  ‘He’s due back for it, is he?’

  Her renewed fear was sufficient answer.

  ‘Is he carrying?’
/>
  She didn’t understand.

  ‘Does he have a weapon on him?’

  ‘He has a knife.’ She crossed her arms, trying to remember on which side he wore it. Her left arm gave up first. ‘On the left, I think.’

  ‘Think hard. I would like to keep on breathing.’

  ‘It is the left. I think.’

  ‘Thank you. If it’s the right, my favourite flowers are gladioli. If he’s threatened you with it, you should remember. No?’

  ‘Does he need to?’

  She pulled up the sleeves of her blouse. Both arms had bruises that obviously dated from different times but were almost in the same place. He wasn’t even an inventive sadist. Having begun, she warmed to her rancour. She pulled her blouse up from the waist. There were three of what looked like cigarette-burns on her belly like small, not quite extinct volcanoes. Laidlaw added them to the debit column of his anger.

  ‘I’m sorry to be so personal, Gina. But he must have made his strange kind of love to you.’ He waited but she just stared at him. ‘So he must have touched you there.’ He pointed between her legs. ‘Which hand did he use?’

  He noticed how she put him down in her estimation, as if he were some kind of voyeur. Prudishness grows in strange places.

  ‘His right hand,’ she said.

  ‘So he carries on the left. You have a phone?’

  ‘In the bedroom.’

  Laidlaw wrote something on an envelope he took from his pocket, passed it to her. It was a telephone number.

  ‘When you let him in, you go into the bedroom. You phone that number. Ask them to send a couple of men right away.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ll be trying to keep him here.’

  ‘But if he kills you? What do I do?’

  ‘Well, I’ll probably have lost interest by then. I think you might say you’ll be on your own. You could maybe jump out a window or that.’

  ‘I have a child sleeping.’

  ‘Should be all right. Even Mickey Ballater’s shiteyness must have limits. Have it away on your toes with the wean. Anyway, Gina, I didn’t volunteer for God. I’m just trying to work it out as I go along. Maybe—’

  The outside door had opened. Of course, Laidlaw thought, he’s got a key. As he moved behind the door of the sitting-room he was mentally thanking Gina for keeping him posted. How could she be so stupid as to let him talk about letting Ballater in without mentioning that she wouldn’t have to? His stomach went delicately molten. His hands had a familiar divining-rod tremor to them – there’s violence here, but where exactly? He shook his head distantly at her pleading expression. He had given what he could give. It was Laidlaws in the boats first. Otherwise nobody would be saved. The outside door had closed and the feet were coming along the hall. Laidlaw made a double-handed, crossed-arm wiping gesture – you’re on your own. In a moment of terrified inspiration, Gina lifted the paper from the white-tiled table beside her chair and pretended to be looking at it. As the door opened, Laidlaw realised she was holding the paper upside-down. It seemed a stupendous error at the time.