by Ian Rankin
9
The graffiti had been applied with an aerosol. Time was, a tin of paint and a brush would have been needed. Laidlaw was vague on how a gang named Cumbie had come to be associated with the Gorbals. Same went for the Tongs, the Spur and the Toi. They were part of a code, he supposed, and codes were not meant to be deciphered by everyone. Witness the Masonic handshake, which could be given without a non-believer being any the wiser. Not that a member of the craft would thank you for the comparison. It interested him that Lilley was not of the brotherhood; most cops felt obliged to join if they weren’t already members. Quiet conversations had been had with Laidlaw early in his career, pointing out that it would be no detriment to advancement through the ranks. Quite the opposite, in fact, if he took the speaker’s meaning. It was like the union hold over the working-class denizens of the shipyards and elsewhere: it wasn’t mandatory to sign up and pay your dues, but if you didn’t, there would always be mutterings that you weren’t a team player.
Laidlaw suspected that this was what each gang conferred on its adherents, a sense of belonging, often where none had been nurtured at home. The other pieces of graffiti told their own stories, and the fact that derogatory comments had already been added alongside the word Cumbie told him that the message had been there a while, certainly long enough for the local gang to let the Cumbie know what they thought of this territorial slight. This was no new incursion or cry of intent. It was history. Soon enough it would be defaced entirely, a fresh layer of scrawls and scuffs covering it. Milligan, as ever, wasn’t so much barking up the wrong tree as looking for a tree in the widest of oceans.
The bins next to where the body had lain had been emptied, their contents taken away to be sifted by specialists with more patience than Laidlaw. They probably enjoyed jigsaws of a rainy Sunday afternoon, too. A single bunch of flowers, shop-bought, sat in the gap between the bins. There was no note. As Laidlaw stood there contemplating, a gawker arrived, a man in a trench coat and NHS glasses, thin hair slicked back, wife a few steps behind him, happy to have her hero lead the way.
‘Fuck right off,’ Laidlaw warned them both, as the man produced a cheap camera from his pocket.
‘No harm in it,’ the man blurted out. But he had the decency to look ashamed as he turned and gave his wife a little shove. Laidlaw escorted them as far as the pavement, then, having waited a few moments, pushed open the door to the Parlour and headed in.
What greeted him was a frozen tableau, a moment captured for posterity. No one seated at any of the tables, four men standing at the bar, one having reached across to grab the landlord by his shirt front. All eyes were on Laidlaw as he entered. The shirt was released, the men adjusting their expressions.
‘Thought you’d locked that,’ one growled softly to another.
‘This the University Challenge audition?’ Laidlaw enquired, approaching the bar. Then, to Conn Feeney specifically: ‘Bamber Gascoigne couldn’t make it?’
One of the men jabbed a stubby finger towards him. ‘You leave here now, if you know what’s good for you, pal.’
‘He’s CID,’ another of the group piped up. ‘I can smell it from here.’
Laidlaw took his time getting a cigarette lit. ‘You’ll be Cam Colvin’s boys,’ he commented. ‘If memory serves, that probably means one of you is called Panda.’
‘That’s me,’ stated the one who’d smelled police on him.
‘Yours is the only name I remember. That’s how worried my lot are about you and your boss. You’re barely specks of dust floating over a buckled tin ashtray.’ Laidlaw made show of tapping a finger against the ashtray in front of him. ‘Tin rather than glass because it’s a lot less use in a fight. Ineffectual, you might even say. Look the word up when you get home – which is where I advise you to go right this second, before you start to really annoy me.’
‘This your idea of investigating a murder?’ the one called Panda said. ‘Stopping off for a few free drinks and a smoke? We all know you won’t be losing much sleep over Bobby, or breaking any sweat over the case.’
‘Problem is too many suspects,’ Laidlaw said. ‘I’d be as well opening the phone book and working my way through from the A’s. What I don’t need, however, is the likes of you doing my job for me, with threats and intimidation in place of a warrant card.’
Panda didn’t bother answering. He had become de facto leader, and his job now was to lead his men out of the pub with dignity intact.
‘You’ll be seeing us again,’ he shot towards the landlord. ‘Don’t think you won’t. Same goes for you, copper.’
‘The name’s Laidlaw. Make sure that gets back to your boss. Write it down if you have to.’
He watched them leave in silence. They walked in single file, repairing their swagger before facing the outside world. Feeney was jamming a glass under the nearest optic.
‘You’ll take one.’ It was more a demand than a question.
‘I prefer Antiquary to the council stuff.’
Feeney obliged, pouring liberally from a bottle. He added a splash of water to his own, Laidlaw nodding to indicate that he’d have the same.
‘Thanks for that,’ the landlord said.
‘For what? They’ll be back, just like they said. All the same, they’ve not managed to shake you up too much. I’m guessing that’s because you’ve some Belfast blood in you.’
‘Born and bred.’
‘Lived through enough scares before you landed here?’
‘A few.’ Feeney had already finished his drink but seemed in no hurry for another. He rinsed his glass and lit a cigarette of his own. ‘They’re not exactly amateurs but they’re not the worst I’ve seen.’
‘How about their boss?’
‘Only known to me by reputation.’
‘And Bobby Carter?’
Feeney examined Laidlaw through the haze of smoke between them, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘Okay, you’ve done me a good turn, so here’s all I’m saying – he came in here once.’
‘Bobby Carter?’
‘The same.’
‘You knew who he was?’
‘Not at the time. After he left, one of my regulars enlightened me.’
‘That’s why you recognised him in the alley.’ Laidlaw nodded his understanding. ‘So what was he doing here, the time he dropped in?’
‘Waiting for someone to join him who never arrived.’
‘And you’ve no idea who?’
Feeney shook his head.
‘He hadn’t been in before?’
‘No.’
‘So the pub was probably the other person’s idea.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Meaning maybe someone you do know. Nobody ever asked if they’d missed him? Nobody arrived looking for him after he left?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘How long ago did all this happen?’
‘Three or four weeks back.’
‘You should have told us.’
‘I’m telling you now. Don’t make me regret it.’
Laidlaw finished his drink and stubbed out the cigarette. He wrote the number of the Burleigh on a spare McEwan’s coaster. ‘If you think of anything else,’ he said, sliding it across to Feeney. ‘Or if Colvin’s men turn nasty.’
‘I can handle myself.’
‘Thing is, you probably have limits, boundaries you won’t cross because your conscience won’t allow it. These men don’t. You’d be wise to bear that in mind.’
Laidlaw walked to the door, hauled it open and stepped outside, coming face to face with two men, one of them John Rhodes. Rhodes was tall and fair-haired, not overly heavy in build. His face was pockmarked and had been since borstal days, though no one ever commented on the fact. His eyes were blue and often had a smile playing around them, as now. The man at his shoulder had a heavily scarred face and what looked like a permanent scowl, his eyes as animated as mortar shells.
‘Jack Laidlaw,’ Rhodes said, sliding his hands into his pockets as i
f getting comfortable.
‘Hello, John. Whatever in the world brings you here?’
‘I like to know what’s happening in my neck of the woods.’
‘You just missed some of Cam Colvin’s men.’
‘Well isn’t that lucky for them?’ He glanced past Laidlaw towards the bar. ‘Any damage?’
‘Landlord seemed to be coping.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘Is this one of your properties?’ Laidlaw watched Rhodes shake his head. ‘Your visit here might suggest otherwise to Colvin.’
‘If I was going to take out Colvin’s consigliere, I’d hardly have dumped him on my own patch. Not even your colleagues could be that dense – unless of course Milligan’s in charge.’ Rhodes’s smile widened when he saw Laidlaw’s face tighten a fraction. ‘He is, though? Wonderful . . .’
‘What did you mean by consigliere?’
‘Have you not seen The Godfather yet? Get your arse to a picture house while it’s still playing. It’s a name for a right-hand man, the kind with a brain worth listening to. Now that Carter’s been written off, Colvin’s short of ready replacements.’
‘So someone took Carter out to knock the foundations from under Colvin? That would be a smart move, the kind a man like John Rhodes might make.’
‘Aye, or Matt Mason, or one of half a dozen other names we could bandy about all afternoon.’
‘Should I maybe add Malky Chisholm to the mix?’
‘His lot are nothing more than toerags, Jack, you know that as well as I do.’ Rhodes’s eyes widened a little. ‘Christ, is that the angle Milligan’s taking? The bugger’s thicker than the doorstop on a plain loaf.’
‘Doesn’t mean he doesn’t sometimes get a result, fluke or no. Have we got a bit of gang warfare to look forward to, John?’
‘You’d have to ask Colvin. Me, I’m just a concerned citizen and businessman.’ Rhodes pressed his hands to his chest, hands that had throttled the life from men and picked up clubs and axes to be wielded against others, maybe even pressed a gun to a forehead or jaw. ‘I’ll see you around, Jack. Regards to Ena . . .’
Laidlaw was in two minds about following, but he didn’t think Rhodes would appreciate the company. His minder headed indoors with a final scowl in Laidlaw’s direction. A pair of denim-clad men in their early twenties had been watching from across the street. They now crossed, hesitating just shy of the door.
‘Was that who we think it was?’ one asked. Laidlaw nodded his response. The speaker turned to his companion. ‘We’ll maybe try the Sarry Heid instead, then.’
Laidlaw almost asked if he could join them. But instead he flagged down a passing taxi and climbed in.
‘Did you hear what happened behind that pub, son?’ the driver shouted above the noise of the overworked engine.
‘A family lost a husband and father,’ Laidlaw said. ‘That’s what happened. Now give me a bit of peace, will you? I need to do some thinking.’
Conn Feeney locked the doors of the Parlour and joined John Rhodes in the cramped back office, leaving Rhodes’s bodyguard perched on a stool at the bar. Rhodes had made himself comfortable on the only chair and was sifting through the paperwork scattered across the desk, the same antique desk he had gifted Feeney on the day he’d taken ownership of the pub, praising its solidity.
‘Belonged to a bank manager,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve checked down the back of the drawers but he didn’t leave anything.’
‘You’re sure I can’t offer you something, John?’ Feeney asked now, taking up position just inside the doorway. The room was windowless and consequently airless. Rhodes’s aftershave filled it.
‘I hear you had a visit, Conn.’
‘Cam Colvin’s boys.’
‘I suppose that’s to be expected,’ Rhodes mused. ‘If you need a bit of protection in the short term, you only have to ask.’
‘I’ll be fine, John.’
‘Police give you any grief?’
‘If you’re meaning that guy Laidlaw, the answer’s no.’
‘They’ll know I’ve got a share in this place, though, eh?’
‘If they do, they didn’t hear it from me.’
Rhodes nodded slowly, seemingly only half listening. One polished shoe tapped against the old green safe that sat on the floor alongside the desk. It, too, had come from a shutdown bank. ‘I need something, Conn,’ he said.
Feeney didn’t need telling twice. He took the key from his trouser pocket and squatted in front of the safe, unlocking it and turning the handle. The safe contained some papers, a dozen thick bundles of banknotes, and a small muslin-wrapped object. That object had made its way to Glasgow from Belfast, courtesy of someone Conn had known back in the day. Today, however, Rhodes was interested only in the cash, peeling a few notes from one of the bundles and slipping them into his jacket. Feeney knew that almost every establishment linked to John Rhodes had a safe like this. The man spread his money around, feeling this to be a safer option than storing it all in the one place.
And he didn’t trust the banking system, seeing it as the taxman’s snitch.
Having pocketed the money, however, he did allow his eyes to settle on the little muslin package.
‘It’s there if you need it,’ he said in a voice lacking all emotion.
‘I know that, John.’
Rhodes nodded to himself and patted his jacket, satisfying himself that the banknotes were safe within.
Conn Feeney took this as his cue to relock the safe.
‘Maybe a drink now, eh?’ Rhodes said. It was a mark of the man that he even made it sound like a suggestion rather than an order.
Ena Laidlaw was in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the twin-tub washing machine. Left to its own devices, the waste hose had a habit of unhooking itself from the side of the sink, sending water spewing across the linoleum floor. The pulley was already full from the previous load. This one would have to go on the clothes horse in front of the fire. Moya and Sandra were at school, Jack Junior parked on the sofa with an army of toy soldiers. Most of the washing seemed to be his. Give him sweets, chocolate or a lolly and some of it would end up on cardigan, shirt and trousers. The brown carpet in the living room had turned out to be a blessing of sorts, covering a multitude of stains.
She thought of how nice Bob Lilley had sounded on the phone. Not abrupt or wary like some detectives she’d had to call in the past. Their various stories always sounded fake or rehearsed – he’s on his way to court or Barlinnie; he’s in a meeting; he’s gone to the records office.
You know he stayed at the Burleigh last night? Just like that, without her having to ask. And then offering up that he had kids of his own and a wife called . . . Margaret? That was it: Margaret. Margaret Lilley, who sounded like she had the measure of her husband.
Maybe I should be swapping notes with her.
‘Maybe I should at that,’ Ena said quietly to herself, before realising that Jack Junior was standing in the doorway, an orange in his hand, juice soaking into his pullover and a sour look on his face. He had bitten into it through the thick skin.
‘I told you,’ she said with a sigh. ‘But would you take a telling?’
She had taken a couple of steps towards him when her senses alerted her to the waste hose wriggling free of its perch.
‘No you don’t, mister,’ she said, giving it a firm push with one hand as she reached with the other towards a rinsed dishcloth. In her mind she could see the telephone stool in the hall. There was a little book there next to the phone, containing addresses and numbers of friends and family. And on a shelf beneath sat the Glasgow directory, which just might have a number in it for R. Lilley or M. Lilley or even R. and M. Lilley. Once the washing was hung up, she’d boil the kettle, settle down next to Jack Junior, and he could help her look.
10
Laidlaw was at a corner table in the Top Spot. A pint was waiting for Bob Lilley but it had already gone flat, and he pushed it aside as he arrived and sat down. Laidlaw fold
ed closed the newspaper he’d been reading.
‘What’s happening in the world?’ Lilley asked.
‘Fighting in Belfast and peace at Upper Clyde. Plus my Premium Bonds mean I have to keep working.’ His eyes met Lilley’s. ‘Thought you were standing me up.’
‘Much as I’d like to be able to rush from a murder case whenever summoned by someone who’s taken up residence in a bar . . .’ Lilley glanced towards the barman, who had made the call on Laidlaw’s behalf.
‘Thing is, Bob, you’d have been rushing to a murder case. This is where it’s going to get solved.’
‘The Top Spot?’
‘The streets,’ Laidlaw corrected him. ‘Sitting at a desk sucks all the oxygen out of you. That’s maybe somebody’s idea of policing, but not mine. I’m good at this city, though. I would definitely make that claim. It’s because I keep doing my homework. You going to drink that?’ When Lilley shook his head, Laidlaw poured half the stale pint into the remains of his own. ‘You can do deductive reasoning anywhere, but sometimes an office is the worst place for it, especially with Milligan nipping your napper.’
‘So what exactly have you deduced?’
‘Remind me, what was in the victim’s pockets when they were searched?’
‘Apart from the cash – wallet, house keys, cigarettes and a fancy lighter. Nice wristwatch on him, too.’
‘So we can assume whoever killed him didn’t do it in the act of robbing him?’
‘Unless they panicked.’
Laidlaw was shaking his head. ‘A gang like the Cumbie, they’d have picked the carcass clean.’
‘Meaning Milligan’s wasting his time?’
‘And everyone’s hard graft to boot. But to come back to the vultures, Bobby Carter had been missing the best part of three days. You reckon he was lying there all that time without someone noticing? From the amount of graffiti, I’d say that lane’s a popular enough spot, maybe for a drug deal or underage drinking, or even a knee-trembler like the one that eventually saw Carter found.’
‘You’re saying the body was moved?’
‘If the autopsy’s right and he’d been dead two to three days, yes, I’m saying the body was moved.’