by Ian Rankin
Milligan nodded distractedly. ‘Where’s that map?’ he called out to the room at large.
‘Donald’s off to buy one,’ a voice replied. Laidlaw moved so that he was back in Milligan’s eyeline.
‘Can I help you?’ Milligan enquired.
‘Is the kid giving a statement?’
Milligan nodded again, then moved past Laidlaw in search of fresh prey.
Lilley was standing by his desk, holding up the revised list of addresses. Laidlaw replied with an approximation of a frown and walked out of the office, heading for the station’s two interview rooms. The boy was in one of them, seated next to a woman who could have been a relative or some sort of social worker. The detective across the table stopped writing on his pad at Laidlaw’s arrival.
‘Tell me what you’ve told everyone else,’ Laidlaw said to the boy. He was ten or eleven, clear-eyed but scruffy. He’d probably already given up on school, preferring to take his lessons from the street.
‘Found it in the bushes. I was just playing with it. I didn’t mean anything.’ His tone strived for a studied indifference his twitching limbs could not match.
‘And you didn’t see anyone toss it?’ Laidlaw watched the boy shake his head. ‘Was it well hidden or easy to spot?’
‘It was just lying there on the dirt, between the grass and the bushes.’
‘As long as it’s the only thing that was lying, you’ll be fine.’
He made his exit and stood in the corridor, arms folded. Several days now since the murder. If the knife used had been lying in plain view all that time, somebody would have found it prior to the kid. It had either been dislodged from a deeper hiding place or else it had been ditched more recently. If the latter, why? Had something spooked the killer? A sense of the net closing in? Had their conscience maybe played a role, the knife a continually gnawing reminder that they had committed an atrocity? In which case, Laidlaw and his colleagues were dealing not with a cold-blooded assassin but someone working at a deeper emotional level. Then again, why not ensure the knife was never found? The Clyde would have been a safer bet, or a rubbish bin somewhere. Yet bushes had been chosen rather than even the shallowest grave. That spoke of panic. And a panicked killer was easier to identify than one who remained cool-headed.
He heard a sneeze coming from behind a nearby door. Not the interview room the boy was in but the one next to it. He knocked and entered. A man in his mid twenties sat there alone. He was smoking his third or fourth cigarette and had scrunched up an empty plastic cup. He had lank hair and wore a black leather jacket beneath a faded denim waistcoat. Boots with steel toecaps and flared denims with the bottom three inches turned up.
‘Who are you?’ he asked Laidlaw.
‘DC Laidlaw. Everything all right here?’
‘That bastard Milligan’s forgotten about me. Five more minutes and I’m walking.’
‘You must be Malky Chisholm.’ When the man made no denial, Laidlaw drew out the chair across from him and sat down, lighting a cigarette for himself. ‘How’s business?’
‘What business?’
‘The gang business. Given any football hooligans a kicking lately? Scared any shopkeepers? How about graffiti – bit of spray-painting on the back wall of the Parlour?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about the forthcoming war and wondering which side you’ll be taking.’
‘Who says a war’s coming?’
‘It is, though. One of Colvin’s crew – and not just any old lackey, but a key player – executed and left on display on John Rhodes’s turf. It’s eye-for-an-eye stuff.’
‘So pull in John Rhodes.’
‘We need to know who put your team’s name on that wall. If it was one of you, and it dates back to before Bobby Carter drew his last agonised breath, we can let it rest. On the other hand, if you can swear that none of your lot put it there, that means maybe someone’s looking to maximise the potential mischief by adding you to the lengthening list of suspects.’
‘Any chance of getting that in English?’
Laidlaw gave a sigh that was only ninety per cent theatre. ‘That graffiti’s got DI Milligan thinking you might be involved. Could be that’s exactly what the killer wants. If Cam Colvin starts seeing it that way, too, he’ll come after you. Only course of action open to you then will be to go running to John Rhodes for protection.’
Chisholm considered this for the best part of a minute while he finished his cigarette.
‘It was probably one of my lot,’ he admitted. ‘I only heard about it after. Bit cheeky to plant it there, being Toi territory, but that was the whole point.’
‘Like staking your flag in the enemy camp?’ Laidlaw nodded his understanding. ‘And how long ago was this?’
‘Weeks. Maybe months, even. So can I go now? I’ve wasted half the day already.’
‘Answer me this first – who do you think killed Bobby Carter?’
‘Someone sending a message to his boss.’ Chisholm shrugged at the obviousness of the answer.
‘Who, though?’
‘Got to be John Rhodes, hasn’t it?’ Chisholm was getting to his feet.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘You said we were done.’
‘Maybe you and me, but you’re here until Milligan says otherwise.’
‘How long’s that going to take?’
‘The longer the better, as far as the law-abiding folk of your patch are concerned.’
Chisholm slumped back onto his chair. ‘Ever hear the saying, all coppers are bastards?’
Laidlaw paused with the door ajar. ‘At least I’m a bastard with a glimmer of self-awareness.’ He flicked the remains of his cigarette towards the table and made his exit.
15
Springburn Park was a sea of uniforms, their slow, linear progress watched by about half the local populace. Most of the doors knocked on, there’d been nobody home. They were either at work or the shops, or else they were gathered by the park railings to witness the spectacle.
‘Here’s hoping Cam Colvin appreciates the lengths we’re going to,’ Laidlaw said to Bob Lilley.
‘You don’t sound hopeful.’
‘That’s because I’m not. Even if it turns out to be the knife, what is all this telling us?’
‘It’s by the book, Jack.’
‘Aye, but the book’s in a foreign language and missing some pages. Do you think the killer lives locally?’
‘It’s not all church ministers and spinster librarians around here.’
‘You’re probably right, and if the killer hung on to the knife that means they’ll have bloodstains on their clothes.’ Laidlaw gestured towards the crowd of onlookers. ‘Maybe you should walk up and down the line looking for telltale signs.’
‘Except the clothes will have been tossed by now. Same goes for any bag they might have kept the knife in.’
‘They didn’t leave the knife with the body – that’s something to think about. And this place is too public to be the scene of the crime. So now we have three distinct geographical locations to keep us busy – this park, the lane behind the Parlour, and wherever the stabbing actually took place. It’s a few miles from here to the Calton. My guess would be that the third point of the triangle isn’t too near either of those.’
‘They’re covering their tracks, in other words?’ ‘Either that or they’re monumentally stupid. Speaking of which . . .’ Laidlaw was watching over Lilley’s shoulder as Milligan came bounding towards them in a cream-coloured terylene raincoat, its belt flapping. His face was more flushed even than usual.
‘One of the houses we tried, the wife was home but not the husband. Her name’s Mary Thomson and she wasn’t exactly cooperative. Officer asked at a neighbour’s, and guess who she’s married to – only Spanner Thomson.’
‘Isn’t he one of Colvin’s men?’ Lilley checked.
‘Bingo,’ Milligan said.
‘We’ve some
news of our own,’ Laidlaw broke in. ‘Carter was seeing a young lassie called Jennifer Love. She’s the daughter of Archie Love.’
Milligan’s face creased in concentration. ‘The footballer?’
‘Though as far as we know, her father had no idea they were an item,’ Lilley added.
Laidlaw could see Milligan struggling to accept this new strand. He already had a pattern in mind and didn’t want it spoiled. He flapped a hand in front of him. ‘That’s for later,’ he decided. ‘For now, I want Spanner Thomson brought in.’
‘Interview rooms are already taken,’ Laidlaw reminded him.
‘The lad’s gone home.’
‘And Malky Chisholm?’
‘Can stew until I’m good and ready. Are you two okay to pick up Thomson?’
‘Is he likely to have his trademark about his person?’ Lilley enquired.
‘I’m pretty sure that’s why we’re being given the job,’ Laidlaw answered.
‘Just be careful, Bob,’ Milligan said. ‘DC Laidlaw’s usual ploy of talking the suspect into submission might not work where a pipe wrench is involved. I’ll see you back at the station. Either that or your hospital bed. Don’t expect grapes.’ He moved off again, readying to inspect his troops.
‘Except maybe sour ones,’ Laidlaw muttered.
‘I suppose we could try asking the wife where we might find him,’ Lilley said without enthusiasm.
‘Or we could just barge into any number of Cam Colvin’s establishments while making a nuisance of ourselves. You got any idea what he looks like?’
‘Not much hair, squat and chunky, high-pitched voice.’
‘I think I know him. He had a handful of the landlord’s shirt front when I dropped into the Parlour. If I’d arrived a minute or two later, the pipe wrench might have been getting some air.’
Lilley puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘It’s actually a spanner, hence the nickname. I’m not sure DI Milligan knows there’s a difference. Where should we start, do you think?’
‘This time of day, maybe the cab office.’
‘The cab office it is,’ Bob Lilley agreed.
16
No one at the cab office, however, had ever heard of anyone called Spanner Thomson or Cam Colvin, cross their heart and hope to die, so Laidlaw and Lilley jumped back in the car and tried two separate bookies’ shops, where again ignorance was akin to bliss. As they left the second, however, instinct told Laidlaw that maybe they should sit in the car for a minute. Sure enough, a youth soon left the betting shop and crossed the road, disappearing inside a drinking club. The detectives followed him and found Cam Colvin and his men in the main room, parked around a circular table, their card game having just been interrupted by the messenger. The air was thick with smoke. Open bottles of spirits were dotted around the table, along with piles of coins and notes.
‘I’m guessing the house always wins,’ Laidlaw said, hands in pockets, feet spread as he faced Cam Colvin.
‘Do I know you?’
‘Your sidekicks do. I’m DC Laidlaw.’
‘I’ve heard the name, but that’s about all.’
‘Nice to see you again, lads.’ Laidlaw turned back towards Colvin, who was doing his best not to let his puzzlement show. ‘They didn’t tell you that I chased them out of the Parlour?’
‘You’re lucky you were still standing when we walked out of there,’ one of the men snarled. Laidlaw kept his attention on Colvin.
‘See,’ he said, ‘that right there could be construed as a threat towards an officer of the law. Sort of thing that could lead to court proceedings for all concerned. Lucky for you we’re here on other business. It concerns Mr Thomson.’ He nodded towards the man with the smallest amount of money in front of him. ‘Looks like we’ll be doing him a favour, too. One more bad hand would wipe him out.’
‘What’s going on?’ Thomson asked in his almost falsetto voice.
‘Murder weapon found in the park near your home,’ Laidlaw informed him.
‘Which murder is that, then?’ Colvin asked.
‘Your right-hand man, Bobby Carter.’
‘Nothing to do with me!’ Thomson barked. The eyes of the other gang members were on him.
‘Shouldn’t take long at the station, then,’ Lilley said affably. ‘And like DC Laidlaw says, we’ll be saving you from possible financial ruin and the wrath of your good lady wife.’
Laidlaw had noted Thomson’s hand edging towards the jacket that was draped over the back of his chair. ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ he said. ‘Your boss wouldn’t like what happens next.’
‘I’m not sure I’m liking any of this,’ Colvin said quietly. ‘But the man’s right, Spanner. Best if you go with them and answer their questions.’
Thomson threw him a pleading look, in the hope of persuading him of his innocence. In return, Colvin gave a little nod, bottom lip pushed out slightly. Thomson rose slowly to his feet and lifted his jacket from the chair.
‘Can’t have you carrying a weapon,’ Lilley advised. There was another nod from Colvin, so Thomson took the spanner from its specially sewn pocket and placed it on the table, where it gleamed against the green baize. He then scooped up what little money sat next to it.
‘If you’re minded to get rough with him,’ Colvin told the detectives, ‘you’ll be paid back tenfold, that’s a promise.’ He paused. ‘You must see what’s happening here. Kill one of my men and then try sticking another in the frame. It’s so obvious it’s almost insulting.’
‘We will find whoever did it, trust me on that,’ Laidlaw said. ‘It’d be nice to get on with that job without the Battle of the Bulge erupting all around us.’
Colvin made show of checking his surroundings. ‘I don’t see a battle – do any of you lads see one?’
There were shakes of the head.
‘That’s the thing about hostilities, though,’ Laidlaw said. ‘They creep towards you almost invisibly. You’ll sense their approach but they can still surprise you, by which time it’s too late. I’m guessing this card game is a regular thing, so it had to happen, otherwise you might look overly rattled by events and that would get back to the likes of John Rhodes and Matt Mason. Doesn’t pay to let weakness show, whether you’re playing cards or doing business.’
Colvin seemed to be trying to take the measure of Laidlaw. He even leaned back a little in his chair as if this might help. But in the end all he did was shake his head at the impossibility of the task.
‘Don’t keep him out too late,’ he said, turning back to the hand of cards in front of him. ‘Whose turn was it to bet?’
‘I’ve not done nothing,’ Thomson felt it necessary to stress as he followed Bob Lilley towards the door. ‘I tell you, I’ve not.’
‘And we believe you when you say that,’ Laidlaw assured him. ‘We accept that statement one hundred per cent.’
He couldn’t resist a final backwards glance towards the table. Colvin was picking up a card from the deck, placing it in his hand and discarding another. The spanner had become mere ornamentation. The game progressed almost as if the existence of the police inquiry had no meaning here.
As soon as the door was closed, however, Colvin tossed his cards onto the table. He was vibrating with rage.
‘If any of you knows anything, this is definitely the time to speak.’
Mickey Ballater, Dod Menzies and Panda Paterson shared looks and shrugs. Paterson cleared his throat.
‘You know what Bobby was like. We all had words with him from time to time.’
‘Just words, though,’ Menzies said, as though he were underlining a sentence in a primary-school jotter.
‘Teasing mostly,’ Ballater agreed. ‘Which isn’t to say Bobby didn’t sometimes deserve more.’
‘You mean a punch? A slap? A doing?’ Colvin’s eyes had narrowed even further than usual.
‘I just mean he sometimes got a bit up himself. He’d have a drink in him from some club or other and maybe some dolly bird in tow who he was tryi
ng to impress and he’d start winding us up, telling everyone we were his message boys and he was the grocer.’
‘We’re not going to speak ill of the dead,’ Paterson added, ‘and nobody around this table harmed a hair on his head – God’s honest truth – but the guy could be hard work, and I think that got to Spanner more than the rest of us.’
‘Oh aye?’
Paterson was looking for someone to back him up, but his friends seemed suddenly to have been deprived of the power of speech.
‘You’ve known Spanner longer than any of us,’ he explained to Colvin, ‘and that’s important to him. You’re like a brother or something. Then Bobby arrives and things start to change. You’re not confiding in Spanner the way you used to. Now it’s late-night drinks with just you and Bobby.’
‘Bobby understood the business in a way Spanner never could.’ Colvin was beginning to look slightly uncomfortable. ‘That’s what it comes down to and that’s all those drinks were ever about.’
Paterson nodded his agreement. ‘I’m just saying, Spanner would go to the scaffold for you.’
‘Lucky we’ve done away with hanging then, eh?’ Because Colvin was attempting to lighten the mood, there were wary chuckles at this. ‘I take your point, though, and it begs a question – did anyone give Spanner cause to feel that Bobby might need more than a talking-to? Maybe that he was dipping his hand in the till or playing a bit naughty?’ Colvin watched each man shake his head. Only Panda Paterson dared to make eye contact as he did so. ‘Because I did hear a rumour,’ Colvin continued, his words slowing almost to a crawl, ‘that Matt Mason was saying he had someone inside my shop whispering sweet nothings in his ear. I know what Mason’s like so I dismissed it as his usual bullshit, but now I’m starting to wonder.’
‘You’re sure it was Mason?’ Dod Menzies piped up.
‘Why?’ The question came like a bullet.
‘It’s just I’d have thought that’s the sort of sleekit tactic John Rhodes would use – get us all watching each other, not sure who to trust.’
‘You’re maybe right, so let me turn things on their head. Say Bobby not only heard those rumours but went and did a bit of investigating.’