The Dark Remains

by Ian Rankin

  Panda Paterson was shaking his head. ‘This isn’t doing us any good, boss. We all know the obvious candidates – John Rhodes and Matt Mason. But Mason’s been in hospital getting his leg seen to and he seems happy enough with the territory he owns. Rhodes is another matter entirely. He’s the one we should be putting the screws on. If he’s innocent, only way to get us off his back is to help us find whoever did do it. We make life difficult for him until he does right by us.’

  ‘You’re saying I can trust you – all of you, Spanner included?’

  ‘I’m saying you have to, or everything we’ve built falls apart.’

  ‘Trust’s a two-way street, though – how come you didn’t tell me about meeting Laidlaw at the Parlour?’

  ‘He sort of did send us packing,’ Dod Menzies said. ‘That’s why we kept our traps shut. You might say our professional pride took a dent.’

  ‘It’s your heads that’ll be taking a dent if you keep anything else back from me, understood?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Colvin had picked up his cards again without really looking at them. He tossed them onto the pile of discards. ‘Let’s start a new game then. Increase the stakes, take a few risks. Is everybody in?’

  All three men agreed that they were.

  17

  The two women walked through the Necropolis at a pace that was stately, befitting their surroundings and purpose. Eleanor Love always brought them on a slightly circuitous route so that they would pass the statue of John Knox. As he frowned his disapproval down on them, so Eleanor Love scowled back. Despite the reason for their visit, this always made Jennifer Love smile. For the past several years she had been tasked with carrying the small posy of flowers. The grave itself was neat and tidy; her mother made sure of that on her regular visits. But today was Sam’s birthday and Jennifer always accompanied her, as she did, too, when commemorating the day Sam had died.

  The name Sam had been Archie Love’s choice. My son Sam, Samson, you see? He had hoped to watch Sam become big and strong, had had the laddie kicking a ball almost before he could balance unaided on his plump and wobbly infant legs. Dead by the age of eight, two years older than Jennifer, who had taken some persuading that her big brother wouldn’t be coming back from playing in the courtyard behind his best pal’s tenement.

  They had reached the graveside now, Jennifer handing over the flowers, her mother crouching to place them in the small vase, grown opaque from weathering. No words were spoken, and afterwards, as was now traditional, the two women stood in contemplation of their surroundings. The Necropolis was where the city’s great and good finally rubbed stone shoulders with everybody else. Eleanor Love reached out and gave her daughter’s hand a brief but tight squeeze.

  ‘Why does Dad never come?’ Jennifer asked. It was far from the first time the question had passed her lips.

  Eleanor gave a slow exhalation. ‘He’s not a bad man, your dad. This here is why he’s always wanted what’s best for you.’

  ‘Sam fell off a wall, Mum. I don’t need wrapped in cotton wool because of that.’

  ‘I know. But look at the trouble you . . .’ She broke off, swallowing the rest of the sentence.

  ‘I’m not in trouble. I’ve never been in trouble. But everybody surely merits a bit of freedom.’

  ‘Your dad just wants—’

  ‘What’s best for me. So you keep saying. But does he ever wonder what I want?’ Jennifer dug a toe into the damp grass in front of her.

  ‘Your good shoes,’ her mother reminded her.

  ‘Why do we always end up talking about him anyway? I don’t mean Sam, I mean Dad. Maybe one day we’ll talk about us. Maybe we’ll talk about you.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Anything. Everything. What were you like when you were my age? What did you want from life?’

  Eleanor Love thought for a moment. ‘I was already pregnant,’ she said, her eyes on the headstone. Jennifer watched as those eyes began to fill with tears.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she said, reaching into her bag for a paper handkerchief. But as she made to dab at her mother’s face, Eleanor’s hand clasped itself around her wrist.

  ‘Swear you don’t know anything, Jenni. Here in front of Sam. Promise me you don’t know what happened to him.’

  ‘You mean Bobby?’ Jennifer shook her head, not quite meeting her mother’s eyes. She could feel her fierce stare, though, as the hankie went to work. ‘Cross my heart,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

  And it was true, mostly. She didn’t know anything, nothing that would stand up in court. But she had an inkling, maybe even more than an inkling.

  ‘Ready for that cup of tea now?’ she said. ‘The café’s keeping us the table by the window.’

  Eleanor had released her grip on her daughter’s wrist. She gave a slow nod.

  ‘Has Dad said anything about Bobby?’ Jennifer enquired, trying to sound casual. ‘Since the news broke, I mean?’

  ‘He still doesn’t know. Best if it’s kept that way, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. I mean it.’ Jennifer gave her mother a hug, Eleanor closing her eyes the better to appreciate the warmth of it. Then Eleanor Love allowed herself to be led from the Necropolis, almost as if their roles had been reversed and she was now the child.

  Laidlaw often thought of the Calton as ‘Little Rhodesia’. It had the feel of a separate state, John Rhodes having declared UDI. The Gay Laddie belied its name by being another unwelcoming slab of 1950s architecture, its windows high up and ungenerous, its walls rough-plastered, ripe for graffiti yet unsullied by it. Laidlaw knew the reason why: this was John Rhodes’s second home. To defile it would be to invite swift and definitive retribution. As he walked in, he was scrutinised by a line of drinkers at the bar who might as well have been wearing the uniforms of security guards. They saw him immediately for what he was, even though they couldn’t be sure who he was. He ignored them and waited for the barman to grace him with some attention.

  ‘I need a word with John,’ he explained, glancing in the direction of the snug.

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘We’re not in an episode of Upstairs Downstairs, Charlie, and you’d make a shite Gordon Jackson. Go tell the man I’m here, and make sure to say I need a word rather than want one.’

  The barman put down the glass he’d been drying and flipped the tea towel over his left shoulder, then headed towards the snug. Laidlaw knew he was being studied like a medical specimen as he lit a cigarette. He kept his face to the row of quarter-gill optics behind the bar. There was no television, no music, and until he vacated the room there’d be no more conversation. The tension in the bar was probably at its usual level, these being men who treated every waking moment and passing stranger as a potential threat.

  When Charlie the barman re-emerged, he reached beneath the counter and handed Laidlaw an unopened bottle of the good whisky and two glasses. ‘John doesn’t take water,’ he said, meaning none would be offered for Laidlaw.

  With the cigarette gripped between his teeth, Laidlaw walked into the snug. At one time its purpose would have been to protect women from the masculine world of the main bar. Now it held only John Rhodes and his bodyguard, the one with the face disfigured by razor scars. Rhodes tended to change bodyguards regularly, so that they didn’t become soft and lazy. This one had been around longer than most, long enough in fact that it might be worth Laidlaw’s time finding out his name. Not right now, though. After a nod in the man’s direction, he placed the bottle and glasses on the table and seated himself opposite Rhodes. He knew better than to open the bottle. That was Rhodes’s duty. An inch of amber duly appeared in Laidlaw’s glass, half as much again in Rhodes’s.

  ‘I hear you’ve picked up Spanner Thomson,’ Rhodes said without preamble.

  ‘News travels fast.’

  ‘It might make sense, I suppose – all businesses have their power struggles and fallings-out.’

  ‘Any
reason to think Thomson had a particular falling-out with Bobby Carter?’

  ‘Spanner and Colvin go back to schooldays. Carter arrived later.’

  ‘Simple jealousy, then.’

  Rhodes sipped his drink before meeting Laidlaw’s eyes for the first time. ‘Carter wanted to see me. We arranged to meet at the Parlour. In the end, I didn’t show up.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure it would end well.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Three or four weeks back.’

  Laidlaw gave a slight nod. The timing chimed with the story Conn Feeney had given him.

  ‘Any idea what he wanted?’

  ‘Two theories – one, negotiating to switch sides, sounding out what sort of offer I might make.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Carter enjoyed the life. He didn’t just set up camp in the picture house when The Godfather came out, he’d read the book a few times, too. Rumour was, he wanted his own slice of Glasgow. If I gave him a bit and Colvin gave him a bit, he’d create a kind of buffer zone between us, meaning less potential for strife.’

  ‘That would have been ambitious.’

  ‘Bobby Carter was an ambitious man. He knew he had a brain and he reckoned that made him better than most.’

  ‘Had he talked to Colvin, do you think?’

  ‘No idea. But say someone like Spanner Thomson found out. You can see how that might have escalated.’

  ‘Or else Spanner took the info to his boss, who flipped, did Carter in himself, and popped the carcass on your doorstep to blur the picture.’ Laidlaw paused for a moment, deep in thought, then roused himself. ‘And speaking of escalations, how are things between you and Colvin right now?’

  Rhodes’s look hardened. ‘There are some questions you don’t get to ask.’

  ‘And yet my job demands that I do. But I’m happy to change the subject to Chick McAllister.’

  ‘What’s Chick got to do with anything?’

  ‘I need a chat with him, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll fill you in afterwards.’

  ‘You don’t ask much, do you?’

  ‘Just as much as I need.’ Laidlaw lifted his glass and sipped.

  ‘Does Milligan really expect Spanner Thomson to break down and confess?’

  ‘He’s one of life’s eternal optimists.’

  ‘But you know better, don’t you?’

  ‘I try.’

  The two men sat in silence until Rhodes angled his head quarter of an inch in the direction of the scarred man, this being as much as was necessary.

  ‘Go rustle up Chick.’

  After the man had left, Rhodes gave Laidlaw his full attention. ‘Are you wondering how he got the scars?’

  ‘Asking too many questions?’

  This almost elicited a smile. ‘I gave him them. This was a few years before he came to work for me.’

  ‘You trust him not to want payback?’

  ‘Those were payback, meaning the books are balanced between us. Seems to me I’m the one doling out favours to you and it’s all been a one-way street so far. If war does break out, I hope you’ll remember that.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my memory.’

  ‘That’s good to hear, because with Thomson in custody Colvin is two men down and I foresee a lot of headless chickens running around.’

  ‘The sort of mayhem that could be capitalised on.’

  ‘You know yourself that these reckonings happen from time to time. It clears the air the way a thunderstorm does, and afterwards the boundaries are re-established, meaning everybody’s happy.’

  ‘The ones still able to walk, talk and feed themselves without assistance,’ Laidlaw qualified.

  The scarred man was back in the room again.

  ‘He’ll be here in five,’ he said.

  Rhodes nodded and focused on Laidlaw again. ‘But he’s not going to tell you a thing until I know what you need from him.’

  Laidlaw considered for a moment. ‘McAllister went out with a young woman called Jennifer Love. After they broke up, Carter took her under his wing.’

  ‘And you think that gives Chick a motive to do in Bobby Carter?’

  ‘Not especially, but when I give the connection to Milligan, he might. All I’m doing here is trying to rule him out to my own satisfaction so the investigation doesn’t waste any more time than it already has.’

  ‘In other words, you’ve not told your colleagues about Chick and Jennifer Love?’ Rhodes pressed his palms against the surface of the table as if readying to commence a seance. Laidlaw knew that he was storing the information away. Here was a detective who didn’t always take everything to his bosses, a detective capable of keeping secrets.

  Maybe a rare cop John Rhodes could trust without money changing hands.

  The gesture had revealed the large gold wristwatch on his left wrist. He seemed to notice the time and slowly rose to his feet.

  ‘You stay here and ask Chick your questions. I’ve got business elsewhere.’

  ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, John.’

  Laidlaw was rewarded with another thin smile. The scarred man started to help Rhodes into his camel-hair coat.

  ‘Any relation to the footballer?’ Rhodes asked, almost too casually.

  ‘Who are we talking about?’

  ‘Archie Love. It’s not the most common surname.’

  ‘He’s her father, aye,’ Laidlaw conceded, watching Rhodes closely, wondering what was happening behind eyes that hadn’t yet blinked. No more was said, however, as the two men departed the snug. Laidlaw rolled his shoulders and neck a few times to loosen the knots, Rhodes having turned him, too, into an actor for the duration, one learning his lines a split second before having to deliver them. He was getting out another cigarette when the barman appeared, placing a jug of water on the table.

  ‘Mr Rhodes thought you might take a splash,’ he explained.

  ‘Mr Rhodes is well informed, but I think I need a breather. It’s like all the air’s been sucked out of this place and replaced by testosterone.’

  ‘You’re not waiting for Chick?’

  ‘While every ear in the place listens in?’ Laidlaw shook his head and polished off the dregs in his glass. The same row of faces stood at the bar as he made his exit. He blew each of them a kiss.

  It wasn’t quite raining outside, but dusk was falling, the headlights of cars and buses picking out pedestrians shuffling home from work or shopping. Their world was not his and they wouldn’t thank him for sharing. He wondered if Glasgow would always be like this. Change had to come, surely. Jobs couldn’t keep vanishing, the gangs becoming more feral, people’s lives more fraught. But then a young mother trundled past pushing a pram, transfixed by it as if she had just invented the world’s first baby. To her, Laidlaw didn’t exist. To her, nothing mattered except the new life she was nurturing and nothing in the world was off kilter as long as that nurturing continued uninterrupted.

  ‘Hope springs eternal,’ he found himself saying out loud. He remembered his old school pal Tom Docherty. They’d spent many a night as students quoting poetry and exchanging the names of cult authors, usually in the Admiral pub, usually between games of darts or cards or dominoes. But Laidlaw had quit his course after one year and he didn’t know where Tom was. His brother Scott might know, but Laidlaw didn’t really know his whereabouts either. Like Tom, Scott had dreamed of becoming a writer some day, either that or an artist. The last news Laidlaw had had was that he was teaching in their old home town of Graithnock. An address or phone number would be simple enough to find, but something had stopped him thus far. His feeling was, Scott hadn’t made the effort so why should he? The old Scots word ‘thrawn’ came to mind. The two brothers had always locked horns, maybe too similar to one another for their own good. It hadn’t helped that Laidlaw had joined the police – switching sides, as Scott, always the first to the barricades, would have put it.

  The taxi that drew to a halt
in front of him seemed more of a private chauffeur service, no money changing hands as the passenger stepped out onto the pavement.

  ‘Perks of the job?’ Laidlaw asked conversationally, receiving a glower in response. ‘I’m the man you’re here to see,’ he explained. ‘Always supposing you’re Chick McAllister.’

  ‘We not going in?’ McAllister enquired. He was tall, early twenties, with thick waves of hair falling over his ears and neck. The amount of denim he wore reminded Laidlaw that he should buy shares in Lee Cooper.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ Laidlaw informed him. ‘In fact, you should have told your driver to wait. All I’m wanting to ask is, did you stab Bobby Carter to death a few nights back?’

  McAllister’s mouth opened a fraction in disbelief. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘You knew he was seeing your old girlfriend.’

  ‘They’d already split up, though.’

  ‘And how did you feel about that?’

  ‘Mr Rhodes said I had to talk to you, but I’m thinking maybe that’s a bad idea.’

  ‘What’s your role in the organisation, Chick? You don’t look like muscle and you’ve no visible war wounds, so I’m guessing supply side. A busy night at Whiskies must be the jackpot, eh? Is it just dope, or do you flog pills as well?’

  ‘I’m not doing this.’ McAllister turned to go.

  ‘Don’t make me have to give you a bad report when I talk to John Rhodes.’

  McAllister pivoted to face him. ‘I never touched Bobby Carter. I hardly knew the guy.’

  ‘But you’d seen him around? At Whiskies? With Jenni?’

  ‘I told her he was no good for her and for once she took my advice.’

  ‘Ever meet her dad?’

  ‘She took me home once. Her mum was there but not her dad.’

  ‘Who else knew about Jenni and Carter?’

  ‘Word has a way of getting around.’

  ‘Did Carter’s boss know?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Carter’s wife?’

  McAllister shrugged. ‘Bobby Carter spread himself a bit thin where women were concerned. That was one of the things I told Jenni.’