by Ian Rankin
‘What else did you tell her?’
‘That he was trouble.’
‘Trouble how?’
‘He worked for Cam Colvin, didn’t he?’
‘And you work for John Rhodes. Two cheeks of the same arse, no?’
McAllister’s face reddened with anger. Laidlaw watched and waited, but he could tell McAllister was not a violent man, unlike most of the drinkers the other side of the Gay Laddie’s door. He was a drone, and Laidlaw was not in the market for drones.
‘Nice talking to you,’ he said, crossing the road and heading to the nearest bus stop.
Laidlaw waited until it had just gone six before heading to Central Division, arriving at the crime squad office to find it deserted, only the warm fug indicating that bodies had inhabited its space until recently. Browsing the murder wall, he saw that an identikit photo had been added next to pictures of Springburn Park. A note indicated that that the identikit matched a description of a man seen in the park just prior to the knife being found. Laidlaw couldn’t help but give a humourless chuckle. In his experience – and here was further proof – such photos looked like everyone and no one. You could turn most of them upside down and they’d make as much sense. Instead, he focused for a moment on the photo of Monica Carter, remembering again the pathologist’s words about Cam Colvin, and Colvin himself placing a hand on her elbow as she spoke to the reporters. Looking around, he saw a copy of that evening’s paper dumped in a waste-paper bin and lifted it out. There she was on the front page, Colvin right next to her, their hips almost touching.
Crossing to his desk, he started sifting the piles of paperwork. He read the notes made by Milligan on first visiting the family home. The place was in the midst of renovation and redecoration and consequently fairly chaotic, but Milligan felt obliged to state that ‘normally it would be a welcoming and very pleasant environment’, as if he were an estate agent pitching to sell the place. The three Carter children had been present in the living room along with their mother. Mrs Carter was praised for her ‘surface calmness’. The daughter, Stella, had offered the visitors tea. In ‘difficult circumstances’ the family were ‘doing their level best’ and their cooperation was ‘total and appreciated’.
‘Christ, Milligan,’ Laidlaw muttered to himself, ‘you’re not writing Mills and Boon.’ He tossed the report to one side and started looking for information on Cam Colvin and his men. There was a whole folder’s worth, detailing the usual litany of maimed and feral childhoods, broken homes and early transgressions that would come to be leveraged into criminal careers, any alternatives seemingly unobtainable. Spanner Thomson’s father had been absent throughout his childhood and his mother had been too fond of the bottle and one-night stands. Truancy, shop-lifting and borstal eventually became the youngster’s CV, followed by gang affiliation and a position of trust in his friend Cam Colvin’s outfit. Colvin himself was slightly different. He was following in the family business, both his father and paternal grandfather having spent more of their adulthood inside prisons than outside of them. Then there was the incident involving the blade embedded between his shoulder blades, which had proved no mean calling card.
The autobiographies of Panda Paterson, Dod Menzies and Mickey Ballater were not dissimilar, except insofar as Ballater had achieved decent grades at school and stuck it out, leaving for a job in manufacturing until lured by the easier money presented by gangland life. He’d been questioned by police many times but never formally charged, putting him on a par with Cam Colvin himself, the other members of the gang having served a variety of short sentences during their careers. An occupational hazard, they would doubtless call it.
It was only when a cleaner arrived to empty the bins that Laidlaw looked up from his reading. Checking his watch, he saw that a couple of hours had passed. He stretched his spine and rolled his shoulders.
‘Kept behind as a punishment?’ the cleaner asked as she pushed a sweeping brush across the floor.
‘Headmaster’s a sod,’ Laidlaw informed her.
‘Picking on you, eh? And you as pure as the driven snow.’
‘That’s me all right.’
He got up from his desk, deciding he’d had enough bleakness for one day. He hoped it was still raining outside. He felt the need of a cleansing shower.
‘That you done, son? If you don’t mind me saying, you look dead beat. Are you sure he’s worth it?’
‘Everybody counts,’ Laidlaw said, heading for the door.
18
When he got to the Burleigh, Jan handed him a message. It was from Bob Lilley and included Lilley’s home number.
‘There’s a phone down the hall,’ Jan said. Laidlaw dug into his pocket, bringing out a meagre selection of coins, and she relented. ‘Okay, use the one in the office – just don’t go telling the management.’
With a smile of thanks he followed her past the desk and into the cramped room behind. She brushed past him as she left. He settled into her chair and dialled the number. A woman answered, presumably Margaret.
‘Is Bob around? It’s Jack Laidlaw.’
‘Oh, Jack. I was just talking about you. I spoke to Ena this afternoon. Nice of you to invite us for a bite.’
Laidlaw’s brow furrowed. ‘We don’t often entertain,’ he eventually commented.
‘Anyway, here’s Bob.’
Laidlaw listened as the handset was swapped over. A television or radio was on in the background. He envisaged a comfortable living room. His-and-hers-chairs. Maybe a coffee table between them with the evening paper folded on it and coasters for the mugs.
‘Hiya,’ Bob Lilley said.
‘A bite to eat, Bob?’
‘Hang on a sec. Margaret, any chance of a tea?’ There were muffled sounds for a few moments. ‘That’s her gone to the kitchen,’ Lilley explained. ‘Ena phoned Margaret. Got our number from the directory. They cooked this up between them, nothing to do with me.’
‘When is this delightful dinner party supposed to happen?’
‘Tomorrow. Seven sharp.’
Laidlaw expelled some air. There was a large canvas shoulder bag on the floor next to him, presumably Jan’s. He began exploring the contents while the conversation continued. Make-up, keys, purse, an Agatha Christie paperback, a Mars bar and a packet of cheese and onion crisps, plus a scarf and fold-up umbrella. Her raincoat was on a peg behind the door.
‘What’s it in aid of, Bob?’ he asked as he rummaged.
‘I just think they got on well when they nattered. Now you and me are working together, they reckon this is the next obvious step.’
‘I’m not a great one for socialising.’
‘Pubs being the exception.’
‘That’s work, though, mostly.’
‘You want me to try to postpone it? We can always say the case is keeping us too busy.’
‘Ena would see through that. Best to just let her have her way. So what’s so urgent it couldn’t wait till morning?’
‘The dinner party’s really the reason. Thought you’d want as much notice as possible.’
‘Any news from St Andrews Street?’
‘You’d know if you dropped in occasionally.’
‘I was just there, for your information, pulling an extra shift.’
‘You disappeared sharpish after we’d delivered Spanner Thomson, though.’
‘I had stuff to do.’
‘Feel like sharing the fruits?’
‘Not quite yet. I don’t suppose our resident genius Ernie Milligan managed to conjure a confession from Thomson?’
‘We had to release him. He got a lawyer sharpish and that was that.’
‘And the knife?’
‘Only dabs belong to the kid who found it. Blood type matches the victim, but that’s as far as the lab are willing to go.’
‘The killer wiped his prints,’ Laidlaw stated.
‘Or wore gloves. Either way, we’re still treating it as the murder weapon, which means more door-to-door on the welcoming st
reets of Balornock.’
‘What about Malky Chisholm?’
‘Milligan decided he’d had enough fun with him and let him go.’
‘One step forward, two steps back. We’re in danger of drowning in details.’
‘Like we did with Bible John? Nights I spent at the Barrowland hoping he’d show his face . . .’ Only three years had passed since the killer known as Bible John had taken his last known victim. He’d met all three at the Barrowland Ballroom, which was why undercover officers had swamped the place, to no avail.
‘I bet you’re a good dancer, though,’ Laidlaw commented.
‘Problem was, so was the WPC I was partnered with. Caused a bit of friction with Margaret.’
Laidlaw had turned his attention from Jan’s bag to the items covering every inch of the desk. Paperwork, stapler, paper clips turned into a daisy chain, plus a Blackpool mug filled with pens and pencils, and a framed photo of two young kids. He picked the photo up and studied it. Taken on a summer beach, maybe even Blackpool itself.
‘Will I see you for the briefing tomorrow?’ Lilley was asking.
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Does Margaret know about the Burleigh?’
‘I’ve not told her.’
‘Ena probably will, if she hasn’t already. I’m sorry you’re being dragged into this.’
‘Into what?’ ‘Becoming pieces on the chessboard of my marriage.’
‘Can we bring anything?’
‘Just yourselves, and maybe a couple of flak jackets.’
Laidlaw ended the call and folded the note into his wallet. Could be he’d find Lilley’s number useful in future. Jan had to squeeze herself against the reception desk so he could get past her.
‘Nice picture,’ he said, gesturing towards the office.
‘My niece and nephew.’
‘No kids of your own, then?’
‘No encumbrances of any kind, Jack.’
‘Lucky you,’ he said as she handed him the key to his room.
‘So, you know, if you ever wanted to invite me to a Lena Martell show . . .’
‘Certainly beats the Black and White Minstrels.’
‘I’ve left you in the suite for another night. Is that all right with you?’
‘It’s a bit spacious for one person.’
‘Maybe you’ll have to do something about that.’
‘Maybe I will,’ Laidlaw said with a faltering smile.
Two of them in the stolen car, the sleeping city unaware of their progress through its deserted streets. They kept their eyes on the road ahead, occasional glances to left and right as they passed a junction. You never knew. None of the police boxes showed a light on inside. There were hotel kitchens where the night beat often took refuge, keeping warm with refills from the kettle. Bakeries, too, where rolls fresh from the oven could be chewed. Why bother pounding the pavements when all the drunks had long gone home?
The bottles clinked, one against the other, nestling on the floor between the passenger’s feet. His jaw was tight, his gloved fists tensed.
‘This is us,’ his companion said, the first words to be spoken in a good five or ten minutes.
‘Aye.’
‘I’ll drive past, just to make sure.’
‘I know you will.’
No lights in any of the nearby windows; no signs of life anywhere. So the driver executed a three-point turn and made the approach again, this time pulling to a stop kerb-side.
‘Right then,’ he said unnecessarily, since the passenger was already pushing open the door, reaching down to pick up both bottles. Then he was gone. The driver rolled down his window, realising he should have thought of that before. The smell of petrol was going to linger. Not that it mattered. The car’s next destination would also be its final stop.
Scrapyard. Compactor. Gone.
The sky was turning orange as the two men drove away.
DAY FOUR
19
The message next morning said to forget the briefing and rendezvous at the Gay Laddie. As Laidlaw approached on foot, he could smell charred wood and blistered paint. Bob Lilley was eating a buttered roll. He held out a paper bag.
‘Got you one,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’ Laidlaw took a bite and started chewing as he surveyed the damage. There wasn’t too much of it. The Gay Laddie was built like an atomic bunker. Its small windows were blackened, as was the area around the door.
‘Thing about that door,’ Lilley mused, ‘looks like wood but it’s actually steel. Not the sort of thing you can buy off the peg.’
‘And not cheap, either,’ Laidlaw agreed. ‘But worth it to somebody.’
‘That somebody being John Rhodes, I’d presume.’
‘Has he been for a look-see?’
‘Not that I’ve heard.’
Laidlaw approached the door. Shards of glass lay at his feet. The neck of the bottle was almost intact, strands of rag sticking to it.
‘Taking a leaf out of Ulster’s book,’ Lilley commented. ‘Two of Rhodes’s men got hit, too. One answered a knock at his door, only to be met by a sledgehammer. The other was jumped walking home from a party.’
‘Makes sense. Colvin’s a man down with another under suspicion. Means he looks weak to the opposition, like a wounded animal. He’s lashing out to try to slow them from coming for him.’
‘You reckon?’
Laidlaw took another bite of roll, wiping the dusting of flour from around his mouth. ‘Need tea or something to wash this down.’ There was a café across the street at the corner, so he headed there, Lilley a few steps behind. The tea was poured from an oversized, much-dented pewter pot, milk already added. A sugar bowl sat on the counter along with a used spoon. The place smelled of bacon fat, its cramped booths filled with people licking their wounds as they recovered from the night before. Laidlaw and Lilley stood at the counter as they drank.
‘Not so much a city as a hangover,’ Laidlaw commented quietly. ‘One nobody can remember ordering. The fun beforehand, that’s fine and dandy, but the consequences are always a shock to the system, and Glasgow’s all consequences, every day of the week.’
‘It’s a bit early for me, but don’t let that stop you nipping my head. Margaret says, can we bring flowers for Ena – would she like that?’
‘Don’t ask me.’
‘Or chocolates maybe?’
‘Bring a bottle of wine, any colour, any price. We’ve probably got a corkscrew.’ Laidlaw had disposed of the last remnants of roll and was brushing his fingers clean. ‘This tea’s putting hairs on my tongue,’ he complained. ‘Is doorstepping around Springburn Park really all the day has to offer?’
‘Milligan’s already got people talking to Rhodes’s walking wounded.’
‘It’s Rhodes himself he should be having a word with. The man’s duty-bound to retaliate, otherwise he’s the one who looks weak – weak or else guilty.’
‘You’re pretty sure he wasn’t behind Carter’s death, though?’
‘Doesn’t mean he’ll deny it to anyone who asks.’
‘Because some will see it as a gallus move?’ Lilley nodded his agreement with Laidlaw’s assessment. ‘He didn’t sanction it, but the fact it’s happened doesn’t exactly harm his reputation.’
‘I saw him again yesterday, by the way.’
‘Rhodes?’
‘Right there in the Gay Laddie. He gave me Chick McAllister, but McAllister didn’t have much to offer.’
‘So now can we mention McAllister to Ernie Milligan?’
‘That’s up to you, Bob.’
‘Playing down your role?’
‘To a bare minimum, if that.’ Laidlaw lit a cigarette.
‘Are you thinking of paying Rhodes another visit?’
‘Rhodes isn’t the one setting off firebombs.’
‘Cam Colvin, then?’
Laidlaw took in a lungful of smoke and offered a shrug. ‘This case is like one of those charm bracelets,’ he said as he exhaled. ‘New charms
keep being added. They all mean something individually, even if they never quite meet on the bracelet itself.’
‘Is that how you’re going to talk tonight? It’s just that Margaret is more about knitting patterns, Woman’s Realm and Sacha Distel.’
Laidlaw thought for a moment. ‘Maybe bring two bottles of wine,’ he said.
20
Spanner Thomson locked the front door after him – two mortises as well as the Yale – and, as was his habit, looked to right and left as he walked down the narrow garden path. His car, an Austin Maxi, was parked at the kerb. He unlocked it and got in. When he turned the first corner, heading towards Springburn Road, a white Jaguar XJ6 pulled into the middle of the street, blocking the route. Thomson tensed, hands tightening on the steering wheel. The Jag’s rear door had opened, a figure emerging. John Rhodes walked towards the Maxi, yanked open the passenger-side door and got in.
‘This thing’s more skip than car,’ he complained, kicking aside some of the debris in the footwell.
‘I’d have had it hoovered if I’d known.’
The Jaguar had pulled in close to the pavement again. Rhodes pointed to the cleared roadway. ‘Don’t mind a bit of company, do you, Spanner? You can drop me long before you get to wherever you’re going. Colvin still holding his war councils at the Coronach? I hear the owner’s not happy that the tab never seems to get cleared.’
‘It wasn’t me, Mr Rhodes,’ Thomson said, his voice betraying only the slightest tremor as he pressed down on the accelerator. At the main road, he signalled to turn, something he seldom did. A pedestrian might have taken him for a pupil on his first driving lesson, even if the bulky figure filling the adjacent front seat looked nothing like an instructor.
‘What wasn’t you, Spanner?’ John Rhodes asked.
‘The Gay Laddie. That and your two boys.’
‘Grown men rather than boys. They should know how to defend themselves.’ Rhodes twisted his body to face Thomson. ‘But you’ve just told me that you do know about it, know it happened, I mean, and there’s been nothing in the papers or on the radio as yet.’
‘Bush telegraph, Mr Rhodes.’