The Dark Remains

by Ian Rankin

  Not that Matt Mason ever would lend that hand, or anything else come to that.

  But if Inglis was still unsure, Love might add that one small slip-up in a game was hardly going to prove a memorable blemish on a long and distinguished career. Teams would still be interested. A move into management was always a possibility.

  For now, though, he had planted the seed, just as he planted his hand in front of him for the younger man to shake, still looking bemused but starting the process of working things out.

  ‘You’ve come a long way, son,’ Love said in closing. ‘You deserve a lot more than they’re willing to give you. Take it from one who knows, a pocket filled with banknotes beats a dusty cap in a trophy cabinet any day of the week.’ He placed a hand on Inglis’s back, steering him towards the door.

  Once that was done, he turned to face the empty room once more. There were dollops of mud on the linoleum-tiled floor, blades of grass embedded in them. A cleaner would be in tomorrow to deal with it. He had found himself itching to play this evening for some reason, had actually almost sprinted onto the pitch. Fear and common sense had eventually prevailed. His power came from his past achievements. In the young men’s minds he was a success story. If he took to the field and was immediately dispossessed, or made a series of poor passes, or committed an error leading to a goal, that power would be lost irreparably. Instead, he had dug his bunched fists deeper into his track-suit pockets and bellowed instructions all the louder.

  Now he lowered himself onto one of the benches, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Inglis would either take the bait or he wouldn’t. Plenty more fish in that particular sea. Love knew he was delaying the moment when he would have to return home, where his wife and daughter waited, united against him. Chick McAllister and Bobby Carter? He had flung up his hands at the horror of it, while Jennifer sat there reduced to a sulky adolescent, arms folded and head bowed.

  ‘It’s her life,’ his wife had argued, standing guard beside the sofa their daughter sat on as if to ward off a physical assault.

  ‘I’m her dad! It should have been you that told me, not the bloody polis!’

  ‘What’s done is done, Archie. Jennifer’s learned her lesson.’

  Had she, though? He’d asked her that very question, causing her to storm out of the room, only to return a few seconds later.

  ‘I never even let him shag me!’ she had screamed, before making a second exit. He had glared at his wife.

  ‘She did sleep with McAllister, then? I dare say you knew all about that, too?’

  Could anyone blame him for wanting to stay a few extra minutes in the dressing room? He could feel the padlock in his pocket, next to his referee’s whistle and stopwatch. Once he’d locked up, there would be no alternative but to head home for another wordless evening meal, followed by a few generous whiskies and a silenced bed.

  When the door creaked open, he reckoned at first that Geoff Inglis’s brain cells had kicked in, driving him to a speedy decision. But the two men who entered were strangers to him and didn’t look in the least bit friendly.

  ‘Archie Love?’ one of them asked.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  The questioner towered over Love, staring down at him. ‘You’re Archie Love,’ he said with a humourless smile. ‘Your photo was in the paper when you played for Rangers.’

  ‘Your memory’s better than your attitude, son.’ Love started to get to his feet, but the man pushed down on one of his shoulders, hinting that he should stay seated. Love noted that the other man – stockier, one hand tucked inside his coat – was toeing open some of the empty lockers.

  ‘Nothing worth nicking here,’ Love informed him.

  ‘Got a few questions for you about your daughter,’ the first man stated. ‘The one who strips for a living.’

  ‘She dances, that’s all.’ Love bristled. ‘In a skirt short enough to get every crotch in the place bulging.’

  Love sprang to his feet, shoving aside the hand that had been holding him down. That same hand shot forward into his gut, winding him, nearly causing his knees to buckle.

  ‘You’re not being very clever,’ the man said. ‘Matt Mason doesn’t like a stupid lackey. They tend to end up retired with no pension.’

  ‘I don’t work for Matt Mason,’ Love said, wincing with the effort.

  ‘You do, though. It was the first thing people told us when we started asking about you. So if you were reckoning it a well-kept secret, you might want to think again.’

  Love saw that the other man had grown bored of checking the lockers and had taken a couple of steps closer to the bench. His hand was no longer inside his coat. Instead, it was clutching a new-looking industrial-sized spanner. Love knew what that meant, knew that a man going by the name of Spanner Thomson was muscle for Cam Colvin.

  ‘I had nothing to do with whatever happened to Bobby Carter,’ he blurted out.

  ‘Your daughter was seeing a married man, Archie. That can’t have appealed to you, surely.’

  ‘Which is why she kept it from me – her and her mum both.’

  ‘How about Chick McAllister? Do you still see him around the place?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  Love had opened his mouth to speak when the spanner caught him square on his forehead. This time he did drop to his knees, raising one arm over his skull to ward off further blows. The man who wasn’t Thomson leaned down and hooked a finger under his chin, angling his face upwards.

  ‘Does Matt Mason have designs on our boss’s territory?’

  ‘How the hell would I know?’

  ‘Because from what I hear, some people still look up to you – fuck knows why, but they do. And to impress you, they might want to tell you things.’

  ‘I don’t know the first thing about Matt Mason’s business.’

  ‘So what did you say to the police when they spoke to you?’

  Love bit down hard on his bottom lip. Someone had grassed on him – had to be one of his two assistants. They knew cops when they saw them. Probably knew about Jennifer and Carter, too. But they had kept that to themselves, teasing him behind his back, smirking and laughing.

  ‘I didn’t know anything about my daughter and Carter until he told me.’

  ‘He being . . .?’

  ‘Laidlaw, he said his name was. Big guy, smoker, lot going on behind the eyes.’

  ‘We know Laidlaw. Why was he talking to you?’

  The spanner’s cold steel had come to rest against Love’s left cheek, clamouring for his attention.

  ‘Because of Jennifer. He seemed interested in Chick McAllister, too.’

  ‘You know McAllister works for John Rhodes?’ The man watched as Archie Love gave a nod. ‘You knew that back when they were winching?’ Another nod. ‘What did Matt Mason have to say about that?’

  ‘Family was family, he said, just so long as it didn’t interfere with business.’

  ‘Well, Bobby Carter was our business partner, but he was practically family, too. So we’re taking his death a bit more personally, if you understand what I mean. If we have a wee word with your daughter, what will she tell us?’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’

  ‘What will she tell us?’ the man persisted.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. Bobby Carter liked her well enough, but a friend was all he was going to get and that wasn’t satisfactory. They split up without really falling out. Next night, she saw him out on the pull again, as if she hadn’t meant much of anything to him at all.’

  ‘Jenni told you that?’

  ‘Her mum did, eventually.’

  ‘The night she saw him, did he have anyone in his sights in particular?’

  ‘I can ask her.’

  ‘But will you ask her properly, so we don’t have to?’

  Love’s nod this time was more resolute.

  ‘What do you think, Spanner? You reckon Mr Love here knows that if we’re unhappy with the results, we’l
l be back wearing our pissed-off faces?’

  In answer, the spanner rose up, coming down hard on Love’s shoulder blade. He gasped in pain. The finger had been removed from his chin, and he dropped to all fours.

  ‘Fair warning,’ he heard the first man say.

  Blinking his eyes clear of tears, he saw the two pairs of well-shod feet moving towards the door. It slammed shut after them. He hauled himself back onto the bench, breathing hard, his whole body sparking from the encounter. There were bits of mud and grass between his fingers. Only an hour before, he’d felt in charge, issuing orders and advice, a king of sorts.

  He felt so much less than that now. And for the first time since his footballing career had ended in ignominy, Archie Love allowed himself to weep.

  30

  That evening, Spanner Thomson and Mickey Ballater hit a few pubs. To start with, Panda and Dod were with them and all four pretended they were digging up information. They even pulled a few known faces to one side and asked some questions. What was the word on Bobby Carter’s demise? Any whispers about John Rhodes or Matt Mason? Eventually, Panda and Dod peeled off, leaving Spanner and Mickey at a corner table – vacated for their benefit – in yet another nondescript howff peopled by regulars who knew better than to bother them. Spanner Thomson drank bottled beer – not trusting the stuff out of the tap, explaining to Mickey that bottles were infinitely more hygienic, especially if you didn’t then use a glass. Ballater himself was on the vodka, diluted with sweetened orange juice.

  ‘Let’s skedaddle,’ Ballater eventually said. ‘This place is boring the tits off me.’

  ‘The casino?’

  ‘I was thinking Whiskies. Eye up a few of the birds.’

  ‘Would those birds include Jenni Love?’

  ‘You know me too well, Spanner.’ A grin spread across Mickey Ballater’s face.

  It was mild enough for them to walk. A drunk staggered into them almost as soon as they were on the pavement. Thomson gave the man a shove hard enough to send him flying. A couple of other pedestrians looked ready to step in until they saw who they’d be dealing with. Thomson and Ballater felt that they fully owned these streets as they strode through them. Clusters of hardened men parted like the Red Sea, so they had no need to steer anything but a straight course. A shame, actually. Ever since he’d watched the spanner connect with Love’s forehead, Mickey Ballater had been wanting to enact some violent action of his own.

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ Spanner commented as they walked along. ‘The boss isn’t going to be happy if things keep going like this.’

  ‘We could always gift-wrap him someone like Archie Love. Bury him deep and tell Cam he confessed.’

  ‘Cam wants to hear it from the culprit’s own lips, remember.’

  Ballater grunted. He had his eye on an approaching teenager, dressed in head-to-toe denim, Rangers scarf tight around his neck. The boy was smart enough to cross the street, even at the risk of a passing taxi clipping him. The taxi sounded its horn and the teenager flicked the Vs.

  ‘I love this place,’ Ballater said.

  ‘Odds are shifting towards Matt Mason,’ Thomson went on, not about to have his train of thought derailed. ‘Start a war, then sit back and watch.’

  ‘Wasn’t it you who said Mason’s happy enough the way things are?’

  ‘That was Panda.’

  ‘I got the feeling you agreed with him.’

  ‘Maybe I’m changing my mind.’

  ‘Since your wee chat with John Rhodes?’

  Thomson fixed his companion with a look. ‘I’ve already explained about that.’

  ‘What about the boss’s theory, then – Bobby had turned detective to see if Mason had anyone from our side on his payroll?’

  Thomson shook his head. ‘That would be a nice excuse for Bobby to go and meet a few people.’

  ‘You think he was about to jump ship? Cam wouldn’t have let that happen.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  It was Ballater’s turn to look at Thomson. ‘There’s no way Cam did this. It’s too messy.’

  ‘But he could have let it be known he wouldn’t be too bothered if it transpired.’

  ‘So why not say something to us?’

  They were passing a knot of middle-aged men, caps fixed tightly to heads, collars up. There were greetings, the intoning of ‘Mickey’ and ‘Spanner’. It felt almost liturgical, these men hungry for a blessing, receiving at best a nodded acknowledgement of their existence.

  Once they were past, Thomson spoke in an undertone. ‘John Rhodes told me Bobby Carter was thinking of setting up a rival firm.’

  ‘That’s just Rhodes talking, though.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Did you mention this to Cam?’

  Thomson nodded. ‘He as good as told me to back off.’ ‘You think he already knew? Justice would have been swift if he did.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘He’s always thought you were jealous of Bobby.’ Ballater was thoughtful for as long as it took him to hawk up some spit and lob it towards the roadway. A woman in horn-rimmed glasses and headscarf gave him a look, receiving a leer in reply. ‘He’s been up to high doh since Bobby’s death,’ he told Thomson. ‘You telling me that’s for show?’

  ‘We’re all of us good at putting on a show, Mickey.’ Thomson was looking at his companion again.

  ‘I don’t get your meaning, Spanner,’ Ballater said darkly.

  ‘Bobby’s summer party. You and Monica round the side of the house by the garage.’

  Mickey Ballater stopped in his tracks. ‘You saw that?’

  ‘I saw.’ The two men were facing one another now. Thomson had a hand shoved deep in one of his coat pockets, having brought his unfinished bottle of McEwan’s with him. Only an inch left in it, if that, but Spanner Thomson was not a man to waste anything.

  Ballater forced a smile. ‘And you kept it to yourself?’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘Maybe you were out looking for her, eh? Fancied your own chances?’ Ballater gave his companion a chance to speak, but Spanner stayed quiet, so he offered a shrug. ‘It was nothing.’ He started walking again, Thomson following suit.

  ‘It looked like something.’

  ‘I admit I tried it on, but she wasn’t having it.’

  ‘Might be a different story with Bobby out of the picture.’ Ballater shook his head slowly. His face would look calm enough to any onlooker, but his voice was a meeting of fire and ice. ‘You’re out of order, Spanner. You’re the one Cam’s bothered about, not me.’

  ‘Cam knows he can trust me.’

  ‘Is that right, aye?’

  ‘Did he tell you different? When you went back to see him yesterday?’ Thomson had grabbed Ballater by the sleeve of his jacket, the two men stopping again, the air around them crackling.

  ‘It was a private chat, Spanner. Best ask Cam if you want to know.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll do that, and this time I won’t forget to mention you and Bobby Carter’s missus. The feelings he has for her, he’s going to want to know.’

  They stared at one another like boxers sizing one another up before the bell rang and hostilities commenced. A reveller across the street began belting out a rough but impassioned version of ‘My Way’. Ballater’s eyes moved towards the man then back again to Spanner Thomson. The smile he gave could almost have been described as coy.

  ‘You’re right about Cam. He’s not sure who to trust right now, and you allowing Rhodes into your car set off all his alarm bells. He wants me keeping an eye on you. I’m happy to tell him he’s got nothing to worry about.’

  ‘In which case that summer party might slip my memory.’

  ‘Say things do escalate, though – won’t be long before Rhodes’s team come for one of us. If that happens, we have to hit them back hard. Things are going to get worse before they get better.’

  ‘This is Glasgow, Mickey. Things have been getting worse since the end of the tobacco barons.’

  ‘Wh
at I’m saying is, we should make provision. If Cam falls . . . perish the thought, but if he does, we need a backup plan.’

  ‘We as in you and me, or are you including Panda and Dod in this?’

  Ballater shrugged. ‘Have you got a preference? Because right now this is just you and me talking.’ He looked to left and right. The busy city-centre street was giving them the widest of berths.

  ‘You wouldn’t sell Cam out?’ Thomson enquired.

  ‘Under no circumstances, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be forced out at some point, after which our health and general well-being might not be so secure. You’ve got John Rhodes rooting for you, Spanner, but who have I got?’

  ‘Rhodes only wants me because he thinks I lead him straight to Cam. That’s why he was waiting for me. But he wouldn’t have done that if someone hadn’t planted the knife in my neighbourhood. I’m the careful sort, Mickey, won’t even have a phone in the house. Not too many people know where I live. I doubt even John Rhodes knew until the cops came to see me.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying I don’t trust any of you – not you, not Panda, not Dod.’

  ‘You still trust your old pal Cam, though, even though he wants me reporting back everything you’re up to?’

  Spanner Thomson’s face almost collapsed. It was as if every memory from childhood onwards was crashing down on him, like a roof whose supporting beams had been hollowed out until they could no longer bear the load.

  ‘Cam’s covering all the eventualities, that’s all,’ he eventually muttered.

  ‘And that’s what I’m talking about, Spanner.’ Ballater leaned in towards him. ‘We’re all just trying to survive, aren’t we? If we can dodge a few tripwires along the way, so much the better.’

  ‘And in the meantime, you fancy yourself for that empty chair next to Cam?’

  Ballater shook his head emphatically. ‘You’re his oldest friend, Spanner. That position’s yours by rights. I can’t believe Cam’s not already installed you. Now are we going to stand here all night, because if we are, I might get somebody to fetch us a few drinks.’

  Thomson brought his bottle out and shook it. ‘Got mine right here.’ He lifted it to his lips and drained it. Ballater knew this was the moment. He could shove with the heel of his hand, sending the neck of the bottle past Thomson’s splintering teeth and deep down his throat. Instead of which, he gave a convincing-sounding laugh.