Laidlaw

15

In another room, Matt Mason was enjoying the end of a nice Sunday. He had slept away the morning and in the afternoon had taken Billy Tate out from Helensburgh on the boat for a couple of hours. Now he was listening to two of his visitors insult each other familiarly and pleasantly.

‘You know,’ Roddy Stewart said. ‘I find it hard to recognise your father in the way you talk about him. Your picture doesn’t square with the fourteen stones of vibrant apathy I used to know and hate so well.’

‘At least he was coherent,’ Alice said. ‘Your father spoke English like a native. Bantu, I’d say.’

The phone rang. As Matt Mason got up, he winked at Billy Tate.

‘End of the round, you two. You do the inter-round summaries till I get back, Billy.’

The phone was in the hall. He closed the lounge door.

‘Matt Mason here.’

‘Hullo, Matt. This is Harry.’

The name affected Mason like a spasm.

‘I’ve told you not to phone here,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

‘My God, Matt. I’m in terrible trouble. Have you got a minute?’

‘About one. I’ve got people here.’

Mason let the silence stand, the way he might stare down a wino who begged for money in the street.

‘Listen. You know that girl who was found murdered today?’

‘Not personally, no.’

‘For God’s sake, Matt, listen to me. This is serious. There was a girl found murdered today. In Kelvingrove Park. The boy who did it is a — friend of mine. I know him well.’

Mason made a face as if he was going to be sick into the mouthpiece.

‘How well? You mean, very well?’

There was a pause.

‘Very well.’

‘I think I know what that means in your case,’ Mason said.

Memories bothered him like the foul breath of a drunk man. He looked round the hall, noticed the expensive coats on the table where the housekeeper had left them. The memories threatened this place. They didn’t belong here.

‘He’s holed up in a place. I need your help. I need it very badly.’

In the lounge somebody was laughing. Mason decided to be cautious.

‘I’ll phone you tomorrow,’ he said.

‘You will, will you? Make sure you do. I’m desperate.’

‘I’ll phone you tomorrow.’ Mason blocked the line very gently with his finger and said into the dead phone, ‘Fine then. And thanks for phoning.’

He put down the phone and walked through a blizzard of implications, hoping none of them showed on his face when he opened the door.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’ Then he added in a mock English accent, ‘The pressures of big business, you know.’

There was hardly any reaction from the others. Only Roddy’s eyes contracted for a second, looking at Matt to check if the call might involve his services, before returning his attention to Alice.

‘Anyway,’ she was saying. ‘He would have been even more successful if he hadn’t caught pleurisy when he did.’

‘Come on, Alice,’ Roddy said. ‘Your father didn’t just catch pleurisy. He seized it. With both lungs. Before it got away.’

Billy laughed. Mason looked round the group. He was pressed with himself. Roddy was one of the sharpest lawyers in Scotland. Billy Tate had been one of the best inside-forwards in the history of Scottish football before he retired and bought his pub. It wasn’t a bad sign that they were the kind of people you could have dropping in on a Sunday for a drink. Their wives were no problem to have to look at, but Margaret was easily the best-looking woman in the room. She usually was. Mason looked and saw that it was good, too cosy to be spoiled by the kind of draught that had blown down the phone just now. That was one hole in his security that would have to be blocked up. He stood.

‘See when you two come,’ he said to Roddy and Alice. ‘I don’t feel like a host. I feel like a promoter. You fan them with a towel, Billy. I’ll get more drink.’

Everybody smiled.