Laidlaw

21

Lennie said, ‘The heid bummer wis called Laidlaw. An’ the ither wan wis some Harkness.’

Matt Mason sat very still at his desk. Only his right hand moved, exactly aligning the edges of the three desk diaries that contained no entries, re-positioning the pen-set that was never used. He hardly needed diaries when he had a memory like a telephone directory. He hadn’t much use for pens when he could write a cheque with his mouth or serve notice with a nod. But they were furniture he liked, like the filing-cabinet nobody else had ever seen inside, the drinks-cupboard in the corner and the racing-prints on the walls.

Lennie looked out of the window. Because the office was a basement, all he could see of West Regent Street was a parade of legs. He passed the time by picking out the ones he wouldn’t mind being between. Through the wall in the main office the tannoy was whispering its commentary on the two o’clock at Newmarket.

‘That’s some Laidlaw as well,’ Mason said. ‘You can take it from me. I don’t specially want to mess about with him. He’s bother. How big did Harry handle him?’

‘Very quiet. Ah think maybe Harry wis feart. But no’ me.’

Lennie was laughing. Mason wasn’t.

‘Very clever,’ Mason said. ‘What did you say?’

Lennie shrugged. He sensed the ambiguity of Mason’s attitude but he couldn’t resist the bravado.

‘No skin off my arse if some scrubber’s coughed it. Ah let ’im know that.’

‘Clown!’ Mason gave him the word as if it came out of a blow-pipe.

‘Whit’s wrang, boss?’

‘You’ve got no brains, son, that’s what. If you met Goliath, you’d put the head on his kneecap. What do you want to cause trouble for? People don’t like trouble. Be nice to people. Then when you’re not nice, it means that wee bit more.’

‘Be nice tae the fuzz? Are you gettin’ saft, boss?’

Lennie’s laughter ran against a silence. He tried again, ‘Eh-heh,’ like someone knocking at the door of an empty room.

‘You want to find out?’ Mason’s voice was so gentle it wouldn’t have broken a cobweb.

‘Whit’s the gemme? Ah wis only-’

Mason held up his right forefinger.

‘I could beat you with that.’

‘But. Listen-’

The finger moved down to point at Lennie.

‘No. You listen. Wee. Silly. Boy. Any more cheek out of you, and I’ll stop your comic money. You better get brains, son. Even if you’ve got to steal them. I don’t pay you to be stupid.’

Lennie said nothing, stayed perfectly still, knew himself hanging over the sheer drop of Mason’s anger. Mason sat over his desk, staring at it.

‘Surrounded with balloons,’ he said, fogging the glass top. ‘What am I?’

Lennie said nothing. He knew the way Mason sometimes used people like a mirror in which to examine himself. Mirrors shouldn’t talk back.

‘I’m a legitimate bookmaker. I’ve got my shops. I run the business. All right. But you know and I know that I’ve got other interests. And if we know, do you think the C.I.D. have no idea? I’ve got fingers in a lot of pies. If I get just one of them cut off, I lose the lot. Because the blood’ll bring them to me. And that could be nasty. I’ve had to arrange some accident-insurance along the way. Some people live awful careless. Never underestimate the polis, son. They’re not daft. They’re waiting for me. I’d like to keep them waiting.’

Lennie stayed silent.

‘I don’t want them encouraged, I want them turned away politely. I live in a big fancy house, son. But it’s made of exploding bricks. Set one of them off and the whole thing’ll come down on my head. Delicacy. That’s what you need. That’s why I don’t go in for heavy breathing. That’s why the carry-on about this lassie is such a mess. It could blow up.’

Mason took out a cigarette, threw one to Lennie. Leaning over for a light, Lennie supposed he had permission to speak. But he had no idea what to say because he couldn’t begin to see what the problem was. To him Mason was worrying without cause.

‘But whit’s that lassie got to do wi’ us?’ he asked. ‘Ah don’t get it, boss.’

Mason smoked, looking at him.

‘How long have you been with Rayburn, now? Months. Right? And what are you there for?’

‘Tae keep an’ eye on him. Without him knowin’.’

‘Wee test, son,’ Mason said. ‘Just to see if you’re keeping up with your work. This morning. Has Harry Rayburn done anything unusual?’

Lennie wondered.

‘He seems kinna nervous.’

Mason was waiting. Lennie knew he had to think of something.

‘There wis a wee thing. Nothin’ much. He asked me to go out an’ get some grub for ’im. An’ then he changed ’is mind. Said no’ tae bother. He’s never asked me tae do anything like that before.’

Mason nodded.

‘The food,’ Mason said, ‘was for the fella that killed that lassie from Drumchapel.’

Mason watched Lennie’s eyes, seeing the implications jostle impossibly in Lennie’s mind like a football crowd all trying to get through the Boys’ Gate at one time. He sat and let it happen.

‘But. Ye mean?’

Mason nodded again and thought he’d better relieve the congestion.

‘It was Harry’s boyfriend that killed her.’

‘That means?’

‘That means he’s dangerous to me. So I want to know where he is. Rayburn’s bound to go and see him again today. He won’t be able to keep away. You follow him and tell me where the boy is.’

Suddenly realising he was a participant in a drama he hadn’t known existed, Lennie struggled for a stance that would match events, wanted to rush the centre of the stage.

‘Ah could duff Harry up a bit,’ he said. ‘Get it out him that way.’

‘Grow up, son.’ Mason was very angry. ‘That’s all you ever want to do. Lay into people with your wee jumping-jacks. Listen. Very carefully. The last thing you do is upset Big Harry Rayburn in any way. Because if you do, you’ve had it. If he even suspects you’re interested, you better catch the next train to the moon. You’ve got today and that’s all. You have to tell me the night where that boy is. See that you do.’

Lennie was still paralysed by the implications of it all.

‘When ye find ’im,’ he said. ‘Are ye goin’ to. .?’

His eyes were wide in enthralled anticipation of violence. It was what he had instead of an orgasm, Mason thought.

‘Lennie!’ Mason held up both hands. ‘Don’t think beyond what you have to do today. I don’t want your head seizing up with two ideas. Just do what I’ve told you. And do it well. On your way out, tell Eddie to come in and see me.’

The betting-shop was busy. That was one reason why Lennie had difficulty locating Eddie in it. The other was Eddie. He was a natural member of any crowd, an identikit of middle age. He was one of those experience doesn’t sharpen into facial idiosyncrasy, just erodes into anonymity. Lennie didn’t find him. He found Lennie.

‘Punters is mugs,’ Eddie said at Lennie’s ear. ‘Aren’t they?’

‘The man wants you,’ Lennie said.

Eddie turned and went. Lennie worked his way through the people in the shop and came up into West Regent Street very carefully, as if invisible cameras were tracking him. In the private office Eddie waited patiently while Mason sat staring at the glass-top of his desk. The room was chilly with silence. Eddie was glad Mason wasn’t thinking about him.

‘Eddie. A bad situation. It was Harry Rayburn’s boyfriend that murdered the girl from Drumchapel.’

‘That’s oor pigeon?’

‘No. But it could lead them to our loft.’

‘Harry Rayburn’s no’ directly connected wi’ us.’

‘But he has been. All right, he was pensioned off. But he didn’t hand his memory in at the pay-desk.’

‘You think Big Harry wid shop you? Where wid he find the guts? His hert widny fill a contact lens.’

Mason didn’t mind Eddie’s questions. They were the measurements a good workman makes before he tackles a job. Eddie was a tradesman Mason respected, a competent fixer of things whose curiosity went no further than the necessary dimensions within which he would work. He brought no more tension to the job than a plumber would. He was a contented man, who did his work and took his wages, drank a bit and liked the television.

‘I don’t know. But his boyfriend might.’

‘He knows about you?’

‘I’m not sure. But there’s pillow-talk. Who knows what the big man didn’t say when that bastard was half-roads up his arse? His head could’ve unravelled like a ball of wool.’

‘It’s chancy,’ Eddie said.’

‘And I’m no punter. I’m a bookie. I want him taken out.’

Eddie raised his eyebrows and lowered them. The point was taken.

‘Lennie’s away to find out where the boy’s hiding. I want somebody who can take advantage of the information.’

Eddie was thinking.

‘The way I see it,’ Mason said, ‘it’s hard to care about what’s dead. Harry shouldn’t give us any trouble once the boy’s away. He’ll remember to be terrified again. Everybody does sometime. The only thing we need to guarantee is that nobody can ever connect the thing with us. Not the C.I.D., not Harry Rayburn.’

Eddie waited for the clincher.

‘I want you to come up with somebody that’ll kill a man without asking questions. And without knowing too many answers. He’s never to have been connected with us in any way before. And it’s better still if he’s never done this kind of thing before. And he works on his own.’

For the first time something other than bland acceptance flickered on Eddie’s face.

‘Apply care of God,’ he said.

‘The money’ll be good. But don’t talk prices till you’ve seen me.’

‘It’s a big order.’

‘It’s a big problem,’ Mason said. ‘Let me know what you think. You can draw up a list of possibles.’

‘Have ye got a bit o’ confetti?’ Eddie asked.

Mason smiled. He liked Eddie.