The Dark Remains

5

Lilley was locking the Toledo next morning when he saw Laidlaw walking towards Central Division. It was a red-brick building, occupying the corner of St Andrew’s Street and Turnbull Street. Laidlaw was eyeing the place warily, as if suspecting booby traps. He tensed upon noticing a figure crossing the street towards him, relaxing as he recognised his colleague.

‘You don’t drive?’ Lilley asked him.

‘I prefer buses. They open your eyes to the city around you. Though I sometimes take a Glasgow ambulance when funds allow or the need arises.’

Lilley knew he meant taxis. He looked Laidlaw up and down: same suit, shirt and tie as the previous day. ‘You didn’t go home last night,’ he stated.

‘Little wonder they made you a sergeant.’

‘So where did you sleep?’

‘The Burleigh. It’s the hotel Ben Finlay introduced me to. And to answer your next question, it’s just that sometimes home feels too far away.’

‘Your wife doesn’t mind?’

‘Her name’s Ena, by the way.’

‘And mine’s Margaret. We’ve two daughters, both adult enough to have left home.’

Laidlaw almost smiled. ‘It’s been preying on your mind that I didn’t ask.’ They began climbing the steps to the station together. ‘So what’s on today’s message list?’

‘We’ll soon find out. And you’re wrong about that “preying on your mind” thing.’

‘I’m not, though, am I?’ Laidlaw yanked open the door and preceded Bob Lilley inside.

Glasgow’s mortuary, adjacent to the High Court and across from the expanse of Glasgow Green, was a study in anonymity, single-storeyed unlike its grandiose neighbour and visited only by brisk professionals and the grieving bereaved. The deceased’s wife had been brought there in the wee small hours to identify the body. As Laidlaw and Lilley reached the viewing room, they realised the post-mortem examination was already over. The body was being sewn together by an assistant, who kept his nose pressed close to the flesh as he worked. Laidlaw hoped it was a case of myopia rather than ghoulish pleasure. Heading back into the corridor, they were in time to catch the pathologist. He still wore his scrubs, over which a bloodied apron stretched from mid chest to his knees. The green wellingtons on his feet reached to just past his ankles. He was drying his hands as the two detectives approached.

‘We were told ten sharp,’ Laidlaw said.

‘You were misinformed.’

‘Our boss isn’t going to like that,’ Lilley added.

‘Pleasing your boss isn’t my number-one priority, DS Lilley. Now do you want the glad tidings or not?’ Neither man answered, no answer being necessary. ‘Five stab wounds, all from the same knife. Probably an inch-wide blade. Deepest incision is four inches. It went up from under the ribcage, piercing the heart. Almost certainly the fatal blow. Where it came in the pecking order, I can’t say. No signs that he defended himself — no nicks on his hands, for example. It wasn’t a machete, a craft knife or a razor.’

‘Not a teenage gang then,’ Laidlaw stated.

‘Speculation is your game; facts are mine.’

‘How long has he been dead?’

‘Two or three days. His possessions are on their way to the lab, along with his clothes and shoes.’

‘Money in his pockets?’

‘Just shy of sixty pounds.’

‘Probably rules out a mugging, then,’ Lilley commented.

‘A good make of watch, too — Longines. The shirt and jacket were Aquascutum. I believe the family home is in Bearsden.’

‘Even people with money end up dead sometimes.’

‘Especially ones with friends like Cam Colvin.’ The pathologist seemed pleased with the effect his words had. ‘He was with the widow for the identification. Handled her with great gentleness, I must say.’

‘Did he speak to you?’ Laidlaw enquired.

‘I kept a respectful distance.’

‘Respectful as in fearful? Who was here from our side?’

‘Our mutual friend.’ This time the look was for Laidlaw only.

‘Milligan?’ he guessed.

‘DI Milligan tells me he’s been put in charge of the inquiry. That must fill you with as much confidence as it does me, DC Laidlaw.’

‘Did Milligan and Colvin talk?’

‘A few words as they were leaving.’

‘How did the wife seem?’

‘Completely devastated. It’s why we have soundproofing.’

The three men fell silent as the trolley bearing Bobby Carter’s corpse was wheeled out on its way to one of the fridge drawers. A sheet had been draped over the whole. Laidlaw had a mind to ask the attendant to stop so he could take a look at the dead man’s face, but he didn’t.

There would be photographs back at the station. Lots of photographs.

Lilley thanked the pathologist and turned to go. Laidlaw hung back, however.

‘Did Milligan know what time the autopsy was due to start?’

The pathologist gave a nod. ‘Maybe it just slipped his mind,’ he said.

‘Aye, or else he decided to have a bit of fun with me and DS Lilley.’

‘When something’s “a bit of fun”, people are generally amused.’

‘I’m laughing on the inside,’ Laidlaw said as he started to follow Bob Lilley out of the building.

6

‘So one funeral’s already in the planning and it’s put me in the mood for another. Only thing is, this one will be a bit more private — the foundations of a motorway flyover would be ideal. You get what I’m saying?’

Cam Colvin looked at each face in turn across the polished oval table. He’d summoned his men to the function suite of the Coronach Hotel. The manager, Dan Tomlinson, had seen them settled with tea, biscuits and a jug of water. After he’d left, Colvin’s look intimated to the others that, even supposing they’d just stumbled from the baking heat of a parched desert, they weren’t to touch anything. He wanted them focused on his words and his demeanour.

Colvin was not the biggest of men, yet he filled a room without effort. His face was a locked door, with a peephole through which he studied and learned. He had draped his black three-quarter-length Crombie coat over the back of his chair and run a hand through his hair to push it back into place. The cut was slightly long, as though Teddy boys had never gone out of fashion. Ever since his early teens his reputation had been growing. He’d run with a gang and fought with unusual ferocity, never backing down no matter the threat level. But he was savvy, too, and cautious in matters of business. The men gathered here were the few he genuinely trusted. To others it might have resembled a committee of gargoyles, but in Colvin’s line of work you didn’t want staff whose looks put people at ease.

‘I’m judge and jury on this one,’ he went on, ‘and sentence has already been pronounced.’ He ran a finger down the front of his dark tie, as if to ensure nothing was out of place. ‘But he’s alive when he gets to me, understood? It’s my job to do the necessary dismantling, and that process will maybe take a while.’ His eyes scanned the group again. They were still paying attention. There was an empty chair to Colvin’s right. Past that sat Panda Paterson, Mickey Ballater, Dod Menzies and Spanner Thomson. Panda’s love of food would normally have had him on his third or fourth biscuit by now, but he knew to behave himself, today of all days.

‘This is a message to us. It’s telling us something. Somebody out there thinks we’ll leave it alone? No chance. I want you to start asking around, and don’t feel you need to be subtle about it. It’s fast answers I’m after, not diplomacy. See this chair here?’ He patted it. ‘This is where Bobby should be sitting, and it needs to be filled. Hopefully by whichever one of you brings me the news first.’ He paused, letting the invitation percolate. ‘So give me some ideas — where would you start looking?’

‘Pub’s an obvious one,’ Panda Paterson said, his voice like slurry. ‘It’s on John Rhodes’s turf, though.’

‘No “though” about it,’ Colvin snapped. ‘Territory’s a thing of the past until this gets solved.’

‘What about Jenni?’ Dod Menzies offered.

‘Jenni’s difficult,’ Colvin said, shifting in his seat.

‘The wife doesn’t know?’

‘Bobby was always clever that way. I’d rather Monica didn’t find out. She’s got enough on her plate, before you factor in the kids. Besides, stabbed behind a pub — does that sound like a crime of passion to you? No, this was business.’

‘Which brings us back to John Rhodes,’ Spanner Thomson piped up. He had a reedy voice, one that sometimes caused strangers to chuckle or tease him, which they did only until the heavy spanner — his implement of choice — was drawn from his inside pocket.

Colvin pressed his hands together. ‘I’ll maybe be needing a word with John. But let’s hold off and see if he comes to us first. Other routes we should be travelling?’

‘Bobby had no shortage of enemies, boss,’ Mickey Ballater offered. ‘You know that. He was a good enough fixer but lousy at keeping his head down. Number of times I’ve had complaints from clubs and restaurants he walked out of without paying. Anybody resisted, he reminded them who he worked for.’

There were nods around the table.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever done that, Mickey? Or you, Dod? We’re all family here, right? Don’t go speaking ill of the dead.’ Colvin paused. ‘Okay, the man had a bit of history and maybe you need to dig into that. What worries me, though, is how blatant the killing was. Either someone’s putting Rhodes in the frame — someone like Matt Mason — or else Rhodes himself thinks he’s bulletproof. That’s why I see it as a message we need to decode. Not easy for people whose only paper qualifications are for truancy, but that doesn’t mean you’re not going to work flat out. I want you busting your gonads on this. Okay?’

Once the nods around the table had satisfied him, he got to his feet and produced a tray from a cupboard. It held a bottle of whisky and six glasses. He poured the measures with due ceremony and handed them round, leaving one in front of the empty chair.

‘Bobby was a valued member of our team, one who kept us a bargepole’s distance from any whiff of fraud or tax evasion. So here’s to absent friends.’ He raised his glass in a toast.

They drank in silence. Paterson swallowed and wiped his mouth on his shirt cuff.

‘Okay if I have a biscuit now, boss?’ he asked.

‘Your dentist must love you almost as much as your doctor,’ Colvin muttered, rising to his feet. ‘I’m away for a pish. Don’t let me detain youse.’

After Colvin had left, Paterson ran a tongue around his mouth. ‘At least I’ve got all my own teeth, mostly,’ he commented, reaching for the plate in the centre of the table.

‘Anyone got any ideas?’ Ballater asked the room.

Menzies gave a loud sniff. ‘Would I be speaking out of turn if I mentioned that the boss has always had a thing for Bobby’s missus?’

‘That doesn’t exactly put him in a minority,’ Thomson said, keeping his eyes focused on the table rather than anyone seated around it.

‘But now he gets to play the knight in shining armour,’ Menzies went on.

Ballater spaced his words out when he answered. ‘Are you saying you think the boss did Bobby in? I’m not convinced that would work out well for us.’

‘We need to be doing something, though,’ Paterson said, crumbs spraying from his parted lips.

‘The Parlour’s the obvious starting point,’ Ballater concluded after a moment’s thought. ‘Pity we don’t have any current friends inside the crime squad — a few rounds bought at the Top Spot could be helpful.’

‘Way I hear it, John Rhodes has his finger in that particular pie.’

‘And we don’t get to Rhodes without going through his team first.’

‘Especially that big bastard with the face that looks like a join-the-dots painting.’

‘We’re not exactly midgets ourselves, remember.’ ‘Plenty of folk on the street we could be asking,’ Thomson said. ‘Word has a way of getting around.’

‘I dare say myths are being created as we sit here,’ Ballater added. ‘Soon enough we’ll have to turn colliers to dig up anything resembling the truth.’

‘My dad was a coal miner,’ Thomson said.

‘Let’s hope his son doesn’t have to take up a shovel or a pickaxe to find some answers.’

Thomson gave a thin smile as he patted his jacket pocket. ‘There’s only one tool I’ll need, Mickey.’

‘Are youse still here?’ Cam Colvin barked from the doorway, affecting incredulity as he wiped his hands dry on his handkerchief.

‘Just going, chief,’ Paterson apologised, rising to his feet. He reached out an arm towards one final biscuit before thinking better of it and following his three colleagues from the room.

7

After Milligan’s pre-lunch briefing, Laidlaw had felt the need not so much to clear his head as to exorcise the whole soul-festering hour. He’d jumped on a bus, no destination in mind, just staring from the top deck as the streets around him spun their endless small stories. He smoked cigarette after cigarette and thought of the Burleigh. If it was going to be his base camp for the duration, he needed to go home and pack some clothes. Ena wouldn’t be happy about it, but that was increasingly becoming the default setting regarding their marriage. It felt as though they were living through a phoney war, negotiations fraught, hiding the truth from their civilian children. There were three of them — Moya, Sandra and Jack; aged six, five and two. Whenever a case kept him out past their bedtime, Laidlaw would creep into their rooms to stroke their hair and remind himself a better world was possible.

It wasn’t so easy with Ena.

His thoughts shifted to the receptionist at the Burleigh. Her name was Jan, a well-upholstered woman with a steely stare that seemed to soften in Laidlaw’s presence. He suspected that male admirers would wonder if they could pass whatever test she seemed to be setting with those eyes. She knew he was a detective because Ben Finlay had once told her to expect a visit.

‘Nice to know I’m predictable.’

‘Ben seems to think you’re anything but.’

Laidlaw told himself that it wasn’t Jan that kept him returning to the Burleigh; it was the need to stay near the steady pulse of the city streets. Simshill was too far, too safe. The kids needed stories told to them, meals were required to be eaten as a family. He was no longer supposed to be a policeman.

‘You’ll burn out before you’re forty,’ Ena had once warned him.

Forty wasn’t too far away, either. He felt it encircling his thickening waist. His knees complained when faced with too many stairs. His eyes were under strain and he doubted he could chase a suspect the length of any street worth the name. Wiping condensation from the bus window, he looked out at a sky belched from the chimneys of the crumbling tenements, the same smoke that clung to the various civic buildings, once grandly Victorian but now in danger of being swamped by modernity. Old habitats were being demolished, shiny towering replacements planned, a motorway carving its way through the city. Forget the old certitudes; they would soon be crushed underfoot like a fag end beneath a platform-soled shoe. Laidlaw didn’t doubt, though, that the replenished housing stock would fail to do much for Glasgow’s ingrained problems. Behind new glazing and harling he’d be sure still to find poverty, loveless marriages, drunken aggression, sectarian bile, like angry tattoos hidden under a laundered shirt.

He was only vaguely aware of his surroundings as he got off the bus at its next stop and crossed the road to await another back into town. The attempt to erase the memory of the briefing wasn’t working. He was seeing Milligan standing in front of his attentive audience, never happier than when issuing orders and offering theories as if they were diamond-hard facts. A wall of black and white photographs acted as scenery to his soliloquy. One of them showed graffiti on the rear wall of the Parlour, left there by the Gorbals Cumbie, a teenage gang whose current leader was called Malky Chisholm. Chisholm was a college dropout whose ambition of becoming a social worker had led him to too close an association with the various groupings of feral young men. It had become like a drug to him, and eventually, having attempted to broker peace between the Cumbie and other gangs such as the Calton Toi, he’d been offered no choice but to take sides. The Cumbie had become his tribe and soon enough he’d been crowned their king. It helped that he was a gifted amateur boxer. A ‘square go’ held few fears for him — in a fair fight, he would almost always win. But he was cunning, too, meaning even unfair fights went his way.

Laidlaw was aware of a bit of history between Chisholm and Milligan. Arrests made; charges dropped. Milligan was strapping on a pair of blinkers to go with his boxing gloves, ready to enter the ring again.

‘What this graffiti tells me,’ he had pontificated for the benefit of the room, ‘is that the Cumbie are encroaching on Calton turf. A stabbing is one hell of a calling card, wouldn’t you agree?’ His eyes had fixed on Laidlaw as he’d said this, as if daring him to shake his head. What would have been the point? The crime squad office was hardly the forum in Rome, and Laidlaw doubted anyone gathered there would have looked good in a toga. Ever since Lilley and Laidlaw had returned from the mortuary, Milligan had been waiting for them to complain that their trip there had been a waste of time. Neither man had done so, purely to deprive him of that pleasure.

Lighting another cigarette, Laidlaw became aware of a stooped old-timer with rheumy eyes who had joined the bus queue behind him.

‘You should enjoy life more, son. Your face is tripping you.’

The man’s breath was like a blowtorch, and Laidlaw wondered why it was that after a drink so many Glaswegians turned into the Ancient Mariner, eager to share their stories and wisdom with complete strangers. This particular example boasted a rolled-up newspaper, which he wielded like a baton, as if he could conduct the world.

‘At least it’s only my face that’s tripping me,’ Laidlaw responded. ‘Your whole life seems to be one long bout of falling over.’ He gestured towards the rips in the man’s trousers and the elbows of his worn-out jacket.

The man studied him, taking a step back as if to help him focus. ‘You look like an actor, son. Have I seen you in anything?’

‘We’re all actors in this town, haven’t you noticed? You’re acting right now.’

‘Am I?’

‘Badly — but even bad acting deserves the occasional round of applause.’ Laidlaw dug a few coins from his pocket and placed them in the man’s hand. ‘Should cover your bus fare. Either that or a paper from this week rather than last.’

There was a double-decker drawing towards them at that moment. Laidlaw gestured for the old man to precede him aboard, but then stood his ground and told the clippie he’d wait for the next one. The new passenger stared in bemusement from the window as the bell rang and the bus pulled away, depriving him of his audience. Laidlaw didn’t doubt he would soon find another.

8

Bob Lilley was making show of studying the crime-scene photos when Ernie Milligan stopped in front of him. He smelled of Old Spice and ambition, neither of which particularly bothered Lilley, though he was an Aramis man himself. Milligan took a slurp of tea from a Mexico World Cup mug, which Lilley knew would be sweetened with the usual three sugars.

‘Got enough to be getting on with?’ he enquired.

Lilley decided to tickle his boss’s belly. ‘Interesting what you said about the Cumbie. When do we talk to Chisholm?’

‘Soon enough, Bob, don’t you worry. Sorry about the post-mortem, by the way — crossed wires.’

‘You’re bound to make a few mistakes along the way.’ Lilley watched Milligan’s face stiffen. ‘I mean on a case as complex as this. Lot of plates spinning.’

‘Meantime your partner isn’t so much a plate-spinner as a Harry Houdini.’

‘Is that what Laidlaw is, my partner? I get the feeling he’d object to the description. And to answer the question you’re about to ask, I don’t have a clue where he is. He hightailed it as soon as the briefing was done.’

‘Aye, and before I could dole out tasks.’

‘From what I’ve heard, Jack Laidlaw works best when left to his own devices.’

‘He needs reined in, Bob. That’s your job.’

‘You want me tailing him around town?’

‘I don’t want him thinking he can set any agendas here, that’s all.’ Milligan broke off as a WPC began Sellotaping a fresh set of photographs and clippings to the wall, including a snap of the deceased with his wife and children.

‘Got that from the house,’ Milligan explained. ‘It’s some place — you should see it. They’ve not long moved in. Decorators are still busy.’

‘How old’s the photo?’ Lilley leaned in towards it.

‘Couple of years. Anniversary bash at the Albany. She’s not changed much.’ Milligan’s eyes were all over the widow. ‘She’ll have suitors queuing up at her door.’

‘I’m assuming she’ll be well provided for financially?’

‘There’s a will still to be read out, but you can bet there’ll be money — not all of it within reach of the taxman, judging by the deceased’s track record.’

‘Has the house been searched?’

‘We didn’t find a secret stash, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘And Carter’s office?’

‘Under way. His secretary’s helping between weeping fits.’ Milligan had noticed the Commander gesturing from the doorway. He nodded, placed the mug on the nearest desk and straightened his shoulders, but then paused for a moment. ‘Find Laidlaw. Keep me posted. Don’t let him cloud your judgement. Oh, and make sure he’s smoking and drinking plenty. I want him six feet under well before me. It’s by way of a bet where the winner gets to dance a jig on the loser’s grave.’

Lilley watched Milligan march — actually march, arms swinging — towards the door. The phone on the desk behind him was ringing, so he picked it up.

‘DS Lilley,’ he announced.

‘I’m looking for Jack. Jack Laidlaw.’

‘He’s not available at the moment. Can I take a message?’

‘I’m his wife. Ena. Just wondered if I’d be seeing him today.’

‘You know he stayed at the Burleigh last night?’

‘Not that he had the good grace to tell me himself, but I’d worked it out. You’re on that murder case?’

‘That’s right, Ena.’

‘Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name already.’

Lilley had rested his backside against a corner of the desk. ‘I’m Bob. Bob Lilley.’

‘I don’t think he’s mentioned you.’

‘Well, we’ve only recently been partnered.’ There was that word again.

‘Good luck to you.’

‘I understand he can be a handful.’ ‘Like saying Krakatoa gave off a bit of smoke.’ He could hear the smile in her voice. A tired smile, but still a smile. ‘Are you married, Bob?’

‘Too long, my wife might say. We’ve a couple of grown kids.’

‘Lucky you — our three are going to be around for a while yet.’

‘I know that can be hard. Detectives tend to work unsociable hours at the best of times.’

‘And even when they’re home, they’re sometimes not home at all.’

‘You’d get no argument from my wife.’

‘Does she have a name?’

‘Margaret.’

‘Maybe I should be swapping notes with her. Will you tell Jack I called?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you.’

Lilley was trying to work out what to say next, but the dialling tone told him she’d already ended the call.

9

The graffiti had been applied with an aerosol. Time was, a tin of paint and a brush would have been needed. Laidlaw was vague on how a gang named Cumbie had come to be associated with the Gorbals. Same went for the Tongs, the Spur and the Toi. They were part of a code, he supposed, and codes were not meant to be deciphered by everyone. Witness the Masonic handshake, which could be given without a non-believer being any the wiser. Not that a member of the craft would thank you for the comparison. It interested him that Lilley was not of the brotherhood; most cops felt obliged to join if they weren’t already members. Quiet conversations had been had with Laidlaw early in his career, pointing out that it would be no detriment to advancement through the ranks. Quite the opposite, in fact, if he took the speaker’s meaning. It was like the union hold over the working-class denizens of the shipyards and elsewhere: it wasn’t mandatory to sign up and pay your dues, but if you didn’t, there would always be mutterings that you weren’t a team player.

Laidlaw suspected that this was what each gang conferred on its adherents, a sense of belonging, often where none had been nurtured at home. The other pieces of graffiti told their own stories, and the fact that derogatory comments had already been added alongside the word Cumbie told him that the message had been there a while, certainly long enough for the local gang to let the Cumbie know what they thought of this territorial slight. This was no new incursion or cry of intent. It was history. Soon enough it would be defaced entirely, a fresh layer of scrawls and scuffs covering it. Milligan, as ever, wasn’t so much barking up the wrong tree as looking for a tree in the widest of oceans.

The bins next to where the body had lain had been emptied, their contents taken away to be sifted by specialists with more patience than Laidlaw. They probably enjoyed jigsaws of a rainy Sunday afternoon, too. A single bunch of flowers, shop-bought, sat in the gap between the bins. There was no note. As Laidlaw stood there contemplating, a gawker arrived, a man in a trench coat and NHS glasses, thin hair slicked back, wife a few steps behind him, happy to have her hero lead the way.

‘Fuck right off,’ Laidlaw warned them both, as the man produced a cheap camera from his pocket.

‘No harm in it,’ the man blurted out. But he had the decency to look ashamed as he turned and gave his wife a little shove. Laidlaw escorted them as far as the pavement, then, having waited a few moments, pushed open the door to the Parlour and headed in.

What greeted him was a frozen tableau, a moment captured for posterity. No one seated at any of the tables, four men standing at the bar, one having reached across to grab the landlord by his shirt front. All eyes were on Laidlaw as he entered. The shirt was released, the men adjusting their expressions.

‘Thought you’d locked that,’ one growled softly to another.

‘This the University Challenge audition?’ Laidlaw enquired, approaching the bar. Then, to Conn Feeney specifically: ‘Bamber Gascoigne couldn’t make it?’

One of the men jabbed a stubby finger towards him. ‘You leave here now, if you know what’s good for you, pal.’

‘He’s CID,’ another of the group piped up. ‘I can smell it from here.’

Laidlaw took his time getting a cigarette lit. ‘You’ll be Cam Colvin’s boys,’ he commented. ‘If memory serves, that probably means one of you is called Panda.’

‘That’s me,’ stated the one who’d smelled police on him.

‘Yours is the only name I remember. That’s how worried my lot are about you and your boss. You’re barely specks of dust floating over a buckled tin ashtray.’ Laidlaw made show of tapping a finger against the ashtray in front of him. ‘Tin rather than glass because it’s a lot less use in a fight. Ineffectual, you might even say. Look the word up when you get home — which is where I advise you to go right this second, before you start to really annoy me.’

‘This your idea of investigating a murder?’ the one called Panda said. ‘Stopping off for a few free drinks and a smoke? We all know you won’t be losing much sleep over Bobby, or breaking any sweat over the case.’

‘Problem is too many suspects,’ Laidlaw said. ‘I’d be as well opening the phone book and working my way through from the A’s. What I don’t need, however, is the likes of you doing my job for me, with threats and intimidation in place of a warrant card.’

Panda didn’t bother answering. He had become de facto leader, and his job now was to lead his men out of the pub with dignity intact.

‘You’ll be seeing us again,’ he shot towards the landlord. ‘Don’t think you won’t. Same goes for you, copper.’

‘The name’s Laidlaw. Make sure that gets back to your boss. Write it down if you have to.’

He watched them leave in silence. They walked in single file, repairing their swagger before facing the outside world. Feeney was jamming a glass under the nearest optic.

‘You’ll take one.’ It was more a demand than a question.

‘I prefer Antiquary to the council stuff.’

Feeney obliged, pouring liberally from a bottle. He added a splash of water to his own, Laidlaw nodding to indicate that he’d have the same.

‘Thanks for that,’ the landlord said.

‘For what? They’ll be back, just like they said. All the same, they’ve not managed to shake you up too much. I’m guessing that’s because you’ve some Belfast blood in you.’

‘Born and bred.’

‘Lived through enough scares before you landed here?’

‘A few.’ Feeney had already finished his drink but seemed in no hurry for another. He rinsed his glass and lit a cigarette of his own. ‘They’re not exactly amateurs but they’re not the worst I’ve seen.’

‘How about their boss?’

‘Only known to me by reputation.’

‘And Bobby Carter?’

Feeney examined Laidlaw through the haze of smoke between them, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘Okay, you’ve done me a good turn, so here’s all I’m saying — he came in here once.’

‘Bobby Carter?’

‘The same.’

‘You knew who he was?’

‘Not at the time. After he left, one of my regulars enlightened me.’

‘That’s why you recognised him in the alley.’ Laidlaw nodded his understanding. ‘So what was he doing here, the time he dropped in?’

‘Waiting for someone to join him who never arrived.’

‘And you’ve no idea who?’

Feeney shook his head.

‘He hadn’t been in before?’

‘No.’

‘So the pub was probably the other person’s idea.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Meaning maybe someone you do know. Nobody ever asked if they’d missed him? Nobody arrived looking for him after he left?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘How long ago did all this happen?’

‘Three or four weeks back.’

‘You should have told us.’

‘I’m telling you now. Don’t make me regret it.’

Laidlaw finished his drink and stubbed out the cigarette. He wrote the number of the Burleigh on a spare McEwan’s coaster. ‘If you think of anything else,’ he said, sliding it across to Feeney. ‘Or if Colvin’s men turn nasty.’

‘I can handle myself.’

‘Thing is, you probably have limits, boundaries you won’t cross because your conscience won’t allow it. These men don’t. You’d be wise to bear that in mind.’

Laidlaw walked to the door, hauled it open and stepped outside, coming face to face with two men, one of them John Rhodes. Rhodes was tall and fair-haired, not overly heavy in build. His face was pockmarked and had been since borstal days, though no one ever commented on the fact. His eyes were blue and often had a smile playing around them, as now. The man at his shoulder had a heavily scarred face and what looked like a permanent scowl, his eyes as animated as mortar shells.

‘Jack Laidlaw,’ Rhodes said, sliding his hands into his pockets as if getting comfortable.

‘Hello, John. Whatever in the world brings you here?’

‘I like to know what’s happening in my neck of the woods.’

‘You just missed some of Cam Colvin’s men.’

‘Well isn’t that lucky for them?’ He glanced past Laidlaw towards the bar. ‘Any damage?’

‘Landlord seemed to be coping.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘Is this one of your properties?’ Laidlaw watched Rhodes shake his head. ‘Your visit here might suggest otherwise to Colvin.’

‘If I was going to take out Colvin’s consigliere, I’d hardly have dumped him on my own patch. Not even your colleagues could be that dense — unless of course Milligan’s in charge.’ Rhodes’s smile widened when he saw Laidlaw’s face tighten a fraction. ‘He is, though? Wonderful...’

‘What did you mean by consigliere?’

‘Have you not seen The Godfather yet? Get your arse to a picture house while it’s still playing. It’s a name for a right-hand man, the kind with a brain worth listening to. Now that Carter’s been written off, Colvin’s short of ready replacements.’

‘So someone took Carter out to knock the foundations from under Colvin? That would be a smart move, the kind a man like John Rhodes might make.’

‘Aye, or Matt Mason, or one of half a dozen other names we could bandy about all afternoon.’

‘Should I maybe add Malky Chisholm to the mix?’

‘His lot are nothing more than toerags, Jack, you know that as well as I do.’ Rhodes’s eyes widened a little. ‘Christ, is that the angle Milligan’s taking? The bugger’s thicker than the doorstop on a plain loaf.’

‘Doesn’t mean he doesn’t sometimes get a result, fluke or no. Have we got a bit of gang warfare to look forward to, John?’

‘You’d have to ask Colvin. Me, I’m just a concerned citizen and businessman.’ Rhodes pressed his hands to his chest, hands that had throttled the life from men and picked up clubs and axes to be wielded against others, maybe even pressed a gun to a forehead or jaw. ‘I’ll see you around, Jack. Regards to Ena...’

Laidlaw was in two minds about following, but he didn’t think Rhodes would appreciate the company. His minder headed indoors with a final scowl in Laidlaw’s direction. A pair of denim-clad men in their early twenties had been watching from across the street. They now crossed, hesitating just shy of the door.

‘Was that who we think it was?’ one asked. Laidlaw nodded his response. The speaker turned to his companion. ‘We’ll maybe try the Sarry Heid instead, then.’

Laidlaw almost asked if he could join them. But instead he flagged down a passing taxi and climbed in.

‘Did you hear what happened behind that pub, son?’ the driver shouted above the noise of the overworked engine.

‘A family lost a husband and father,’ Laidlaw said. ‘That’s what happened. Now give me a bit of peace, will you? I need to do some thinking.’

Conn Feeney locked the doors of the Parlour and joined John Rhodes in the cramped back office, leaving Rhodes’s bodyguard perched on a stool at the bar. Rhodes had made himself comfortable on the only chair and was sifting through the paperwork scattered across the desk, the same antique desk he had gifted Feeney on the day he’d taken ownership of the pub, praising its solidity.

‘Belonged to a bank manager,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve checked down the back of the drawers but he didn’t leave anything.’

‘You’re sure I can’t offer you something, John?’ Feeney asked now, taking up position just inside the doorway. The room was windowless and consequently airless. Rhodes’s aftershave filled it.

‘I hear you had a visit, Conn.’

‘Cam Colvin’s boys.’

‘I suppose that’s to be expected,’ Rhodes mused. ‘If you need a bit of protection in the short term, you only have to ask.’

‘I’ll be fine, John.’

‘Police give you any grief?’

‘If you’re meaning that guy Laidlaw, the answer’s no.’

‘They’ll know I’ve got a share in this place, though, eh?’

‘If they do, they didn’t hear it from me.’

Rhodes nodded slowly, seemingly only half listening. One polished shoe tapped against the old green safe that sat on the floor alongside the desk. It, too, had come from a shutdown bank. ‘I need something, Conn,’ he said.

Feeney didn’t need telling twice. He took the key from his trouser pocket and squatted in front of the safe, unlocking it and turning the handle. The safe contained some papers, a dozen thick bundles of banknotes, and a small muslin-wrapped object. That object had made its way to Glasgow from Belfast, courtesy of someone Conn had known back in the day. Today, however, Rhodes was interested only in the cash, peeling a few notes from one of the bundles and slipping them into his jacket. Feeney knew that almost every establishment linked to John Rhodes had a safe like this. The man spread his money around, feeling this to be a safer option than storing it all in the one place.

And he didn’t trust the banking system, seeing it as the taxman’s snitch.

Having pocketed the money, however, he did allow his eyes to settle on the little muslin package.

‘It’s there if you need it,’ he said in a voice lacking all emotion.

‘I know that, John.’

Rhodes nodded to himself and patted his jacket, satisfying himself that the banknotes were safe within.

Conn Feeney took this as his cue to relock the safe.

‘Maybe a drink now, eh?’ Rhodes said. It was a mark of the man that he even made it sound like a suggestion rather than an order.

Ena Laidlaw was in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the twin-tub washing machine. Left to its own devices, the waste hose had a habit of unhooking itself from the side of the sink, sending water spewing across the linoleum floor. The pulley was already full from the previous load. This one would have to go on the clothes horse in front of the fire. Moya and Sandra were at school, Jack Junior parked on the sofa with an army of toy soldiers. Most of the washing seemed to be his. Give him sweets, chocolate or a lolly and some of it would end up on cardigan, shirt and trousers. The brown carpet in the living room had turned out to be a blessing of sorts, covering a multitude of stains.

She thought of how nice Bob Lilley had sounded on the phone. Not abrupt or wary like some detectives she’d had to call in the past. Their various stories always sounded fake or rehearsed — he’s on his way to court or Barlinnie; he’s in a meeting; he’s gone to the records office.

You know he stayed at the Burleigh last night? Just like that, without her having to ask. And then offering up that he had kids of his own and a wife called... Margaret? That was it: Margaret. Margaret Lilley, who sounded like she had the measure of her husband.

Maybe I should be swapping notes with her.

‘Maybe I should at that,’ Ena said quietly to herself, before realising that Jack Junior was standing in the doorway, an orange in his hand, juice soaking into his pullover and a sour look on his face. He had bitten into it through the thick skin.

‘I told you,’ she said with a sigh. ‘But would you take a telling?’

She had taken a couple of steps towards him when her senses alerted her to the waste hose wriggling free of its perch.

‘No you don’t, mister,’ she said, giving it a firm push with one hand as she reached with the other towards a rinsed dishcloth. In her mind she could see the telephone stool in the hall. There was a little book there next to the phone, containing addresses and numbers of friends and family. And on a shelf beneath sat the Glasgow directory, which just might have a number in it for R. Lilley or M. Lilley or even R. and M. Lilley. Once the washing was hung up, she’d boil the kettle, settle down next to Jack Junior, and he could help her look.

10

Laidlaw was at a corner table in the Top Spot. A pint was waiting for Bob Lilley but it had already gone flat, and he pushed it aside as he arrived and sat down. Laidlaw folded closed the newspaper he’d been reading.

‘What’s happening in the world?’ Lilley asked.

‘Fighting in Belfast and peace at Upper Clyde. Plus my Premium Bonds mean I have to keep working.’ His eyes met Lilley’s. ‘Thought you were standing me up.’

‘Much as I’d like to be able to rush from a murder case whenever summoned by someone who’s taken up residence in a bar...’ Lilley glanced towards the barman, who had made the call on Laidlaw’s behalf.

‘Thing is, Bob, you’d have been rushing to a murder case. This is where it’s going to get solved.’

‘The Top Spot?’

‘The streets,’ Laidlaw corrected him. ‘Sitting at a desk sucks all the oxygen out of you. That’s maybe somebody’s idea of policing, but not mine. I’m good at this city, though. I would definitely make that claim. It’s because I keep doing my homework. You going to drink that?’ When Lilley shook his head, Laidlaw poured half the stale pint into the remains of his own. ‘You can do deductive reasoning anywhere, but sometimes an office is the worst place for it, especially with Milligan nipping your napper.’

‘So what exactly have you deduced?’

‘Remind me, what was in the victim’s pockets when they were searched?’

‘Apart from the cash — wallet, house keys, cigarettes and a fancy lighter. Nice wristwatch on him, too.’

‘So we can assume whoever killed him didn’t do it in the act of robbing him?’

‘Unless they panicked.’

Laidlaw was shaking his head. ‘A gang like the Cumbie, they’d have picked the carcass clean.’

‘Meaning Milligan’s wasting his time?’

‘And everyone’s hard graft to boot. But to come back to the vultures, Bobby Carter had been missing the best part of three days. You reckon he was lying there all that time without someone noticing? From the amount of graffiti, I’d say that lane’s a popular enough spot, maybe for a drug deal or underage drinking, or even a knee-trembler like the one that eventually saw Carter found.’

‘You’re saying the body was moved?’

‘If the autopsy’s right and he’d been dead two to three days, yes, I’m saying the body was moved.’

‘Why, though? And where from?’

Laidlaw did no more than shrug. ‘Landlord told me in confidence that Carter had been in just the one time, meeting someone who never arrived. I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a connection. I just can’t see what it is yet.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose.

‘You okay?’

‘I get migraines — and that’s to be treated confidentially, too. Think one might just be trying to book an appointment.’

‘Seen a doctor about it?’

‘I’ve got tablets.’

‘Do they work?’

‘When added to ten or twelve hours on a bed in a darkened room.’

‘You should let Milligan know.’

‘Why?’

‘Good excuse for when you go off wandering.’

‘But also a sign of weakness. I’d rather not give him any more ammunition. How about you — any progress to report?’

‘Not as such. Your wife rang, though. Wanted to know if she’d be seeing you tonight. She sounds nice.’

‘She’s great.’

‘The sort of woman a man would be happy to go home to?’ Lilley had lifted what was left of his pint and taken an exploratory sip.

‘I can get you a fresh one.’

‘In place of an answer to my question?’

Laidlaw couldn’t help the thin smile. He took a deep breath. ‘Like I say, Ena is great. It’s just that not much else is.’

‘Being a parent is hard work.’

‘Ach, it’s not that.’ He looked to the gaudily painted ceiling for inspiration. ‘I’m lonelier in my marriage than when I lived on my own, and I think Ena’s the same.’

The silence at the table was deep enough to accommodate a coffin. Eventually it was broken by the bar’s jukebox. Someone had put on ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’. The two detectives’ eyes met and they shared a battle-worn smile. A shambling figure was approaching from the bar, holding a pint of Guinness in one hand and what looked like a large dark rum in the other.

‘Hope it’s okay, Mr Laidlaw. I said you’d settle up later.’ The man sat down without waiting to be asked.

‘This is Eck Adamson,’ Laidlaw said by way of introduction. A rich bouquet of aromas reached Lilley, courtesy of the new arrival in the greasy, ill-fitting clothes. There were old shaving cuts between the patches of bristle on his chin and cheeks. The hair was sparse and prematurely silver. Adamson could have been anything between thirty and sixty and probably had no more than a decade left in him without a radical change of lifestyle. ‘I told you I know the streets,’ Laidlaw was saying, ‘but Eck here has a doctorate and any number of diplomas.’

As if in agreement with this assessment, Adamson toasted the table before sinking the rum in a single full-mouthed swallow. After a moment’s exhalation, he started making short work of the pint.

‘As you can see,’ Laidlaw went on, ‘all that expertise doesn’t come cheap. But I can always rely on Eck, because he knows that if I think he’s not earned the outlay, he’s going to get a boot to the balls and a smack to the jaw.’ His words froze Adamson mid gulp. With infinite deliberation he placed the Guinness back on the table.

‘Ernie Milligan reckons he’s got the best sources in the city,’ Lilley commented, eliciting a snort of derision from Adamson.

‘You mean Macey?’

‘Benny Mason, yes.’

‘That’s his Sunday name — and let me tell you, Macey’s about as much use as brewer’s droop at an orgy.’

‘Been to many orgies, have you?’ Lilley was smiling without humour.

‘I get plenty, don’t you worry.’

Laidlaw leaned across the table. ‘Eck, you couldn’t get a ride in a brothel with a hundred quid and a doctor’s line, but if I thought Macey had better ears it’d be him sitting there while you were curled up on the pavement next to a heating vent. So tell us what you’ve heard and I might even offer you a refill.’

It was Adamson’s turn to lean in, elbows on the table, as if ensuring his words remained the property of no one else in the bar.

‘He wasn’t the worst of men, Bobby Carter. Always stood his round as well as his ground.’

‘It’s not a eulogy I’m after, Eck.’ Laidlaw’s look was stern.

‘I’m just setting the scene. Thing is, all men have vices and weak spots, don’t they? With Carter it was women. I think hanging out with Colvin and the like only made things worse. He got the feeling women were paying him attention because they liked him rather than because of the company he was in and the money flying around.’ Adamson reckoned he was safe to pause long enough for a sip from his glass. On the other side of the table Laidlaw mirrored him.

‘So he was a womaniser,’ Lilley said across the no-man’s-land. ‘So what?’

Adamson held up a finger whose entrenched stains Swarfega would struggle to overcome. ‘One woman,’ he intoned.

‘Doubtless unmarried and with no other complications?’ Laidlaw enquired.

‘Chick McAllister’s ex.’

‘Chick McAllister as in John Rhodes’s Chick McAllister?’

‘The same.’

‘Was this public knowledge?’

‘If it was, you wouldn’t need me to tell you.’

‘So who knew? Did McAllister?’

‘Maybe. But they split up last year, amicably as far as I know.’

‘She seeing anyone apart from Carter?’

Adamson gave a shrug before sucking the last of the life from the Guinness. Laidlaw clicked his fingers towards the underworked barman, signalling for refills.

‘So what’s she called?’

‘Jennifer Love. Goes by Jenni with an i. Sounds like an alias but it’s genuine. Her dad’s Archie Love, the footballer.’

‘I know that name,’ Lilley said. ‘There was a betting scandal, wasn’t there?’

Adamson nodded. ‘And that was the end of his playing days. Since then he’s been drinking to forget.’

‘What else do you know about Jenni?’

‘Mid twenties. Likes a good time and men who can afford to bring her it on a plate. Works as a go-go dancer at Whiskies. It’s that live music place on Candleriggs.’

‘A haunt of yours, I’m sure,’ Laidlaw said, breaking off as the drinks arrived. There was one for Lilley, which he was determined to leave untouched. Again Adamson knocked back the rum in one swallow.

‘Keeps the chill off,’ he explained.

‘So will this,’ Laidlaw said, slipping him a banknote, which Adamson palmed like an expert. ‘Any other news for us while we’re being cosy and friendly?’

‘The drums are spelling out war, but that probably won’t come as a surprise.’

‘Colvin looking for revenge?’

‘Someone’s going to have to pay. The pub where they found the body, it’s on Rhodes’s turf.’

‘I spotted him there not two hours ago,’ Laidlaw agreed, eliciting a look from Lilley.

‘Story is, Rhodes and the owner go back a ways. Guy had to get out of Belfast in a hurry and Rhodes lent a hand, maybe even got him the shipyard job. Then the guy scoops the pools and buys the Parlour, even after splitting the winnings with Rhodes as a thank you.’

‘So if Colvin goes ruffling feathers there...’ Laidlaw locked eyes with Lilley to make sure he understood the implications before turning his attention back to Adamson. ‘Why was he killed, though, Eck? That’s what we need to find out.’

‘Cherchez la femme, that’s what they say, Mr Laidlaw.’

‘And you wouldn’t have been paid a princely sum by anyone to lead us into that particular maze?’

Adamson managed to look insulted, even as he sank half of the fresh pint of Guinness. He wiped foam from his top lip as he shook his head.

‘Because if I find out you’ve been trying to play us,’ Laidlaw continued calmly, ‘it won’t be your balls I’ll be kicking into powder — it’ll be that shrivelled thing inside you that passes for a soul.’

11

Lilley offered him a lift home and Laidlaw decided not to refuse. But he did ask for a detour, giving the address in Bearsden, and when Lilley asked why, all he could do was shrug.

‘You saw John Rhodes,’ Lilley said. ‘When were you going to tell me that?’

‘I literally bumped into him as I was coming out of the Parlour, just after I’d walked in on Colvin’s goons giving the landlord some grief.’ Laidlaw paused, eyes on the passing scenery. ‘Lucky the two opposing forces didn’t meet.’

‘And this is your normal way of working?’

‘It’s the only way I know.’

‘Seems to me, every station you work at, that method only gets you so far before you’ve put everyone’s back up and have to be shunted elsewhere.’

‘What is it they say about a prophet in his own country?’

‘That he should start making allies, because one day he might just need them?’

‘Aye, something like that.’ Laidlaw reached down to switch on the radio. Dr Kissinger was talking about peace in Vietnam. ‘They’d be as well sending Dr Strangelove,’ Laidlaw commented.

‘You reckon Nixon’s going to beat McGovern next month?’

‘I could beat McGovern, Bob. Every time I think politics here can’t get any lower or more venal, I look across the pond and wonder if I’m staring into a crystal ball.’

‘Kissinger’s got a head on him, though.’

‘Aye, and if it gets any bigger he’ll have trouble squeezing through the doors of all those planes he seems to like taking. Say what you like about the Scots, we hate to see people get above themselves.’

‘We’re all Jock Tamson’s bairns right enough.’

‘And what a bastard of a father he turned out to be...’

‘This’ll do,’ Laidlaw stated when they reached Bobby Carter’s street.

‘We going in?’

Laidlaw shook his head. The car had stopped one house shy of Carter’s. Time was, mourning meant the curtains would be drawn closed day and night until after the funeral, but he got the feeling the downstairs ones had been pulled to only because it had grown dark.

‘She’s a bit of a looker, the widow,’ Lilley stated. ‘Milligan has a photo up on the murder wall. I’d say he’s slightly smitten. Wonder how she ended up with a piece of pond life like Bobby Carter.’

Laidlaw drew in a deep breath. ‘When me or my brother were bad-mouthing someone, our mum always said the same thing — “Ach, he’s somebody’s rearing.” I suppose what she meant was, everyone’s loved by someone and we don’t always know the reason why.’

‘You’re telling me even arseholes have their good side and deserve some sort of justice?’

‘The law’s not about justice. It’s a system we’ve put in place because we can’t have justice.’

Lilley thought: the man speaks like the books on his desk, the lines honed by rehearsal. But did they mean much of anything?

Laidlaw was winding down the window, nodding towards the lamplit suburban street. ‘This is why we have to solve the case,’ he said. ‘On the surface everything appears much as it was, but one house has been hit by a bomb. They’re in there sifting through the rubble. Carter might have been a mobster outside the home, but here he was a husband and dad. That’s our client, Bob — Dr Jekyll rather than Mr Hyde.’

‘Wonder if the rest of the street knew how he came to afford a home here.’

They noticed movement at the living room window of the house opposite the Carters’ and caught a glimpse of an elderly face. Whoever was inside was pretending to adjust the curtains while actually wondering whose car had just arrived.

‘Nosy parker,’ Lilley stated.

‘The neighbourhood eyes and ears,’ Laidlaw agreed.

‘So we’re not going in and we’re not getting out?’

‘We’re travellers, Bob, that’s all.’

‘Aye, and some of us want to travel home. Others I’m not so sure about.’

‘Did you sign up thinking the job was nine to five?’

‘They told me ten till four with regular breaks.’

‘Maybe that’s my problem then — I should have joined the union as well as the lodge. But if you’re in a hurry, I’ve seen what I need to.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Another piece of the infinite jigsaw that makes Glasgow the second city of the Empire.’

Lilley was shaking his head slowly as he executed a three-point turn, wondering if working with Laidlaw was likely to get any easier.

Laidlaw himself started giving directions as they reached the outskirts of Simshill. His home was on a street between Linn Park and King’s Park. Lilley didn’t know the area and would probably have called it Cathcart rather than Simshill. Without being asked, he had informed Laidlaw that he and Margaret had lived in Dowanhill all their married lives and he couldn’t see them flitting any time soon.

‘I’ve brought you out of your way,’ Laidlaw said, almost apologetically.

‘Which means I can take you back, if you want me to wait.’

He shook his head. ‘Might take a bit of time to pack. I’ll be fine in a taxi.’

As they drew to a stop, the door of the semi-detached house opened, as if Ena had been waiting. When Laidlaw emerged from the car, Lilley got out too. He stood at the driver’s side and offered a smile in her direction, which she answered with a wave. She was a handsome woman but looked fatigued. Laidlaw’s shoulders were hunched as he walked up the path towards her. If the visit to Bearsden had energised him, that energy had now dissipated, though he revived when one of his children bounded past her mother and hurled herself into Laidlaw’s arms.

Lilley felt all of a sudden that he was intruding on a private moment, albeit one played out in public view. He dived back into the car and put it into gear. His last view was of Laidlaw’s back, the child’s thin arms clamped around his neck as both headed indoors. Ena had already left the stage.

It was ten by the time Laidlaw stepped out of the taxi at the Burleigh Hotel. The driver hadn’t felt much like chatting after Laidlaw had asked which of the city’s gangsters he ultimately worked for. Cabs, scrapyards, bouncers, knocking shops, betting offices — scratch the surface of any of those industries and you’d find a Rhodes, a Colvin or a Matt Mason. When he’d added a tip to the fare, there had been the most token grunt of gratitude, so much so that he’d almost asked for it back. Instead, he’d picked up his case and pushed open the door to the hotel, climbing the three steps to the reception desk, where Jan greeted him with a welcoming smile.

‘Hello, stranger.’

‘Wasn’t I just here last night?’

‘Feels longer.’ She had opened her ledger and was studying it. ‘Can’t offer you the same room — it’s taken. Guy’s here on business, but for one night only. How about I give you the suite tonight and you can move tomorrow?’

‘How much is the suite?’

‘No extra charge.’

‘Money up front?’

She shook her head. ‘I know you’re not going to run out on me.’ She turned towards the row of numbered hooks. ‘Just the one key, or will anyone be joining you?’

‘About ten other versions of me, none of whose company I can honestly say I enjoy.’ He took the key from her, eye contact lasting only slightly longer than strictly necessary.

‘Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me.’

‘You always work the late shift?’

‘I like being awake at night. There’s the feeling that anything could happen.’

‘Out there it usually does.’ Laidlaw gestured to the door behind him.

‘And in here too sometimes.’

‘Second floor?’ He was making show of studying the red-tasselled key.

‘Third. There are only two rooms up there and the other’s not taken yet, so you can make as much noise as you want.’

He got the feeling she was smiling again as he made his way towards the lift.