The Dark Remains

12

Laidlaw was eating a cooked breakfast in the dining room when the day-shift receptionist handed him a message, apologising for her scrawled writing. It took him a couple of attempts to work out that it was from Conn Feeney. Carter’s widow was due to visit the scene of the crime before saying a few words to some tame journalists. Laidlaw didn’t bother mopping up the last of the fried egg. He slipped his jacket on and got going.

By the time he reached the Parlour, things were drawing to a close. The press photographers were taking a few final snaps. Neighbours and passers-by formed an appreciative audience on the pavement across from where Monica Carter stood, dressed in sober colours, her naturally pale face lacking any adornment, yet still striking, hair tied back, eyes misty. Two print journalists — neither of them familiar to Laidlaw — were checking their notepads in case they’d missed anything. Next to the widow stood a figure Laidlaw did recognise — Cam Colvin. He wasn’t wearing a suit as such, but both jacket and trousers were dark, as was his tie. Laidlaw doubted any of it had come from Milligan’s favoured menswear shop. One hand held Monica Carter’s elbow while she finished whatever she was telling the press.

Laidlaw was reminded of the pathologist’s words. He’d said Colvin had ‘handled her with great gentleness’. And here he was handling her again, head bowed but eyes like darts aimed at the reporters, warning them not to overstep the mark. His shoulders were slightly hunched, the result of the knife in the back that had become part of the city’s mythology. Laidlaw noticed that Colvin’s free hand was twisted almost behind his back. He was holding something there. Laidlaw moved further to the edge of the throng. It was the posy from behind the pub. Colvin had removed it for some reason.

Laidlaw scratched his jaw, realising he hadn’t shaved that morning. He kept watching as Colvin decided enough was enough. No, Mrs Carter would not be posing for a few tasteful portraits. No, she wouldn’t be sitting down for any private confab. The journalists were shooed away as a car drew to a halt, driven by one of the men Laidlaw had bearded in the Parlour. Colvin himself ushered the widow into the back seat, settling next to her. As the car drew away, normality returned, as if the curtain had come down at the end of a performance. Laidlaw saw that the door to the Parlour was slightly open, Conn Feeney watching through the gap. He gave the landlord a thumbs-up of thanks for the tip-off. Rather than acknowledge it, Feeney simply let the door swing closed. Opening time wouldn’t be for a while yet.

Laidlaw wasn’t the only onlooker who made the pilgrimage to the bins behind the pub. A couple of permed housewives in Rainmates and what looked like floral dressing gowns were ahead of him. One stooped to study the writing on the large bunch of fresh flowers.

‘They’re beauties,’ her friend said.

‘From your wife and loving children,’ the other woman recited. Then, to Laidlaw: ‘I hope you’re not thinking of nicking them.’

‘I’m not,’ he assured her. But he did wonder about the other flowers, the ones Colvin had decided didn’t belong.

‘Such a waste,’ the first woman said. Laidlaw wondered whether she meant the loss of human or horticultural life.

As the two women shuffled off, he lit a cigarette and read the inscription for himself. Over a dozen blooms rested behind the cellophane wrapping, already dead but making the best of it, which in itself wasn’t the worst of epitaphs.

Milligan was just finishing the morning briefing when Laidlaw walked into the office.

‘Nice of you to join us, Jack.’

‘I’ve been listening from the corridor — didn’t want to interrupt your flow.’

‘Then you’ll know what duties you and Bob have been assigned?’

‘Absolutely.’ Laidlaw pulled out his chair and sat down. There was a mound of fresh paperwork on his desk. The typing pool had been busy. Bob Lilley was studying his own copies, managing to avoid eye contact with his partner.

Milligan clapped his hands together twice. ‘Let’s get busy then.’

As the detectives roused themselves, Milligan began to move towards Laidlaw’s desk, but a WPC appeared in the doorway and announced that the Commander wanted a word. With a glower towards Laidlaw that warned of unfinished business, Milligan made his exit, straightening his tie as he went.

‘So what are our duties?’ Laidlaw asked Lilley.

‘I thought you knew.’

‘Let’s pretend I arrived at the station five minutes ago after a return visit to the Parlour.’

‘It opens early.’

‘I had a tip-off. Watched the widow and Cam Colvin talking to some journalists after leaving a bouquet. Colvin’s the type of gangster who likes to see his photo in the paper — means more of his fellow Glaswegians know who they’re supposed to fear. Recognition and reputation are all.’

‘So you got a good look at Carter’s wife then? Can I add you to the list of the smitten?’

‘How about you tell me what intellectual challenge we’ve been set for the rest of the day?’

‘We’re on door-to-door.’

‘The CID equivalent of jankers, in other words.’

‘Milligan’s pulling Malky Chisholm in for questioning but saving that for himself.’

‘While we waste a solid day asking the deaf, dumb and blind if they’ve seen or heard anything suspicious.’

‘I take it you have a better idea?’

‘Only if you’ve yet to mention Jennifer Love to anyone.’

‘I kept that under my hat.’

‘Any particular reason why?’

‘Eck Adamson is your snitch, meaning you should be the one given the honour.’

‘Decent of you, but that same decency might see you stuck at DS for longer than necessary. Stealing your colleagues’ glory is a tried-and-tested shortcut to advancement.’

‘I’ve always preferred scenic routes myself.’

‘Then this is your lucky day, DS Lilley.’

‘Whiskies go-go bar?’ Lilley guessed.

‘Whiskies go-go bar,’ Laidlaw echoed, shoving the paperwork to the furthest corner of his desk.

Though the club wouldn’t open for hours, staff were already busy cleaning and restocking. There was an aroma of musky sweat and spilled beer that had not yet been disguised by the cans of deodoriser. Small circular podiums, each with a chrome pole at its centre, stood at the four corners of the dance floor. Laidlaw visualised Jenni Love gyrating as the ceiling-mounted spotlights played over her body. The owner of Whiskies, a man named Jake Collins, wasn’t in yet, but the self-styled ‘bar manager’, a bleary-eyed teenager with raging acne and home-made tattoos, reckoned he could help them with an address for Jenni. As he headed to the back office, Laidlaw signalled for Lilley to accompany him. Last thing they wanted was Love being telephoned a warning. In Lilley’s absence, Laidlaw walked to the DJ booth. It boasted two record decks and a cassette player plus a control panel for the lights. A reel-to-reel sat on the floor, apparently considered obsolete. Promotional photos, their curling edges showing their age, were pinned to the booth’s back wall. Laidlaw recognised a few faces: Marmalade, Lulu, Cilla.

‘She sang in here once, you know,’ a voice called from the bar. Laidlaw turned towards the man who was unloading bottles from a crate. He was in his thirties. Sleeves rolled up, stomach bulging, a sheen of sweat on his face. ‘Lulu, I mean. Back before this place became Whiskies. Everyone from the Corries to the Poets passed through those doors.’

‘Not these days, though?’

‘Dancing’s what works up a thirst, and a DJ doesn’t cost what a proper musician does.’

Laidlaw made show of studying his surroundings. ‘Who owns the place now?’

‘Jake Collins.’

‘Aye, on paper maybe. But who’s pulling his strings? Cam Colvin?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Your face says otherwise. Ever see Bobby Carter in here?’

‘The guy who was killed?’ The man decided not to bother lying. ‘He came in now and again.’

‘With Colvin?’ A shake of the head. ‘And I’m guessing not with his wife?’

‘You’re getting Jenni’s address, so I’m assuming you already know.’

‘I don’t suppose you ever saw her ex in here, name of Chick McAllister?’

Another shake of the head, more definitive this time. The man concentrated on emptying the crate and readying the next one. Bob Lilley was emerging from the back office, flourishing a scrap of paper, the teenager at his heels.

Laidlaw gestured towards both employees. ‘If she’s flown the nest, we’ll be straight back here and you’ll be spending some time in the cells at Central Division. Enjoy the rest of your day, gents.’

13

Jennifer Love still lived at home with her parents. It was her mother who opened the door of the bungalow in Knightswood. The area was undergoing development, new tower blocks beginning to appear. In time they might swamp the existing housing altogether, smothering the life out of it. Jennifer was still in bed, Laidlaw and Lilley were informed. They knew what young people were like these days. Her mother would see if she could be roused. Mrs Love led them down the narrow hallway, past a venerable-looking paraffin heater, into the living room, where a coal fire was sparking and spitting, the fireside itself immaculate. Did they want tea or coffee? Was anything wrong?

‘Just a couple of questions about someone she might know,’ Bob Lilley explained.

‘And who might that be?’

‘Bobby Carter.’

The woman’s lips puckered but she held her counsel.

‘Your face gives you away, Mrs Love,’ Laidlaw said. ‘So if you were thinking of trying to hide anything from us, I’d advise against.’

She folded her arms slowly while she debated silently with herself.

‘Jennifer spilled the beans to me,’ she eventually admitted. ‘Not at the start, but soon enough after. And him a married man, too. But they’d stopped seeing one another. It was never that serious. I don’t think they even...’ She broke off, giving her permed hair a pat as if to tidy it. ‘Anyway, I’ll go fetch her.’

They waited in the living room. It was festooned with memorabilia from Archie Love’s playing days. Morton, Dunfermline, then a short unsuccessful spell at Rangers before seeing out his professional days at St Johnstone. There were trophies and medals, a cap from his one outing for the national team, and framed photos of him posing with everyone from Jim Baxter to Jock Stein, Hamish Imlach to Molly Weir. Other photos showed a young boy. One of these seemed to have been cropped from a larger picture, the edges rough. It sat next to a family portrait, posed in a studio, the photographer’s name embossed along the bottom of the white cardboard frame. Love looked every inch the patriarch. His wife was just about managing a smile, while Jennifer, aged probably eleven or twelve, was showing signs that she was present under sufferance and sufferance alone.

When Mrs Love returned, she told them Jennifer would be a couple of minutes. She was readying to sit down, but Laidlaw informed her they needed a bit of privacy. Her face hardened.

‘I’ll be in the kitchen then.’ There was no follow-up offer of beverages.

‘Your husband’s not here?’ Lilley enquired.

‘He runs a youth team. They keep him busy.’ She left the room.

The two men sat in silence, side by side on the sofa. Archie Love’s armchair held a cleaned ashtray and a spectacles case. The chair looked well used and Laidlaw guessed the man in the photographs had put on weight since his heyday. His wife was a sparrow by comparison, albeit one that would protect her nest to the death. Jennifer Love, when she entered, had many of her mother’s delicate features, but with added height and looks. Her dark hair was shoulder-length, her eyes lucid and watchful. She settled in what would be her mother’s usual chair, tucking her legs beneath her. Mid twenties and still living with mum and dad — Laidlaw wondered who stood to gain most from the arrangement.

‘We’d stopped seeing each other,’ she announced.

‘All the same, we’re sorry for your loss.’

She bit her bottom lip, as if realising she should be showing a sorrow that wasn’t there.

‘When was the last time you saw Mr Carter?’ Lilley asked.

‘Couple of weeks back.’

‘Was this at Whiskies?’ Lilley watched her nod. ‘He was a regular?’

‘If I was dancing, yes.’

‘Is that how you met?’

‘Yes.’

Laidlaw leaned towards her, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘And what caused the split?’ he asked.

‘Nothing really.’

‘You’d made it clear to him you weren’t going to share a bed?’

Her eyes widened a little at the question’s lack of subtlety.

‘Sorry to be so blunt, Jenni,’ he went on, ‘but this is a murder inquiry.’

She nodded again, this time in understanding. ‘I think we just didn’t have enough in common. He didn’t even like the music at the club. He just liked ogling the girls.’

‘He was generous, though — always buying the drinks? A meal now and then? Maybe a bit of jewellery?’

‘Yes.’

‘You must have known something would be expected in return. The guy was married. There was a reason he was with you rather than his wife.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘What about Cam Colvin? Ever see him at Whiskies?’

‘I never met him, but Bobby talked about him all the time. I think I was supposed to find that whole world as exciting as he did.’

‘You’ve got a head on your shoulders,’ Laidlaw said. ‘That’s something you should be proud of.’ He paused, allowing her a moment to inhale the praise. ‘What about your old boyfriend Chick?’

‘What about him?’

‘Was he jealous you were seeing Bobby?’

She offered a shrug. ‘Haven’t seen Chick in months.’

‘How many months?’

‘Two, maybe three.’

‘Did he know about you and Bobby, though?’

‘Not many people did. We were discreet.’

‘Not easy in a city of a million eyes. So is there any reason you can think of why someone would want Bobby dead?’

‘Apart from the fact he worked for a gangster?’

‘How about the Parlour — did he ever take you there, or mention it?’

She shook her head. She was dressed in black slacks, her feet bare, and she had begun to pick at a toenail, as if seeking a distraction.

‘Is there anything you can tell us about Bobby?’ Laidlaw persisted. ‘Anything that might help us catch his killer?’

‘He just seemed like every other lawyer. A bit quiet, a bit boring, truth be told. But I knew part of his job was storing other people’s secrets. You always felt he was working hard at not letting anything slip.’

‘And these secrets, did you get any inkling where he was storing them?’

She saw that Laidlaw had misunderstood. ‘Up here,’ she explained, tapping her forehead.

Bob Lilley cleared his throat, signalling that he had a question of his own. ‘Are you sorry he’s dead, Jenni?’

‘Of course I am. Can’t go weeping and wailing, though, can I?’

‘You left a bunch of flowers behind the Parlour, didn’t you?’ Laidlaw added. He watched her nod slowly. ‘No name or card... I’m guessing Bobby was a secret kept between you and your mother?’

Jennifer Love looked around the room she was sitting in. ‘Dad would have hit the roof.’

‘There’s no way he could have found out?’

‘I’d know all about it if he had, believe me.’

‘But supposing he had, he would be far from best pleased?’

‘He’s a hard man to please at any time.’

There was the sound of a stifled sneeze from the other side of the living room door.

‘We’re almost done, Mrs Love,’ Laidlaw announced, raising his voice. ‘You can come in if you like.’

By the time he reached the hallway, however, Jenni’s mother was back at the kitchen sink and refusing to lift her eyes from whatever lurked in her washing-up bowl.

‘You’ll find whoever killed him?’ Bob Lilley was being asked.

‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Lilley replied in practised tones, before following Laidlaw to the front door.

Seated in Lilley’s Toledo, Laidlaw got a cigarette going. ‘Archie Love?’ Lilley speculated.

‘We’ll take it to Milligan — go see him together. Jenni, Whiskies and Archie Love. We’ll give him the lot.’

‘Including Chick McAllister?’

Laidlaw considered for a moment. ‘Maybe keep that to ourselves for the time being.’

‘Because you want to be the one to question him?’

‘Are you asking to be put on the guest list?’

Lilley’s mouth twitched. ‘Why did you ask about the flowers?’

‘Cam Colvin removed them. No need for Jenni to know that, but it tells me something.’

‘He knew about the pair of them?’

‘Probably guessed that’s who they’d be from.’

Lilley nodded his understanding, then reached into the side pocket of the driver’s door. The sheet of paper he held up listed the addresses they were supposed to be doorstepping. Laidlaw took it from him and pretended to peruse it for a moment, before ripping it in half and tossing it onto the back seat.

‘Let’s go see if what we’re about to tell Milligan gets us a Cub Scout badge.’

‘Hard to imagine you in the Cubs, Jack.’

‘Boys’ Brigade all the way, Bob. We used to shit on the Cubs from a great height.’

‘Metaphorically, I hope.’

‘Ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Any chance of you getting this jalopy started? Red carpet waiting for us at Central Division when we bring them the news.’

14

They felt it as soon as they stepped inside the police station. It was as if an electric current had been run into the building. Everyone seemed to be in movement, and those movements became more frantic the nearer Laidlaw and Lilley got to the crime squad office. Laidlaw was eventually able to stop one detective constable in his tracks by dint of planting his feet directly in front of him, blocking any escape.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘A knife’s been found. DI Milligan reckons it’ll be the murder weapon.’

‘Found where?’

‘A kid was waving it around in a park. Don’t ask me which one.’

‘Why not? Aren’t you supposed to be CID?’

The young officer’s neck began to redden. He squeezed past Laidlaw and strode towards his destination.

Lilley was in the office by the time Laidlaw caught up. Every available telephone was turning hot in the grip of the shirtsleeved detectives. The room was stifling. Milligan stood beside his murder wall, barking orders. He wanted a fingertip search of the area.

‘Grab as many uniforms as you need. This takes priority. And get me a map of Springburn Park!’

Springburn Park meant Balornock, not far from Stobhill Hospital. Laidlaw could visualise the old clock tower that greeted you as you drove towards the main building. He seemed to remember that the park wasn’t big but boasted a bowling green, bandstand and maybe a football pitch. He was almost in Milligan’s flushed face before the man recognised him.

‘Change of plan. You’ll be doorstepping in Springburn and Balornock.’

‘Are you sure it’s our knife?’

‘Kid says he found it hidden in bushes. He was waving it around so we got a call. The officer who caught up with him noticed some blood on the hilt.’

‘A bloodied knife dumped in Glasgow? Probably only happens a dozen times a day.’

Milligan glowered at him. ‘If you engaged your brain as often as your mouth, you’d know there’ve only been three stabbings since Bobby Carter, and each time we caught the culprit and seized the weapon.’ He paused for a breath that was probably intended to be calming. ‘Somebody’s drawing up an initial list of streets we need to visit. And by “we”, I mean you.’

‘I couldn’t be more thrilled. Has the knife gone to the lab?’

‘Screws are being turned as we speak — I want a match by the end of today.’

‘The kid’s prints will need to be eliminated.’

Milligan nodded distractedly. ‘Where’s that map?’ he called out to the room at large.

‘Donald’s off to buy one,’ a voice replied. Laidlaw moved so that he was back in Milligan’s eyeline.

‘Can I help you?’ Milligan enquired.

‘Is the kid giving a statement?’

Milligan nodded again, then moved past Laidlaw in search of fresh prey.

Lilley was standing by his desk, holding up the revised list of addresses. Laidlaw replied with an approximation of a frown and walked out of the office, heading for the station’s two interview rooms. The boy was in one of them, seated next to a woman who could have been a relative or some sort of social worker. The detective across the table stopped writing on his pad at Laidlaw’s arrival.

‘Tell me what you’ve told everyone else,’ Laidlaw said to the boy. He was ten or eleven, clear-eyed but scruffy. He’d probably already given up on school, preferring to take his lessons from the street.

‘Found it in the bushes. I was just playing with it. I didn’t mean anything.’ His tone strived for a studied indifference his twitching limbs could not match.

‘And you didn’t see anyone toss it?’ Laidlaw watched the boy shake his head. ‘Was it well hidden or easy to spot?’

‘It was just lying there on the dirt, between the grass and the bushes.’

‘As long as it’s the only thing that was lying, you’ll be fine.’

He made his exit and stood in the corridor, arms folded. Several days now since the murder. If the knife used had been lying in plain view all that time, somebody would have found it prior to the kid. It had either been dislodged from a deeper hiding place or else it had been ditched more recently. If the latter, why? Had something spooked the killer? A sense of the net closing in? Had their conscience maybe played a role, the knife a continually gnawing reminder that they had committed an atrocity? In which case, Laidlaw and his colleagues were dealing not with a cold-blooded assassin but someone working at a deeper emotional level. Then again, why not ensure the knife was never found? The Clyde would have been a safer bet, or a rubbish bin somewhere. Yet bushes had been chosen rather than even the shallowest grave. That spoke of panic. And a panicked killer was easier to identify than one who remained cool-headed.

He heard a sneeze coming from behind a nearby door. Not the interview room the boy was in but the one next to it. He knocked and entered. A man in his mid twenties sat there alone. He was smoking his third or fourth cigarette and had scrunched up an empty plastic cup. He had lank hair and wore a black leather jacket beneath a faded denim waistcoat. Boots with steel toecaps and flared denims with the bottom three inches turned up.

‘Who are you?’ he asked Laidlaw.

‘DC Laidlaw. Everything all right here?’

‘That bastard Milligan’s forgotten about me. Five more minutes and I’m walking.’

‘You must be Malky Chisholm.’ When the man made no denial, Laidlaw drew out the chair across from him and sat down, lighting a cigarette for himself. ‘How’s business?’

‘What business?’

‘The gang business. Given any football hooligans a kicking lately? Scared any shopkeepers? How about graffiti — bit of spray-painting on the back wall of the Parlour?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about the forthcoming war and wondering which side you’ll be taking.’

‘Who says a war’s coming?’

‘It is, though. One of Colvin’s crew — and not just any old lackey, but a key player — executed and left on display on John Rhodes’s turf. It’s eye-for-an-eye stuff.’

‘So pull in John Rhodes.’

‘We need to know who put your team’s name on that wall. If it was one of you, and it dates back to before Bobby Carter drew his last agonised breath, we can let it rest. On the other hand, if you can swear that none of your lot put it there, that means maybe someone’s looking to maximise the potential mischief by adding you to the lengthening list of suspects.’

‘Any chance of getting that in English?’

Laidlaw gave a sigh that was only ninety per cent theatre. ‘That graffiti’s got DI Milligan thinking you might be involved. Could be that’s exactly what the killer wants. If Cam Colvin starts seeing it that way, too, he’ll come after you. Only course of action open to you then will be to go running to John Rhodes for protection.’

Chisholm considered this for the best part of a minute while he finished his cigarette.

‘It was probably one of my lot,’ he admitted. ‘I only heard about it after. Bit cheeky to plant it there, being Toi territory, but that was the whole point.’

‘Like staking your flag in the enemy camp?’ Laidlaw nodded his understanding. ‘And how long ago was this?’

‘Weeks. Maybe months, even. So can I go now? I’ve wasted half the day already.’

‘Answer me this first — who do you think killed Bobby Carter?’

‘Someone sending a message to his boss.’ Chisholm shrugged at the obviousness of the answer.

‘Who, though?’

‘Got to be John Rhodes, hasn’t it?’ Chisholm was getting to his feet.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘You said we were done.’

‘Maybe you and me, but you’re here until Milligan says otherwise.’

‘How long’s that going to take?’

‘The longer the better, as far as the law-abiding folk of your patch are concerned.’

Chisholm slumped back onto his chair. ‘Ever hear the saying, all coppers are bastards?’

Laidlaw paused with the door ajar. ‘At least I’m a bastard with a glimmer of self-awareness.’ He flicked the remains of his cigarette towards the table and made his exit.

15

Springburn Park was a sea of uniforms, their slow, linear progress watched by about half the local populace. Most of the doors knocked on, there’d been nobody home. They were either at work or the shops, or else they were gathered by the park railings to witness the spectacle.

‘Here’s hoping Cam Colvin appreciates the lengths we’re going to,’ Laidlaw said to Bob Lilley.

‘You don’t sound hopeful.’

‘That’s because I’m not. Even if it turns out to be the knife, what is all this telling us?’

‘It’s by the book, Jack.’

‘Aye, but the book’s in a foreign language and missing some pages. Do you think the killer lives locally?’

‘It’s not all church ministers and spinster librarians around here.’

‘You’re probably right, and if the killer hung on to the knife that means they’ll have bloodstains on their clothes.’ Laidlaw gestured towards the crowd of onlookers. ‘Maybe you should walk up and down the line looking for telltale signs.’

‘Except the clothes will have been tossed by now. Same goes for any bag they might have kept the knife in.’

‘They didn’t leave the knife with the body — that’s something to think about. And this place is too public to be the scene of the crime. So now we have three distinct geographical locations to keep us busy — this park, the lane behind the Parlour, and wherever the stabbing actually took place. It’s a few miles from here to the Calton. My guess would be that the third point of the triangle isn’t too near either of those.’

‘They’re covering their tracks, in other words?’ ‘Either that or they’re monumentally stupid. Speaking of which...’ Laidlaw was watching over Lilley’s shoulder as Milligan came bounding towards them in a cream-coloured terylene raincoat, its belt flapping. His face was more flushed even than usual.

‘One of the houses we tried, the wife was home but not the husband. Her name’s Mary Thomson and she wasn’t exactly cooperative. Officer asked at a neighbour’s, and guess who she’s married to — only Spanner Thomson.’

‘Isn’t he one of Colvin’s men?’ Lilley checked.

‘Bingo,’ Milligan said.

‘We’ve some news of our own,’ Laidlaw broke in. ‘Carter was seeing a young lassie called Jennifer Love. She’s the daughter of Archie Love.’

Milligan’s face creased in concentration. ‘The footballer?’

‘Though as far as we know, her father had no idea they were an item,’ Lilley added.

Laidlaw could see Milligan struggling to accept this new strand. He already had a pattern in mind and didn’t want it spoiled. He flapped a hand in front of him. ‘That’s for later,’ he decided. ‘For now, I want Spanner Thomson brought in.’

‘Interview rooms are already taken,’ Laidlaw reminded him.

‘The lad’s gone home.’

‘And Malky Chisholm?’

‘Can stew until I’m good and ready. Are you two okay to pick up Thomson?’

‘Is he likely to have his trademark about his person?’ Lilley enquired.

‘I’m pretty sure that’s why we’re being given the job,’ Laidlaw answered.

‘Just be careful, Bob,’ Milligan said. ‘DC Laidlaw’s usual ploy of talking the suspect into submission might not work where a pipe wrench is involved. I’ll see you back at the station. Either that or your hospital bed. Don’t expect grapes.’ He moved off again, readying to inspect his troops.

‘Except maybe sour ones,’ Laidlaw muttered.

‘I suppose we could try asking the wife where we might find him,’ Lilley said without enthusiasm.

‘Or we could just barge into any number of Cam Colvin’s establishments while making a nuisance of ourselves. You got any idea what he looks like?’

‘Not much hair, squat and chunky, high-pitched voice.’

‘I think I know him. He had a handful of the landlord’s shirt front when I dropped into the Parlour. If I’d arrived a minute or two later, the pipe wrench might have been getting some air.’

Lilley puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘It’s actually a spanner, hence the nickname. I’m not sure DI Milligan knows there’s a difference. Where should we start, do you think?’

‘This time of day, maybe the cab office.’

‘The cab office it is,’ Bob Lilley agreed.

16

No one at the cab office, however, had ever heard of anyone called Spanner Thomson or Cam Colvin, cross their heart and hope to die, so Laidlaw and Lilley jumped back in the car and tried two separate bookies’ shops, where again ignorance was akin to bliss. As they left the second, however, instinct told Laidlaw that maybe they should sit in the car for a minute. Sure enough, a youth soon left the betting shop and crossed the road, disappearing inside a drinking club. The detectives followed him and found Cam Colvin and his men in the main room, parked around a circular table, their card game having just been interrupted by the messenger. The air was thick with smoke. Open bottles of spirits were dotted around the table, along with piles of coins and notes.

‘I’m guessing the house always wins,’ Laidlaw said, hands in pockets, feet spread as he faced Cam Colvin.

‘Do I know you?’

‘Your sidekicks do. I’m DC Laidlaw.’

‘I’ve heard the name, but that’s about all.’

‘Nice to see you again, lads.’ Laidlaw turned back towards Colvin, who was doing his best not to let his puzzlement show. ‘They didn’t tell you that I chased them out of the Parlour?’

‘You’re lucky you were still standing when we walked out of there,’ one of the men snarled. Laidlaw kept his attention on Colvin.

‘See,’ he said, ‘that right there could be construed as a threat towards an officer of the law. Sort of thing that could lead to court proceedings for all concerned. Lucky for you we’re here on other business. It concerns Mr Thomson.’ He nodded towards the man with the smallest amount of money in front of him. ‘Looks like we’ll be doing him a favour, too. One more bad hand would wipe him out.’

‘What’s going on?’ Thomson asked in his almost falsetto voice.

‘Murder weapon found in the park near your home,’ Laidlaw informed him.

‘Which murder is that, then?’ Colvin asked.

‘Your right-hand man, Bobby Carter.’

‘Nothing to do with me!’ Thomson barked. The eyes of the other gang members were on him.

‘Shouldn’t take long at the station, then,’ Lilley said affably. ‘And like DC Laidlaw says, we’ll be saving you from possible financial ruin and the wrath of your good lady wife.’

Laidlaw had noted Thomson’s hand edging towards the jacket that was draped over the back of his chair. ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ he said. ‘Your boss wouldn’t like what happens next.’

‘I’m not sure I’m liking any of this,’ Colvin said quietly. ‘But the man’s right, Spanner. Best if you go with them and answer their questions.’

Thomson threw him a pleading look, in the hope of persuading him of his innocence. In return, Colvin gave a little nod, bottom lip pushed out slightly. Thomson rose slowly to his feet and lifted his jacket from the chair.

‘Can’t have you carrying a weapon,’ Lilley advised. There was another nod from Colvin, so Thomson took the spanner from its specially sewn pocket and placed it on the table, where it gleamed against the green baize. He then scooped up what little money sat next to it.

‘If you’re minded to get rough with him,’ Colvin told the detectives, ‘you’ll be paid back tenfold, that’s a promise.’ He paused. ‘You must see what’s happening here. Kill one of my men and then try sticking another in the frame. It’s so obvious it’s almost insulting.’

‘We will find whoever did it, trust me on that,’ Laidlaw said. ‘It’d be nice to get on with that job without the Battle of the Bulge erupting all around us.’

Colvin made show of checking his surroundings. ‘I don’t see a battle — do any of you lads see one?’

There were shakes of the head.

‘That’s the thing about hostilities, though,’ Laidlaw said. ‘They creep towards you almost invisibly. You’ll sense their approach but they can still surprise you, by which time it’s too late. I’m guessing this card game is a regular thing, so it had to happen, otherwise you might look overly rattled by events and that would get back to the likes of John Rhodes and Matt Mason. Doesn’t pay to let weakness show, whether you’re playing cards or doing business.’

Colvin seemed to be trying to take the measure of Laidlaw. He even leaned back a little in his chair as if this might help. But in the end all he did was shake his head at the impossibility of the task.

‘Don’t keep him out too late,’ he said, turning back to the hand of cards in front of him. ‘Whose turn was it to bet?’

‘I’ve not done nothing,’ Thomson felt it necessary to stress as he followed Bob Lilley towards the door. ‘I tell you, I’ve not.’

‘And we believe you when you say that,’ Laidlaw assured him. ‘We accept that statement one hundred per cent.’

He couldn’t resist a final backwards glance towards the table. Colvin was picking up a card from the deck, placing it in his hand and discarding another. The spanner had become mere ornamentation. The game progressed almost as if the existence of the police inquiry had no meaning here.

As soon as the door was closed, however, Colvin tossed his cards onto the table. He was vibrating with rage.

‘If any of you knows anything, this is definitely the time to speak.’

Mickey Ballater, Dod Menzies and Panda Paterson shared looks and shrugs. Paterson cleared his throat.

‘You know what Bobby was like. We all had words with him from time to time.’

‘Just words, though,’ Menzies said, as though he were underlining a sentence in a primary-school jotter.

‘Teasing mostly,’ Ballater agreed. ‘Which isn’t to say Bobby didn’t sometimes deserve more.’

‘You mean a punch? A slap? A doing?’ Colvin’s eyes had narrowed even further than usual.

‘I just mean he sometimes got a bit up himself. He’d have a drink in him from some club or other and maybe some dolly bird in tow who he was trying to impress and he’d start winding us up, telling everyone we were his message boys and he was the grocer.’

‘We’re not going to speak ill of the dead,’ Paterson added, ‘and nobody around this table harmed a hair on his head — God’s honest truth — but the guy could be hard work, and I think that got to Spanner more than the rest of us.’

‘Oh aye?’

Paterson was looking for someone to back him up, but his friends seemed suddenly to have been deprived of the power of speech.

‘You’ve known Spanner longer than any of us,’ he explained to Colvin, ‘and that’s important to him. You’re like a brother or something. Then Bobby arrives and things start to change. You’re not confiding in Spanner the way you used to. Now it’s late-night drinks with just you and Bobby.’

‘Bobby understood the business in a way Spanner never could.’ Colvin was beginning to look slightly uncomfortable. ‘That’s what it comes down to and that’s all those drinks were ever about.’

Paterson nodded his agreement. ‘I’m just saying, Spanner would go to the scaffold for you.’

‘Lucky we’ve done away with hanging then, eh?’ Because Colvin was attempting to lighten the mood, there were wary chuckles at this. ‘I take your point, though, and it begs a question — did anyone give Spanner cause to feel that Bobby might need more than a talking-to? Maybe that he was dipping his hand in the till or playing a bit naughty?’ Colvin watched each man shake his head. Only Panda Paterson dared to make eye contact as he did so. ‘Because I did hear a rumour,’ Colvin continued, his words slowing almost to a crawl, ‘that Matt Mason was saying he had someone inside my shop whispering sweet nothings in his ear. I know what Mason’s like so I dismissed it as his usual bullshit, but now I’m starting to wonder.’

‘You’re sure it was Mason?’ Dod Menzies piped up.

‘Why?’ The question came like a bullet.

‘It’s just I’d have thought that’s the sort of sleekit tactic John Rhodes would use — get us all watching each other, not sure who to trust.’

‘You’re maybe right, so let me turn things on their head. Say Bobby not only heard those rumours but went and did a bit of investigating.’

Panda Paterson was shaking his head. ‘This isn’t doing us any good, boss. We all know the obvious candidates — John Rhodes and Matt Mason. But Mason’s been in hospital getting his leg seen to and he seems happy enough with the territory he owns. Rhodes is another matter entirely. He’s the one we should be putting the screws on. If he’s innocent, only way to get us off his back is to help us find whoever did do it. We make life difficult for him until he does right by us.’

‘You’re saying I can trust you — all of you, Spanner included?’

‘I’m saying you have to, or everything we’ve built falls apart.’

‘Trust’s a two-way street, though — how come you didn’t tell me about meeting Laidlaw at the Parlour?’

‘He sort of did send us packing,’ Dod Menzies said. ‘That’s why we kept our traps shut. You might say our professional pride took a dent.’

‘It’s your heads that’ll be taking a dent if you keep anything else back from me, understood?’

‘Yes, boss.’

Colvin had picked up his cards again without really looking at them. He tossed them onto the pile of discards. ‘Let’s start a new game then. Increase the stakes, take a few risks. Is everybody in?’

All three men agreed that they were.

17

The two women walked through the Necropolis at a pace that was stately, befitting their surroundings and purpose. Eleanor Love always brought them on a slightly circuitous route so that they would pass the statue of John Knox. As he frowned his disapproval down on them, so Eleanor Love scowled back. Despite the reason for their visit, this always made Jennifer Love smile. For the past several years she had been tasked with carrying the small posy of flowers. The grave itself was neat and tidy; her mother made sure of that on her regular visits. But today was Sam’s birthday and Jennifer always accompanied her, as she did, too, when commemorating the day Sam had died.

The name Sam had been Archie Love’s choice. My son Sam, Samson, you see? He had hoped to watch Sam become big and strong, had had the laddie kicking a ball almost before he could balance unaided on his plump and wobbly infant legs. Dead by the age of eight, two years older than Jennifer, who had taken some persuading that her big brother wouldn’t be coming back from playing in the courtyard behind his best pal’s tenement.

They had reached the graveside now, Jennifer handing over the flowers, her mother crouching to place them in the small vase, grown opaque from weathering. No words were spoken, and afterwards, as was now traditional, the two women stood in contemplation of their surroundings. The Necropolis was where the city’s great and good finally rubbed stone shoulders with everybody else. Eleanor Love reached out and gave her daughter’s hand a brief but tight squeeze.

‘Why does Dad never come?’ Jennifer asked. It was far from the first time the question had passed her lips.

Eleanor gave a slow exhalation. ‘He’s not a bad man, your dad. This here is why he’s always wanted what’s best for you.’

‘Sam fell off a wall, Mum. I don’t need wrapped in cotton wool because of that.’

‘I know. But look at the trouble you...’ She broke off, swallowing the rest of the sentence.

‘I’m not in trouble. I’ve never been in trouble. But everybody surely merits a bit of freedom.’

‘Your dad just wants—’

‘What’s best for me. So you keep saying. But does he ever wonder what I want?’ Jennifer dug a toe into the damp grass in front of her.

‘Your good shoes,’ her mother reminded her.

‘Why do we always end up talking about him anyway? I don’t mean Sam, I mean Dad. Maybe one day we’ll talk about us. Maybe we’ll talk about you.’

‘What about me?’

‘Anything. Everything. What were you like when you were my age? What did you want from life?’

Eleanor Love thought for a moment. ‘I was already pregnant,’ she said, her eyes on the headstone. Jennifer watched as those eyes began to fill with tears.

‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she said, reaching into her bag for a paper handkerchief. But as she made to dab at her mother’s face, Eleanor’s hand clasped itself around her wrist.

‘Swear you don’t know anything, Jenni. Here in front of Sam. Promise me you don’t know what happened to him.’

‘You mean Bobby?’ Jennifer shook her head, not quite meeting her mother’s eyes. She could feel her fierce stare, though, as the hankie went to work. ‘Cross my heart,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

And it was true, mostly. She didn’t know anything, nothing that would stand up in court. But she had an inkling, maybe even more than an inkling.

‘Ready for that cup of tea now?’ she said. ‘The café’s keeping us the table by the window.’

Eleanor had released her grip on her daughter’s wrist. She gave a slow nod.

‘Has Dad said anything about Bobby?’ Jennifer enquired, trying to sound casual. ‘Since the news broke, I mean?’

‘He still doesn’t know. Best if it’s kept that way, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Thanks, Mum. I mean it.’ Jennifer gave her mother a hug, Eleanor closing her eyes the better to appreciate the warmth of it. Then Eleanor Love allowed herself to be led from the Necropolis, almost as if their roles had been reversed and she was now the child.

Laidlaw often thought of the Calton as ‘Little Rhodesia’. It had the feel of a separate state, John Rhodes having declared UDI. The Gay Laddie belied its name by being another unwelcoming slab of 1950s architecture, its windows high up and ungenerous, its walls rough-plastered, ripe for graffiti yet unsullied by it. Laidlaw knew the reason why: this was John Rhodes’s second home. To defile it would be to invite swift and definitive retribution. As he walked in, he was scrutinised by a line of drinkers at the bar who might as well have been wearing the uniforms of security guards. They saw him immediately for what he was, even though they couldn’t be sure who he was. He ignored them and waited for the barman to grace him with some attention.

‘I need a word with John,’ he explained, glancing in the direction of the snug.

‘Is he expecting you?’

‘We’re not in an episode of Upstairs Downstairs, Charlie, and you’d make a shite Gordon Jackson. Go tell the man I’m here, and make sure to say I need a word rather than want one.’

The barman put down the glass he’d been drying and flipped the tea towel over his left shoulder, then headed towards the snug. Laidlaw knew he was being studied like a medical specimen as he lit a cigarette. He kept his face to the row of quarter-gill optics behind the bar. There was no television, no music, and until he vacated the room there’d be no more conversation. The tension in the bar was probably at its usual level, these being men who treated every waking moment and passing stranger as a potential threat.

When Charlie the barman re-emerged, he reached beneath the counter and handed Laidlaw an unopened bottle of the good whisky and two glasses. ‘John doesn’t take water,’ he said, meaning none would be offered for Laidlaw.

With the cigarette gripped between his teeth, Laidlaw walked into the snug. At one time its purpose would have been to protect women from the masculine world of the main bar. Now it held only John Rhodes and his bodyguard, the one with the face disfigured by razor scars. Rhodes tended to change bodyguards regularly, so that they didn’t become soft and lazy. This one had been around longer than most, long enough in fact that it might be worth Laidlaw’s time finding out his name. Not right now, though. After a nod in the man’s direction, he placed the bottle and glasses on the table and seated himself opposite Rhodes. He knew better than to open the bottle. That was Rhodes’s duty. An inch of amber duly appeared in Laidlaw’s glass, half as much again in Rhodes’s.

‘I hear you’ve picked up Spanner Thomson,’ Rhodes said without preamble.

‘News travels fast.’

‘It might make sense, I suppose — all businesses have their power struggles and fallings-out.’

‘Any reason to think Thomson had a particular falling-out with Bobby Carter?’

‘Spanner and Colvin go back to schooldays. Carter arrived later.’

‘Simple jealousy, then.’

Rhodes sipped his drink before meeting Laidlaw’s eyes for the first time. ‘Carter wanted to see me. We arranged to meet at the Parlour. In the end, I didn’t show up.’

‘Why not?’

‘I wasn’t sure it would end well.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Three or four weeks back.’

Laidlaw gave a slight nod. The timing chimed with the story Conn Feeney had given him.

‘Any idea what he wanted?’

‘Two theories — one, negotiating to switch sides, sounding out what sort of offer I might make.’

‘And the other?’

‘Carter enjoyed the life. He didn’t just set up camp in the picture house when The Godfather came out, he’d read the book a few times, too. Rumour was, he wanted his own slice of Glasgow. If I gave him a bit and Colvin gave him a bit, he’d create a kind of buffer zone between us, meaning less potential for strife.’

‘That would have been ambitious.’

‘Bobby Carter was an ambitious man. He knew he had a brain and he reckoned that made him better than most.’

‘Had he talked to Colvin, do you think?’

‘No idea. But say someone like Spanner Thomson found out. You can see how that might have escalated.’

‘Or else Spanner took the info to his boss, who flipped, did Carter in himself, and popped the carcass on your doorstep to blur the picture.’ Laidlaw paused for a moment, deep in thought, then roused himself. ‘And speaking of escalations, how are things between you and Colvin right now?’

Rhodes’s look hardened. ‘There are some questions you don’t get to ask.’

‘And yet my job demands that I do. But I’m happy to change the subject to Chick McAllister.’

‘What’s Chick got to do with anything?’

‘I need a chat with him, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll fill you in afterwards.’

‘You don’t ask much, do you?’

‘Just as much as I need.’ Laidlaw lifted his glass and sipped.

‘Does Milligan really expect Spanner Thomson to break down and confess?’

‘He’s one of life’s eternal optimists.’

‘But you know better, don’t you?’

‘I try.’

The two men sat in silence until Rhodes angled his head quarter of an inch in the direction of the scarred man, this being as much as was necessary.

‘Go rustle up Chick.’

After the man had left, Rhodes gave Laidlaw his full attention. ‘Are you wondering how he got the scars?’

‘Asking too many questions?’

This almost elicited a smile. ‘I gave him them. This was a few years before he came to work for me.’

‘You trust him not to want payback?’

‘Those were payback, meaning the books are balanced between us. Seems to me I’m the one doling out favours to you and it’s all been a one-way street so far. If war does break out, I hope you’ll remember that.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my memory.’

‘That’s good to hear, because with Thomson in custody Colvin is two men down and I foresee a lot of headless chickens running around.’

‘The sort of mayhem that could be capitalised on.’

‘You know yourself that these reckonings happen from time to time. It clears the air the way a thunderstorm does, and afterwards the boundaries are re-established, meaning everybody’s happy.’

‘The ones still able to walk, talk and feed themselves without assistance,’ Laidlaw qualified.

The scarred man was back in the room again.

‘He’ll be here in five,’ he said.

Rhodes nodded and focused on Laidlaw again. ‘But he’s not going to tell you a thing until I know what you need from him.’

Laidlaw considered for a moment. ‘McAllister went out with a young woman called Jennifer Love. After they broke up, Carter took her under his wing.’

‘And you think that gives Chick a motive to do in Bobby Carter?’

‘Not especially, but when I give the connection to Milligan, he might. All I’m doing here is trying to rule him out to my own satisfaction so the investigation doesn’t waste any more time than it already has.’

‘In other words, you’ve not told your colleagues about Chick and Jennifer Love?’ Rhodes pressed his palms against the surface of the table as if readying to commence a seance. Laidlaw knew that he was storing the information away. Here was a detective who didn’t always take everything to his bosses, a detective capable of keeping secrets.

Maybe a rare cop John Rhodes could trust without money changing hands.

The gesture had revealed the large gold wristwatch on his left wrist. He seemed to notice the time and slowly rose to his feet.

‘You stay here and ask Chick your questions. I’ve got business elsewhere.’

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, John.’

Laidlaw was rewarded with another thin smile. The scarred man started to help Rhodes into his camel-hair coat.

‘Any relation to the footballer?’ Rhodes asked, almost too casually.

‘Who are we talking about?’

‘Archie Love. It’s not the most common surname.’

‘He’s her father, aye,’ Laidlaw conceded, watching Rhodes closely, wondering what was happening behind eyes that hadn’t yet blinked. No more was said, however, as the two men departed the snug. Laidlaw rolled his shoulders and neck a few times to loosen the knots, Rhodes having turned him, too, into an actor for the duration, one learning his lines a split second before having to deliver them. He was getting out another cigarette when the barman appeared, placing a jug of water on the table.

‘Mr Rhodes thought you might take a splash,’ he explained.

‘Mr Rhodes is well informed, but I think I need a breather. It’s like all the air’s been sucked out of this place and replaced by testosterone.’

‘You’re not waiting for Chick?’

‘While every ear in the place listens in?’ Laidlaw shook his head and polished off the dregs in his glass. The same row of faces stood at the bar as he made his exit. He blew each of them a kiss.

It wasn’t quite raining outside, but dusk was falling, the headlights of cars and buses picking out pedestrians shuffling home from work or shopping. Their world was not his and they wouldn’t thank him for sharing. He wondered if Glasgow would always be like this. Change had to come, surely. Jobs couldn’t keep vanishing, the gangs becoming more feral, people’s lives more fraught. But then a young mother trundled past pushing a pram, transfixed by it as if she had just invented the world’s first baby. To her, Laidlaw didn’t exist. To her, nothing mattered except the new life she was nurturing and nothing in the world was off kilter as long as that nurturing continued uninterrupted.

‘Hope springs eternal,’ he found himself saying out loud. He remembered his old school pal Tom Docherty. They’d spent many a night as students quoting poetry and exchanging the names of cult authors, usually in the Admiral pub, usually between games of darts or cards or dominoes. But Laidlaw had quit his course after one year and he didn’t know where Tom was. His brother Scott might know, but Laidlaw didn’t really know his whereabouts either. Like Tom, Scott had dreamed of becoming a writer some day, either that or an artist. The last news Laidlaw had had was that he was teaching in their old home town of Graithnock. An address or phone number would be simple enough to find, but something had stopped him thus far. His feeling was, Scott hadn’t made the effort so why should he? The old Scots word ‘thrawn’ came to mind. The two brothers had always locked horns, maybe too similar to one another for their own good. It hadn’t helped that Laidlaw had joined the police — switching sides, as Scott, always the first to the barricades, would have put it.

The taxi that drew to a halt in front of him seemed more of a private chauffeur service, no money changing hands as the passenger stepped out onto the pavement.

‘Perks of the job?’ Laidlaw asked conversationally, receiving a glower in response. ‘I’m the man you’re here to see,’ he explained. ‘Always supposing you’re Chick McAllister.’

‘We not going in?’ McAllister enquired. He was tall, early twenties, with thick waves of hair falling over his ears and neck. The amount of denim he wore reminded Laidlaw that he should buy shares in Lee Cooper.

‘This won’t take long,’ Laidlaw informed him. ‘In fact, you should have told your driver to wait. All I’m wanting to ask is, did you stab Bobby Carter to death a few nights back?’

McAllister’s mouth opened a fraction in disbelief. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’

‘You knew he was seeing your old girlfriend.’

‘They’d already split up, though.’

‘And how did you feel about that?’

‘Mr Rhodes said I had to talk to you, but I’m thinking maybe that’s a bad idea.’

‘What’s your role in the organisation, Chick? You don’t look like muscle and you’ve no visible war wounds, so I’m guessing supply side. A busy night at Whiskies must be the jackpot, eh? Is it just dope, or do you flog pills as well?’

‘I’m not doing this.’ McAllister turned to go.

‘Don’t make me have to give you a bad report when I talk to John Rhodes.’

McAllister pivoted to face him. ‘I never touched Bobby Carter. I hardly knew the guy.’

‘But you’d seen him around? At Whiskies? With Jenni?’

‘I told her he was no good for her and for once she took my advice.’

‘Ever meet her dad?’

‘She took me home once. Her mum was there but not her dad.’

‘Who else knew about Jenni and Carter?’

‘Word has a way of getting around.’

‘Did Carter’s boss know?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Carter’s wife?’

McAllister shrugged. ‘Bobby Carter spread himself a bit thin where women were concerned. That was one of the things I told Jenni.’

‘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 streets 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.