The Dark Remains

26

‘Explains why I had trouble getting a taxi,’ Laidlaw said to Lilley.

They were standing on the pavement next to a high mesh fence topped with strands of barbed wire. The padlock on the gates had been cut and lay on the ground. Inside the compound sat a dozen black cabs, their tyres slashed and windshields smashed. Laidlaw examined the surrounding buildings — disused warehouses and single-storey factory units.

‘Only likely witnesses that time of night would be tarts and their clients,’ Lilley commented, ‘judging by the johnnies strewn along the gutters.’

‘You paint a compelling picture, Bob.’

Crime-scene officers were dusting for prints and shooting roll upon roll of film. Laidlaw dislodged a sliver of bacon from between his teeth and flicked it towards the ground.

‘Hotel again last night?’ Lilley enquired. He watched Laidlaw shake his head. ‘Thanks for the meal, by the way.’

‘Don’t feel under any compunction to invite us round to yours too soon.’

‘Understood.’

‘I hope Cam Colvin’s premiums are up to date. Who fronts the place for him?’

‘Betty Fraser.’ Lilley watched one of Laidlaw’s eyebrows rise a fraction. ‘A rare enough commodity, I know, but she’s driven cabs for twenty years, knows her stuff, and her drivers are loyal to her.’

‘Meaning they don’t skim too much off each fare? Was the business always hers?’

Lilley nodded. ‘Colvin came in as a sleeping partner three or four years back. Seems he made her an offer she—’

‘I get the picture, Bob.’ The two detectives were walking around the inner perimeter of the compound, so as not to get in the way.

‘Tit for tat, isn’t it?’ Lilley commented.

‘And if the damage is covered by insurance, the only thing hurt is Colvin’s pride.’

‘You reckon John Rhodes is good for it?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Just maybe?’

‘Just maybe,’ Laidlaw echoed.

‘So what does Colvin do now?’

‘He either sits on his hands or he escalates.’

‘Would it do any good to put the two of them in a room together?’

‘Only if you run a funeral business.’ Laidlaw was lighting a cigarette. There were only two left in the packet, and he needed new flints for his lighter. ‘Any chance I can hitch a lift?’

Lilley checked his watch. ‘We could grab a cuppa first — there’s another forty minutes before the morning briefing.’

‘I’m not going to the morning briefing, Bob.’

‘How far do you think you can push Milligan before the top of his head comes off?’

‘It’s an ongoing experiment.’

‘So where am I giving you a lift to?’

‘First stop’s a tobacconist, Bearsden after that.’

‘You’re going to see the widow?’

Laidlaw shook his head. ‘I thought I’d drop in on a convalescing friend.’

Lilley worked it out in a matter of seconds. ‘Matt Mason’s out of hospital?’

‘The very man,’ Laidlaw said.

‘Am I invited?’

‘Not really.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘It’s for your own good. If Milligan gets to hear that I’m freelancing, best that you can deny all knowledge.’

‘Except that I’m supposed to be babysitting you — and that’s the Commander’s orders rather than Ernie Milligan’s.’

‘You really think I need babysitting, Bob?’

‘What you need, Jack, is nothing short of a guardian bloody angel.’

Matt Mason’s home was an unassuming bungalow on a quiet street of well-kept flower beds and windows shielded by net curtains. Unassuming or no, it would be worth north of ten thousand pounds in this part of town. A Ford Escort RS1600 was parked on the road outside, while the driveway itself was empty. It was a conspicuous car, and intended to be so. Laidlaw tapped on the driver’s-side window and waited while the scowling figure within deigned to wind it down.

‘The name’s Detective Constable Laidlaw. Just here for a word with your boss, no dramatics needed.’

‘I’m waiting to pick up a pal.’

‘Of course you are, and so is the bulge under your armpit. It better fire nothing more deadly than caps, or I might need to haul you out of there and into a Black Maria.’ While he waited for his words to sink in, he looked up and down the empty street. ‘Any reason for Matt to feel the need for more firepower than usual? This thing you’re sat in is about as subtle as a tricolour at Ibrox.’ The driver wasn’t about to answer, so Laidlaw turned away, passed through the wrought-iron gate and rang the doorbell.

The woman who answered wore a floral apron and was wiping her hands on a dish towel.

‘Mrs Mason? I’m here to see Matt.’

‘Is he expecting you?’

‘I was hoping for the element of surprise.’ Laidlaw held up his warrant card and she dropped the impersonation of suburban housewife, her face becoming stony, eyes as cold as any mugger’s.

‘He’s just out of hospital.’

‘Which is why I’m here and not there.’

‘Have you got a search warrant?’

‘I’m only after a talk with the man, unless you think there’s something more serious I should be exploring?’

She half turned, as if to assure herself nothing incriminating was within view.

‘Matt won’t be happy,’ she stated. ‘He keeps family and business separate.’

‘That’s nice. Through here, aye?’ Laidlaw began to squeeze past her. It was a calculated risk. One gesture from her and the gorilla in the car would come bounding up the path. But as he walked down the hall, his feet making no discernible sound as they stepped on a good half-inch depth of expensive-looking pale carpet, he heard the door behind him click shut. He glanced into the living room as he passed it. The voluminous three-piece suite looked new. Maybe there’d been a trip to Carrick Furniture.

‘He’s in the garden,’ she called out. ‘Through the dining room extension.’

Matt Mason was dressed for the weather, a fleecy jacket zipped to his neck and a flat cap on his head. Beneath the cap, the hair was thinning. He wasn’t much over five feet two in height, stocky with it. He sat at a round metal table, a walking stick propped next to him. The morning paper was open at the sports pages, alongside an empty mug.

‘I see Colin Stein’s leaving Rangers,’ Laidlaw said. ‘Who the hell are you?’ Mason responded, watching as Laidlaw dragged out the chair opposite and sat himself down.

‘I’m CID. The name’s Laidlaw.’

‘It’s a name I’ve heard.’

‘Just wanted to check that there’s no good news. You being up and about confirms it.’

‘You’re the owner of a smart mouth, Laidlaw. You want to be careful how you drive it though.’

‘A bit like one of Cam Colvin’s taxis, eh? Some garage proprietor is going to be popping the champagne and booking a week in the sunshine.’

‘I take it he got hit?’

‘Don’t pretend it’s coming as news to you.’

‘It is, though.’

Laidlaw shook his head slowly. ‘It’s not John Rhodes’s style, and Colvin isn’t canny enough to attack his own business so he could lay the blame on the opposition. You, though...’ He jabbed a finger towards Mason. ‘Seems to me you’ve got most to gain from Colvin and Rhodes fighting each other.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.’

Mason considered for a moment. ‘No, you’re probably right. All the same, I didn’t do anything to Colvin’s taxis. They belong to Betty Fraser, and I like Betty. I knew her father back in the day. She’s the one losing money while the cabs are being fixed. Colvin will still demand his cut at month’s end.’

Laidlaw was breaking the seal on a fresh packet of cigarettes. He paused. ‘If you don’t mind?’ he said. It was a small concession, but a concession nonetheless. Mason acknowledged as much with his eyes.

‘Puff away,’ he said.

Laidlaw used his lighter. The tobacconist had changed its flint and topped up the gas.

‘That’s a nice one,’ Mason said, admiring it.

‘Present from my brother. He didn’t like that I used to be fitter than him. Decided to hobble me by facilitating my habit.’

Mason smiled a thin smile. ‘What are you really doing here?’

‘Just getting a feel for things.’ Laidlaw took in his surroundings. ‘All your own work?’

‘We’ve got a gardener.’

‘Bearsden seems to be the place, eh? For men going up in the world, I mean. Cam Colvin’s not too far away, and Bobby Carter had recently moved into the vicinity. I know you grew up in the Gallowgate; not the easiest of upbringings. Yet here you are, and that’s what separates the likes of you and Colvin from John Rhodes.’

‘Because Rhodes still lives in the Calton? You think that makes him — what? — more authentic?’ Mason gave a sneer. ‘To my mind it makes him lazy. His world’s shrinking around him and he can’t even see it.’

‘Whereas you and Colvin are always hungry for more — more power, more money, more territory?’

‘It’s called capitalism, Laidlaw.’

‘Not the way you do it. Your style is more totalitarian regime with punishment beatings and disappearances. History isn’t on your side.’

‘In which case I say: fuck history.’

‘That’ll look perfect on your headstone. Seen much of Archie Love lately?’

‘Who?’

‘What drugs did they give you in hospital, Matt? They seem to have affected your brainpan. Love’s the guy who gets players to throw games so you can make the extra few quid you so sorely don’t need while heaping on them a lifetime of guilt and self-loathing. He’s also the father of Jenni Love, who was seeing Bobby Carter on the fly. Ringing any bells now? You might have thought you were doing Love a favour by getting rid of Carter. Maybe you didn’t know Jenni had split up with him. Maybe you thought you’d be wrapping your tentacles around her father that bit tighter, so he wouldn’t suddenly get cold feet. And wouldn’t it be grand if Carter’s death could in some way be pinned either on John Rhodes or one of Cam Colvin’s own team?’

Laidlaw broke off, studying Mason’s face as if he were a surgeon about to operate on its owner. ‘I’m just wondering if you’re clever enough to have thought all that through, and now that I’ve seen you in the flesh, I’m having grave doubts. Very grave doubts. Added to which, the armed guard out front tells me you think you’re under threat. Question is: who from? I doubt you’re going to tell me. In fact, I’d guess you don’t really know. If you did, you’d have felt compelled to do something noisy and public about it. So there you are, that’s why I came here — like I said, to get a feel for things.’ He rose to his feet.

‘How long have you been in the police?’ Mason asked.

‘Long enough.’

‘What was it about the job that attracted you?’

‘The privilege of studying human nature close up. That and the pension plan.’

Mason managed another thin smile. ‘See, most cops I meet, there’s not much behind the eyes, your boss Ernie Milligan being a prime example, but you strike me as different.’

‘Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr Mason.’

‘I’m not flattering you, son, but you already know that. You’ve a good enough conceit of yourself. You know your strengths, but remember to watch out for your weaknesses, too.’

‘And what might those be?’

‘I think you’re maybe a bit more idealistic than you let on. You believe in things like justice and fair play.’

‘And you’ve culled all of that from our chat here today? You should open a psychiatric practice.’

‘One more thing, then. Just remember that you might be guilty, too — guilty of overthinking things.’

‘I’ve faced that accusation before; I dare say I’ll face it again.’ Laidlaw’s eyes went to Mason’s walking stick. ‘I’ll be hopping along now.’

‘Do that — and don’t ever think about coming back.’

Halfway to the house, Laidlaw paused and turned his face towards Mason. ‘Does that guy still work for you, the one who bites chunks off people’s faces for a living?’

‘The Snapper, you mean? He got gum disease. They had to whip out all his teeth.’

‘Ending his business model in the process? I suppose that’s the problem when you only have the one skill. A bit like taking Spanner Thomson’s spanner away from him. Without it, he’s just a guy called Thomson with an empty pocket. Maybe that’s how you see Cam Colvin without Bobby Carter. Must be nice to sit here in your garden relaxing and protected while Colvin and Rhodes burn each other’s houses down.’

‘I’d be lying if I said the thought didn’t give me a nice warm glow.’ Mason picked up his paper again and started perusing the racing section. Laidlaw couldn’t be sure that he was a betting man necessarily. Maybe he just liked studying the form.

There was no sign of Mason’s wife in the house. Laidlaw continued smoking as he walked down the deserted hallway, flicking cigarette ash onto the carpet in his wake.

27

It was a ten-minute walk to Bobby Carter’s street. Laidlaw stopped outside the house opposite and, there being no obvious bell, thumped on the door with his fist. When no one answered, he peered through first the letter box and then the living room window. It was obvious no one was home. He turned his collar up as he prepared for the walk to the nearest bus stop, but then saw a figure emerging from Carter’s home. It was Ernie Milligan. Milligan did a double take and a scowl replaced the more relaxed look he’d been sporting. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets as he crossed the road and confronted Laidlaw.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he snarled.

‘I was just thinking the same thing — keeping the widow to yourself, eh?’

‘I was merely providing an update.’

‘Including Jennifer Love?’

‘Monica’s got enough on her plate as it is.’

‘First names now, Ernie? How’s everything on the home front — Lucille happy and well?’

Milligan’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re one to talk. I hear you spend more time in hotel beds than your own.’

Laidlaw was looking over Milligan’s shoulder towards the Carter house. ‘She’s a fine-looking woman, though, and with money coming to her. Can’t say I’d blame you for trying, though I doubt you’ve a cat in hell’s chance, not when the competition includes Cam Colvin.’

Blood was creeping up Milligan’s neck. ‘I don’t want you bothering that family.’

‘Perish the thought.’

‘So what are you doing here?’

‘Just following up the door-to-doors, double-checking what light the neighbours can shed.’

‘I don’t remember that being something I asked for.’

‘Working on my own initiative, DI Milligan.’

‘You were at the taxi pound this morning, weren’t you? Looks like John Rhodes is preparing for war. Bob Lilley reckons I should try to broker peace.’

‘Is that right?’

‘You don’t think I’m up to it?’

‘I’m not convinced Gandhi himself would be up to it, but if Bob thinks it’s worth a try...’ Laidlaw gave a shrug.

Milligan was looking past him to where an unmarked Ford Cortina was entering the street, driven by one of the faces from Central. ‘My lift’s here,’ he stated.

‘Room for one in the back?’ Laidlaw enquired.

Milligan waited until the car had pulled to a halt before shaking his head with obvious relish. He closed the passenger-side door after him and the car started moving off again, the driver offering an apologetic look in Laidlaw’s direction.

‘Fuck you too, pal,’ Laidlaw muttered.

Laidlaw hadn’t quite reached the end of the street when he heard a door bang shut behind him. He paused as if to light a cigarette and watched as a young woman approached, chin tucked into the tartan scarf around her neck. She was in her late teens and sported long, straight dark hair, the fringe of which stopped just short of her eyes. He searched for her name: Stella, that was it.

‘Stella Carter?’ he said as she made to give him a wide berth.

‘Which paper are you?’

‘I’m police. My colleague DI Milligan just paid you a visit.’

‘Prove it.’

Laidlaw handed her his warrant card. She took her time before returning it.

‘He wasn’t visiting me,’ she eventually confided.

‘Your mum then. Can I just say how sorry I am about your dad?’

‘Stepdad,’ she corrected him. She had commenced walking again, Laidlaw falling into step beside her.

‘Where are you off to?’ he asked.

‘The shop.’ After a dozen more steps, she stopped, half turning to stare at him with dark, tired-looking eyes. ‘What do you want?’

‘Twenty Embassy, if you’re offering.’

She decided to reward him with a fleeting smile. When she recommenced her walk, he stayed with her.

‘I didn’t know your mum had been married before.’

‘It didn’t last long.’

‘Long enough to produce you, though.’

‘I’m the reason for the wedding.’

‘Some good came of it, then.’

‘Are you allowed to be chatting me up?’

‘Trust me, that’s not what I’m doing. Are you in college or anything?’

‘Compassionate leave.’

Laidlaw nodded his understanding. ‘What are you studying?’

‘Accountancy.’

‘Your choice or your stepdad’s?’ When she looked at him, he gave a sympathetic smile. ‘I went through much the same — literature wasn’t going to get me a job, according to my mum and dad. They wanted a doctor, dentist, lawyer, as if the working classes are only allowed higher education as a road towards a trade.’

‘But you did it anyway? English, I mean?’

‘Gave up after a year.’

‘Drama’s what I really wanted to do,’ she confessed, her tone almost wistful for a moment before she remembered who she was with and the circumstances that had brought them together.

‘What was DI Milligan talking to your mum about?’ Laidlaw asked into the silence.

‘How he’s working like a Trojan, not letting up for a second.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

‘He also offered to help move the wall units back now the decorating’s finished. Is that part of your normal service?’

‘No,’ Laidlaw conceded. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘He just likes my mum — no surprise there.’

‘I’d say Cam Colvin likes your mum, too.’

Stella stared at him and looked suddenly chastened. ‘Bobby drilled it into us: don’t talk to the police. They’re not your friends.’

‘And yet here we are.’ Laidlaw could see the shop. It was on the next corner, a sandwich board outside tempting customers with offers of cut-price lager and vodka. Time, he knew, was limited. A woman in her seventies had just exited, carrying a string bag containing not much more than a box of loose tea and a bottle of gin.

‘Hello there, Stella,’ she said as she passed them.

‘Mrs Jamieson,’ Stella replied, the greeting half-hearted at best.

‘Cam Colvin does still look in on your mum, though?’ Laidlaw asked once they were past.

‘He phones mostly. He’s arranging the funeral, wants a big show.’ She paused. ‘I don’t think he was happy when he turned up the same time as Roy.’

‘Roy?’

‘My dad.’

‘So your mum and him are still close?’

‘You ask a lot of questions.’

‘That’s because I’m nosy.’

‘He takes me out once a fortnight, maybe the pictures or Rothesay or just shopping.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘Painter and decorator — thinking of offering him some work?’

‘Not a bad idea. My wife’s been nagging me for months.’

He waited for another smile, but none was being offered.

‘You think they might get together again?’ he pressed on. ‘Your mum and dad?’

Stella gave a snort. ‘Don’t think so.’

‘Stranger things have happened.’ They had reached the shop’s doorway. She pushed her way inside, leaving him standing there. Peering through the glass, he saw her produce a string bag of her own from a pocket, along with a shopping list. Weighing up his options, he turned and headed back the way he’d just come, catching up with Mrs Jamieson before long, aided by the fact that she seemed to be X-raying every dwelling she passed.

‘Carry your bag for you?’ he offered.

‘No thank you.’ Her eyes were piercing. ‘You’re the police? I saw you the other day.’

Laidlaw nodded. ‘Not much gets past you,’ he said. ‘Must be a shock for the whole street, what happened to Mr Carter.’

‘I doubt anybody with eyes and ears was shocked,’ she snapped back. ‘The man was a gangster. There was only ever one way that was going to end. You know his boss has been here? Supposedly helping plan the funeral, but I reckon he’s digging.’

‘Digging?’

‘Bobby Carter was a lawyer, making him privy to people’s secrets.’

‘We’ve not had much luck finding evidence of that.’

Mrs Jamieson shrugged her bony shoulders. Laidlaw scratched at his chin. ‘Did he have much to do with Stella’s real father?’

‘Wouldn’t let him over the threshold. Probably the cause of all the shouting that went on.’ There was a gleam in the old woman’s eye now, and Laidlaw realised she’d been aching to tell someone. He felt like a priest hearing the confession of an over-eager parishioner.

‘Shouting, eh?’ he prompted. ‘Husband and wife?’

‘Most probably. There’s a whole roadway between our houses, you know.’

‘You were hearing two voices, though?’

‘His louder than hers.’

‘To be clear, this was Bobby and Monica Carter?’

‘I couldn’t swear it in a court of law.’

Perhaps not, Laidlaw thought, but you’d like to try it out for size all the same.

‘Arguing about Monica’s ex-husband?’

‘Some marriages are more volatile than others. They thrive on a bit of argy-bargy.’

‘You sound as if you speak from experience.’

‘I threw him out thirty-five years ago.’ They had reached her gate. Laidlaw undid the latch and pushed it open for her.

‘I’m not going to ask the source of discord.’

‘He just bored me, that’s all. Bored me to the back teeth. Being on my own again came as blessed relief.’ She glanced across the street. ‘If Monica knows what’s good for her, she’ll pause for breath before jumping again.’

‘You’re not convinced she will, though?’

‘Between her ex and that man Colvin...’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Not to mention your own colleague. Men seem to have no trouble falling for Monica Carter, so be warned.’ She took two steps up the path before pausing. ‘I’d invite you in for tea, but I’m not feeling particularly sociable.’

‘Another time, then.’ Laidlaw gave a little bow of the head. He knew she had a prior appointment with the bottle of gin in her bag. The memory of its predecessor had been lingering on her breath as they’d talked.

28

‘What are you doing here?’ Bob Lilley asked, a look of disbelief on his face.

‘I thought I worked here,’ Laidlaw answered. ‘I was beginning to have my doubts.’ Lilley slung his jacket over the back of his chair and approached Laidlaw’s desk. ‘Seen this?’ He held out the front page of the Herald. There was a photo of a DCI they both knew. He was crouched by the incinerator in the HQ’s boiler room, disposing of a large haul of cannabis.

‘Somebody’s hopes and dreams going up in smoke,’ Laidlaw commented. He had tipped his chair back, his feet on his desk. Paperwork was piled on his lap, discarded sheets strewn across the floor beneath him. Lilley picked one up and studied it.

‘The victim’s background?’

‘Background and personal life, Bob.’ Laidlaw took the biro from between his teeth and underlined a couple of typed sentences. ‘Why did we give it such short shrift?’

‘I’m not convinced we did, though you might have.’

Laidlaw ignored the dig. ‘Monica was married before, to a guy called Roy Chambers. He’s a decorator. Stella’s his daughter.’

‘I know.’

‘Hardly a year after she split with Chambers, she was with Bobby Carter. Stella would have been three or thereabouts. Then along come two half-brothers for her, Peter and Christopher.’

‘Your point being?’

‘Roy kept in touch, but he was persona non grata as far as Bobby Carter was concerned.’ Laidlaw had picked up a photograph of Monica. ‘She’s handsome rather than beautiful, that’s my opinion anyway. But she’s wearing well. She’s four years older than Bobby — did you know that?’

‘The allure of the older woman.’ Lilley had rested his backside against the corner of Laidlaw’s desk.

‘Where have you been anyway?’

‘Various doorsteps.’

‘Did they get you anywhere?’

‘What do you think? So why the sudden interest in the family? You thinking we need to talk to this Roy character?’

‘Bobby and Monica had arguments — a neighbour heard them. Though it could have been Bobby and Stella, or maybe one of the brothers and Stella...’

‘Or one of the boys and his mum,’ Lilley added. ‘I had a few shouting matches with mine when they were in their teens.’

‘What about?’

‘Just the usual — if they’d been drinking or stayed out past curfew. Those joys are doubtless waiting for you in your future.’

‘My kids are never growing up, not if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

‘Doesn’t work that way, though.’

‘Let’s see. Meantime, this Roy Chambers doesn’t seem to have a record. I’ve not got a photo of him yet, either.’ Another sheet of paper dropped to the floor from Laidlaw’s hand. Lilley noted something missing from the desk.

‘What happened to your books?’

Laidlaw reached into a drawer, pulling one of them out. Its cover had been vandalised with a cock and balls.

‘Nice,’ Lilley commented.

‘I’ve drawn up a list of suspects.’ Laidlaw’s glare took in the whole room.

‘Am I on it?’ Lilley watched Laidlaw shake his head, toss the book back into the drawer and slam it shut. ‘I meant to ask, what did you get out of Matt Mason?’

‘The verbal equivalent of a defaced book jacket.’

‘One of these days, sticking your head in every lion’s mouth you pass is going to end badly.’

‘You’re probably right. Winners and losers, though, Bob — who stands to gain from Carter’s demise? Long term as well as short term.’

Lilley puckered his mouth in thought. ‘Could this guy Chambers want back in his ex-wife’s knickers?’

‘Probably black, silky and lacy. Milligan was sniffing around again, too.’

‘You’ve been out to the house, then?’

‘Happened to be passing through after my chat with Mason.’

‘To go back to your earlier question — Mason definitely stands to gain from any feud between Cam Colvin and John Rhodes.’

Laidlaw nodded. ‘Which doesn’t necessarily mean he’s our man. There’s a goon posted at his front door with what looks remarkably like a gun tucked inside his jacket. What does that tell you?’

‘He’s worried that either Rhodes or Colvin will put two and two together and come looking for him?’

‘Or else he’s jittery because he has no bloody idea who’s behind any of it.’

‘Reading between the lines, though, sounds to me like you think you’re narrowing it down.’

‘I think I am, too. Problem is, it’s almost too narrow for my liking.’

‘What does that mean?’

Laidlaw shook his head. ‘I need to get back to this lot,’ he said, gesturing towards the case notes.

‘Pint later, then?’

‘I could be tempted by some thinking juice.’

‘At which point I’ll become privy to that thinking?’

Laidlaw looked up at him. ‘You’re the second person to use that word in as many hours.’

‘Privy?’

‘I thought you’d be like me, Bob, thinking it only meant shitehouse.’

Lilley looked at the mess of papers on the floor. ‘Don’t be surprised if Ernie Milligan accuses you of living in one when he gets back.’

He waited for a response, but Laidlaw’s attention was on the latest batch of notes, so he left him to it.

29

Archie Love was always the last to leave the park. There was a single-storey prefab building that the players used as a changing room. No showers, just a single WC, benches ranged down two walls and another wall of lockers. He liked to linger once everyone else had gone, allowing him to think back to his early days as a player. In the junior leagues, he’d got used to being the star of the show, the one the opposition had in their sights for a studs-up sliding tackle or a sly dig in the kidneys. Later, having signed as a professional, he discovered he was no longer the best. The advice he’d been given was to stick in and he might get there. He body-swerved alcohol and too many late nights, was out exercising from first light, and never shirked a practice session or tactics talk. He knew his playing career could be ended at any moment by injury or a clash of personalities. Even if he stayed lucky, he had between five and ten good years in him. Management was his goal, but he’d never been offered the chance. Nowadays he told the best of his young players that they had to think long term, had to put money aside for the rainy days ahead, and whatever they did, they should on no account open a pub. There were only two ways that ever ended: penury or alcoholism.

He didn’t feel particularly bad about the ones he approached to sway a result. He always did his research. Speaking of which, the bugger was ten minutes late. But then the door creaked and Love adjusted his posture accordingly. The man who walked in looked prosperous enough and fit enough. The coat he wore was new, and there was a chunky gold ID bracelet dangling from one wrist. There was a bit of a glow still left around him, telling those he met that he had a reputation. But Archie Love knew that Geoff Inglis had already passed his personal high-water mark; now he was in his thickening thirties. He might keep splashing, but he was in a pool growing shallower all the time.

‘Mr Love,’ Inglis said by way of greeting.

‘I always liked that about you, Geoff,’ Love replied with an indulgent smile. ‘You show respect.’

Inglis shrugged and began looking around the changing room. He wasn’t tall, but in his day he had commanded the midfield with a no-nonsense pugnacity. ‘You taught me a hell of a lot, back in the day.’

‘All started here, didn’t it, Geoff? Not here exactly, but a set-up just like it, muddy pitch outside and makeshift goalposts. But you applied yourself and you went places. I was always proud of you.’ Love glanced at the mirror opposite, checking he looked sincere.

‘Never quite got that Scotland cap, though.’

‘Not for want of trying.’

‘So what is it I can do for you, Mr Love?’

Love gave an extended sigh. ‘I hate the way they’re treating you, Geoff. Focusing on the younger faces, the fresher legs. We both know you’re on the transfer list. By the summer, you could even be on a free.’

Geoff Inglis pulled back his shoulders. ‘Might not come to that.’

‘You’re not daft, Geoff. It will exactly come to that. Loyalty counts for nothing these days. You’ve given your life to this game and you end up overlooked and unrewarded. I hate to see that happen, especially to a decent individual like yourself. We both know there’s a slow descent coming — lower leagues, maybe semi-pro, and then you’re on your arse.’ Love paused, locking eyes with Inglis. He had the man’s attention. It was time for a change of pace. He allowed his face to droop a little. ‘I had a son, did you know that?

‘I don’t think I did.’

‘He died young, far too young. He had a bit of talent, maybe could have made it. All of you boys, the ones I helped climb the ladder... well, it’s almost embarrassing to say it out loud...’

‘What is?’

Love’s eyes were growing liquid. ‘You’re all like sons to me.’ He inhaled and exhaled. ‘Which is why I try to help when I can.’

‘Help how?’

‘Something to cushion your backside as you slide down that hill.’

Inglis’s brow had furrowed. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

Then you dress sharper than you think...

Love wafted a hand in front of him as if to dismiss the idea. ‘Look, it’s just something that I can sometimes make happen. But I’d have to be sure you really wanted it. Will you do me a huge favour? Go away and mull it over. Think about your future and what you’d like to see there. I’ve got some contacts and they can maybe help those dreams become reality.’

‘I don’t know exactly what it is you’re asking of me.’

Love could see that right enough, but nor did he want to spell it out. Inglis had to join the dots for himself. The less Love said, the less there was to incriminate him. If Geoff Inglis did work it out, he would come back and ask the question, and Archie Love would answer ‘maybe’. Then Inglis would ask: how much money are we talking about? But Love would be coy about that, too, while emphasising that his friends could prove very helpful to Geoff in the future. They would be in his debt and they wouldn’t forget. They were people to whom loyalty was still a point of principle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Archie Love?’ one of them asked.

‘Who wants to know?’

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

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

‘Nothing worth nicking here,’ Love informed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No.’

‘You sure about that?’

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

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

‘How the hell would I know?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘He being...?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘There’s no need for that.’

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

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

‘Jenni told you that?’

‘Her mum did, eventually.’

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

‘I can ask her.’

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

Love’s nod this time was more resolute.

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

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

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

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

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

30

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

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

‘The casino?’

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

‘Would those birds include Jenni Love?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I love this place,’ Ballater said.

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

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

‘That was Panda.’

‘I got the feeling you agreed with him.’

‘Maybe I’m changing my mind.’

‘Since your wee chat with John Rhodes?’

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

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

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

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

‘Exactly.’

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

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

‘So why not say something to us?’

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

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

‘That’s just Rhodes talking, though.’

‘Is it?’

‘Did you mention this to Cam?’

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

‘Maybe.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘So far.’

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

‘It looked like something.’

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

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

‘Cam knows he can trust me.’

‘Is that right, aye?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What are you saying?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You’re some boy, Spanner. Drinks are on me when we get to Whiskies.’

‘Price they charge in there, I just might take you up on that.’

The two men started walking, their destination not far now. Thomson tossed the empty bottle over one shoulder. It shattered as it hit the pavement. Neither man so much as turned their head.

Eyes front.

Never look back.

Quiet all the way to the club, each digging deep into his own thoughts and schemes.

31

Spanner had the taxi drop him off outside Springburn Park. It was well enough lit and the teenagers hanging around there knew better than to try messing with him. He found himself standing next to the taped-off section where the knife had been planted. It wasn’t near any stretch of roadway or pavement. You had to walk towards the centre of the park to reach it. He wondered if whoever had left the knife there had been crossing the park, maybe intending to deposit it closer to the house. But that would have been too obvious a set-up. Further away was better; further away told the story of a killer who finds panic setting in as they return to their senses. So they toss the weapon, suddenly keen to get rid of it.

Putting Spanner Thomson firmly in the frame.

He had told Ballater that he doubted John Rhodes had known his address until the police had come to call. But Mickey Ballater himself knew it, as did Panda Paterson and Dod Menzies. Several times he’d treated them to drinks in the back garden, Mary handing round meat-paste sandwiches from which she’d removed the crusts. Cam had been there too, of course, taking him aside to try to persuade him to buy somewhere grander in a nicer part of town.

‘Otherwise people will start saying I’m not looking after you — and we both know that’s not true.’

But Spanner had grown up on the streets of Balornock. He felt safe there. And with no kids to show for his fourteen years of marriage, why would he need anything bigger? The money he brought home went to Mary, and she squirrelled anything they didn’t need into a building society account. There was some cash she didn’t know about, of course, set aside by Spanner in case he ever needed a quick getaway. He’d actually thought about it after that visit to Central Division. Two things stopped him. One was that it would make him look all the guiltier in everyone’s eyes, Cam included. The other was that he was raging inside, with a need to find out who was stitching him up.

Someone who knew that empty chair was his by right.

Someone who knew his address.

Someone very like Mickey Ballater.

He paused at the gate leading to his house, then continued past to the nearest phone box. It smelled of pee inside, but at least there was a dial tone when he lifted the receiver, having first pulled his sleeve down to cover his hand, wary of germs. He dialled the number and pushed home a coin when Cam Colvin answered.

‘It’s me, Cam.’

‘I know that, Spanner — who else calls me from a public phone? What’s on your mind at this time of night?’

Thomson could hear soft music playing in the background, either a record or the radio.

‘Sorry to be interrupting your evening.’

‘I assume there’s news that can’t wait.’

He exhaled noisily. ‘It’s maybe nothing, but I’ve been talking to Mickey.’

‘Oh aye?’ ‘I’m not sure you can trust him. I mean, you maybe think you can’t trust me either — he told me you’d ordered him to keep an eye on me...’

‘Did he now?’

‘But swear to God I’m not the one you should be watching,’ Thomson blurted out. ‘It won’t take much for him to jump ship — always supposing he can’t have your job. That’s what I think he’s interested in; not Bobby’s chair but yours, and I doubt he’s too bothered how that comes about.’ He paused. ‘And there’s another thing — I saw him with Monica, at that party of Bobby’s back in the summer. They were having a snog.’

There was a lengthening silence on the line.

‘Are you sure about that, Spanner?’ Colvin eventually asked, sounding as if he were working hard to keep his emotions in check.

You really think you’re in with a chance there, don’t you, Cam, now that Bobby’s out of the picture? Could that really be why he had to be got rid of?

‘I know what I saw,’ Thomson heard himself say. It was as if he were floating in the space between the top of his head and the roof of the phone box, watching someone else inhabit his body. ‘Mickey says he tried his luck but she was having none of it. That’s not how it looked to me, though.’

‘You think they were seeing one another behind Bobby’s back?’

‘Honest answer is, I don’t know. Maybe you should ask him.’

‘I might have to do that, Spanner.’

Thomson opened his mouth to say something further, but the line had already gone dead.

As he navigated the short distance back to his home, his bed and his waiting wife, he felt a sadness wrapping itself around him. His universe had been both comprehensible and robust until Bobby Carter’s death. Now it was anything but. The feeling of unease was both unusual and unwelcome. Something would have to be done about it.

Something would be done about it.