The Dark Remains

32

Roy Chambers’ decorating business had its headquarters in Partick. The mid-morning air was chill, Laidlaw’s breath appearing before him in little puffs as he strode along the pavement. A double-decker wheezed past, its windows misted over. None of the passengers had bothered wiping them clean, there being nothing outside worthy of their attention. RC Interiors boasted a swish name but comprised a single window containing a display of wallpaper sample books and two rolls of wood-chip, and a door whose glazed upper half was stickered with adverts for paint manufacturers. There was also a sign. The sign read CLOSED. Laidlaw tried the door anyway. It was locked. He gave it a thump and a kick. Eventually a young woman appeared from the back of the shop. She peered at him and kept the chain on when she unlocked the door. He pressed his warrant card into the gap.

‘I’m looking to speak to Roy,’ he said.

She closed the door long enough to remove the chain, then opened it again.

‘Can’t be too careful,’ she said.

‘Especially when there’s so much treasure within,’ Laidlaw agreed.

‘Roy’s out on a job. I run the office for him.’

Laidlaw nodded his understanding. She was in her late teens, stout but self-aware and comfortable with the fact. She was done up to the nines, as though at any moment she might have to present herself as the public face of RC Interiors. She had been raised to dress well, give a good account of herself and take no nonsense.

‘Are you family?’

‘I’m his niece. What has he done wrong?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

‘I didn’t ask because I can’t imagine him ever doing something that would bring the likes of you running.’

‘Yet here the likes of me stands, unless you’re going to invite me in.’

‘What’s the point? I’ve already told you he’s not here.’

‘Then give me an address and I’ll be on my way.’

‘Is it to do with what happened to Bobby Carter?’

‘What makes you say that?’

She smiled to herself. ‘It is, though, isn’t it? Because Roy used to be married to Monica. I told him the police would be interested.’

‘Clever girl. Now about that address...’

‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘You won’t, though, will you? You still need to talk to him?’

‘Unfortunately that’s the way things work.’

‘I’ve applied to join the police, you know.’

‘Want me to put in a word?’

‘That’s not how it’s done. I’m not daft.’

‘I’m well aware of that, even from this brief exchange.’

They stood in silence for a moment as she gnawed at her bottom lip. Then she spun round and headed to her office, sidestepping pots of paint and bottles of turps. Laidlaw followed her.

The shop’s interior had an inviting aroma. He wondered if it was coming from the wallpaper samples piled up on the room’s only table. Radio 1 was playing, the transistor perched on a shelf above the office desk. This back room was a cramped space, with a door off that gave a view of a toilet pan and washbasin. Anyone breaking in through the narrow and barred window to the rear would have to manoeuvre their way past the variety of ladders stored there. The girl was leafing through an old-fashioned ledger. Finding the address, she snatched up a pencil and jotted it down on a notepad for him, tearing off the sheet once finished and handing it over with a flourish.

‘I never caught your name,’ he said.

‘Janine.’

‘Any other career plans apart from the police, Janine?’

‘Art school maybe. I’ve done a bit of modelling and it looks interesting.’

‘Strikes me, whatever you decide to do with your life you’ll make a go of it. Is Roy a one-man outfit?’

‘It’s a big job, this.’ She nodded towards the scrap of paper. ‘He’ll have Gordy with him.’ She unwrapped a stick of chewing gum and popped it between her lips. ‘Is being a detective as exciting as it looks on TV?’

‘Never a dull moment.’

‘You’re saying that tongue in cheek, aren’t you?’

‘I’m saying I wish I was still an artist’s model. Thanks for the address, Janine.’

Kelvingrove wasn’t far from Partick if you were talking in terms of miles, yards and feet. On the other hand, it was an entirely separate world of grand nineteenth-century sandstone terraces plus the elegant park and busy museum. Laidlaw had last visited the museum with his kids, wondering why they hadn’t been half as keen on the Dali Christ as he was. The house outside which Roy Chambers’ van was parked had obviously already had a lot of work done to its facade. Laidlaw could tell where new stonework had replaced old. The front door gaped, but before heading inside, he stopped at the van, whose rear door was open, a young man seated there next to a flask of tea.

‘You must be Gordy,’ he said. The lad squinted up at him. He wore bespattered white overalls with a pale blue T-shirt beneath and didn’t seem to be feeling the cold. ‘I take it Roy’s indoors?’

Gordy merely shrugged and began rolling a cigarette.

‘How much time did you do?’ Laidlaw enquired.

‘Knew straight off you were polis.’

‘Same as I knew you’ve seen the inside of Barlinnie. A wee thin roll-up like that, not wanting to use too much precious tobacco, is a classic tell. Then there are the tattoos.’

Gordy examined his arms.

‘Somewhere between home-made and professional,’ Laidlaw went on. ‘I’ve seen more than a few in my time.’

‘I was a daft laddie,’ Gordy commented. ‘That’s all it boils down to.’

‘Picked up a trade while you were inside, though. That speaks of something. How long have you known Roy?’

‘Go ask him.’ Gordy poured the dregs of his tea onto the ground so that splashes hit Laidlaw’s shoes.

‘I intend to. How long have you been out?’

‘I’m done talking.’ The young man rose to his feet, closed and locked the van doors and headed up the steps to the imposing front door. It had been given several coats of black gloss paint and the Greek-style columns flanking it were both recent replacements. Beyond lay a black and white tiled floor, several doors off, and a sweeping staircase. Scaffolding had been erected in the middle of the floor, dust sheets spread beneath it. The stairs were similarly protected.

‘We’ve got company!’ Gordy yelled, his voice echoing in the vast space. A head appeared from one of the rooms on the first floor, peering over the stair rail.

‘The name’s Detective Constable Laidlaw,’ Laidlaw explained. ‘Wondered if I could have a word with you.’

‘Did Janine give you the address?’ The man was already descending the stairs. He was dressed in identical overalls to his junior partner, though the T-shirt beneath was black and dotted with smears of paint. The freckles on Roy Chambers’ face turned out, on closer inspection, to be spots of paint too. He wore socks with no shoes and Laidlaw noticed that, now he was indoors, Gordy had removed his own Doc Martens.

‘She did.’

‘She’s thinking of applying to the police.’

‘She mentioned it,’ Laidlaw said, while behind him Gordy gave a snort of derision.

Chambers had taken a rag from his pocket and was wiping his hands. His hair was short and russet-coloured, his frame tall and wiry. Laidlaw judged him to be a few years younger than his ex-wife; more Bobby Carter’s age, in fact.

‘I was talking to your daughter,’ Laidlaw went on, ‘and she said you’d been to the house. Since Mr Carter died, I mean.’

Chambers gave a thoughtful nod. ‘Cam Colvin was there, so I never got past the threshold, much like old times.’

‘Stella told me Carter didn’t take to you.’

‘Understandable, I suppose. That what this is about — I’m supposed to have done him in?’

‘Did you?’

‘No.’

‘Ever think about doing it?’

Chambers shrugged and stuffed the rag back into his pocket. ‘Monica and me still got on. Then there was Stella to consider. I wanted to be part of her life. At one point, she was thinking of moving into my flat.’

‘That didn’t happen, though?’

‘I think Carter put his foot down. And just when Monica’s shot of him, along comes Cam bloody Colvin.’

‘Colvin and Carter were close; it’s only natural he’d want to do right by the family.’

‘It’s not the family he wants, though, is it? It’s Monica.’

‘Now that Carter presents no barrier, do you think Stella might come live with you?’

‘That’s one of the things I wanted to discuss with her and her mum.’

‘But Colvin had other ideas?’

‘You don’t want to get on the wrong side of Cam Colvin,’ Gordy commented. Laidlaw got the feeling he’d given the warning to his employer more than once in the past.

Laidlaw made show of studying the pristine surroundings. ‘Whoever owns this place must have a few bob.’

‘Some professor at the uni,’ Chambers said, ‘yet teachers are always moaning about their pay. We’ve got until Friday to finish it.’ He glanced towards Gordy. ‘Few late nights still ahead.’

‘Maybe once you finish, you can take over the decorating at your ex-wife’s house,’ Laidlaw said, readying to leave. ‘Now that Bobby Carter’s not around to say no.’

Chambers’ eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. ‘She’s redecorating already? It was only done a couple of months back.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Mind you, I told her the paint choices were all wrong, and the firm Carter hired were absolute bloody cowboys...’

33

Laidlaw’s head was spinning as he left Kelvingrove on foot. Nearing a bus stop as a double-decker paused to let off a passenger, he climbed aboard and headed upstairs. The seats near the front were taken, but that didn’t bother him. It wasn’t the view he was interested in; he just needed to think. He dug out a few coins at the conductor’s approach and gripped the resultant ticket, managing to light a cigarette at the same time, sucking the smoke deep. Before he knew it, it had been reduced to a stub. He crushed it under his heel and lit another. Outside he saw a group of young men wearing football scarves. Was today Saturday? Who was playing? He had no idea. Time had ceased to mean anything. He had listened to murderers tell him during their confession that time stopped at the exact moment their victim stopped breathing, while the assailant felt as if they had departed their corporeal form and were hovering overhead, looking down on the frozen tableau. Seconds became hours, or else hours became compressed into mere blinks of the eye. No, they couldn’t remember the moments leading up to the crime, or telephoning 999, or washing the blood from their hands. Was it a Saturday, though? He hoped to hell the Old Firm weren’t playing. Those were the worst, the losing fans filled with rage as they headed home to families who held their collective breath for fear of reprisal.

Domestics: that was the term that was starting to be used. Violence carried out against you in the one place that was meant to be your refuge, your domain, your nest. Wives would go out shopping or to work on a Monday morning with a thick layer of make-up covering the damage. They would look haunted and broken, shunning eye contact, answers prepared for the questions they’d be asked by neighbours, friends, office or factory colleagues.

It was a wonder more didn’t do something about it.

Some did, though. Some did.

As Laidlaw became aware of the route the bus was taking, he realised he was nearing Central Division’s orbit. He got off at the next stop, lingering in the graffitied shelter as he finished the cigarette — it was either his second or third of the trip. He paced as he smoked. Redecorating already... absolute bloody cowboys.

‘Stupid, Jack, stupid, stupid,’ he muttered to himself, beyond caring if anyone thought him odd. He was odd — odd and stupid and sometimes wrong. But not this time. Because it made sense. For the first time since Bobby Carter’s death, everything made perfect sense.

He walked the rest of the short distance to the HQ building blinded to everything except the simplicity of what had occurred. He went straight to the crime squad office and looked around, ignoring Bob Lilley as he sought the one person he needed. Lilley, however, was not to be thwarted. He approached with what could have passed for a penitent look.

‘I’m under orders to fix a return date for a meal.’ He broke off as he noticed Laidlaw’s agitation. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Everything and nothing.’

‘More wisdom from your philosophers?’ Lilley nodded towards Laidlaw’s desk drawer. Laidlaw stared at him.

‘Know why they’re there, Bob, those books?’ The words tumbled from his mouth. ‘It’s because in a room full of detectives, they’ll be seen as clues to my character, and while everyone’s busy trying to decipher their role and meaning, I can get some work done unhindered.’ He had a fevered look to him as he stared at his colleague. ‘I think we’ve been following a string of MacGuffins that’s only got longer as this case has unfolded.’

‘Who the hell’s MacGuffin?’

‘It’s not a who, it’s a what. Alfred Hitchcock uses them all the time. It means a deflection, a false lead. You’re so sure it’s important that you ignore everything around it.’

‘Are you telling me you think you’ve worked it out?’

‘I think I’m maybe close, but I need to find Milligan to be sure.’

‘He’s questioning Archie Love.’

‘Why’s he doing that?’

‘Remember three days ago, Jack? When Love was on our list because he wouldn’t have been happy about his daughter seeing Carter?’

‘Things have moved on.’ Laidlaw made to pass Lilley on his way to the door, but Lilley gripped his arm, just above the elbow. Laidlaw was surprised by how firm the grip was. Bob Lilley had muscle to him as well as heft. It would have served him well back in the days when he had trodden the beat as a constable.

‘After I’ve spoken with Milligan, we’ll go grab a drink,’ Laidlaw said. ‘I’ll tell you my theory then. Deal?’

‘And we’ll set up a night for a meal round at ours?’

‘You strike a hard bargain, Bob.’ Laidlaw looked to where his arm was still being held, waited while the pressure eased and his colleague released him. ‘Noon sharp in the Top Spot.’

Lilley stared at Laidlaw’s back as he left, even half thought of following him. But you didn’t interfere with a force of nature, not if you knew what was good for you.

34

They weren’t gathered in the meeting room of the Coronach Hotel this time, but in the drinking club where Laidlaw had found them playing cards. No card games today, just a table set with a single chair on which sat Cam Colvin. Every other chair in the room had been stacked, giving the clear hint that they were to stay standing. The barman, who had unlocked the door to let them in, had left by that same door. Spanner Thomson looked to Panda Paterson while Mickey Ballater and Dod Menzies exchanged questioning shrugs. Colvin had a mug of coffee in front of him. He took a slurp, placing it on the table afterwards as if repositioning a precious object in its display case.

‘To say I’m disappointed would be the understatement of the year,’ he began, weighing each word by the ounce. ‘One of our best friends and closest colleagues is dumped behind a scabby pub and a week later we’re no further forward. We’ve got to ask ourselves if that’s because one of us isn’t giving it a hundred per cent, which leads me to wonder why that might be the case.’

Mickey Ballater’s attention was on Spanner Thomson. He seemed taken aback when he realised everyone else was looking not at Spanner but at him. They were doing so in imitation of their boss. Ballater met Colvin’s eyes.

‘What’s the game here?’ he asked, brow furrowing.

‘I should be asking you that, Mickey. Have you got a wee thing for the widow, eh? Fancy your chances there now Bobby’s out of the picture?’

Ballater took a step towards Spanner Thomson, both hands curling into fists.

‘Easy, Mickey,’ Colvin commanded.

‘Fuck’s sake, Cam. You’re the one who fancies her — once that dawned on me, I backed all the way off. This is Spanner trying to turn the tables because you’ve got me watching him!’

‘And how did he find out about that, Mickey? I’ll tell you: you and your big fat trap!’ Colvin rose slowly to his feet and came out from behind the table. Both his overcoat and suit jacket had been hung on pegs next to the bar. He was undoing his cufflinks and rolling up his shirtsleeves as he advanced on the group. ‘I need people around me I can trust. Neither of you seems to be fitting that particular bill.’

Ballater’s eyes were on Thomson again, his mouth as thin and firm a line as you would find along the bottom of a ledger. He seemed to make up his mind, throwing himself forward. He had given too much warning, however, and Thomson was already retreating a few steps, his hand sliding inside his coat. As the spanner emerged, wrapped in his fist, Ballater reached into his own pocket, pulling out a cut-throat razor, which opened with a flick of his wrist. Colvin snatched at Ballater’s right arm and twisted it, pulling it up behind Ballater’s back until the man’s knees buckled, a silent cry escaping his throat. The razor clattered to the floor. The forefinger of Colvin’s free hand was pointing in Thomson’s direction.

‘Back in your pocket, Spanner,’ he ordered.

‘It’s John Rhodes’s pocket he’s in!’ Ballater called out.

Spanner Thomson ignored this, his attention focused on the man he’d known longer than anyone else in the city, longer even than his own wife.

‘I need you to back me up here, Cam,’ he said. ‘I need to hear you say it in front of everyone.’

‘Say what, Spanner?’

‘That you trust me.’

‘Doesn’t seem the wisest of moves to trust anyone right now.’ Colvin glanced behind him. Paterson and Menzies had moved to the bar and armed themselves with bottles, ready to smash them, leaving jagged necks only. ‘Easy there, boys,’ he warned, scooping up the razor.

‘Nobody touches my blade!’ Ballater roared. ‘It was my dad’s!’

‘Do him while you can, Cam,’ Thomson spat. ‘Ask yourself who’s more likely to have done away with Bobby. Who’s hungry to sit in that chair next to you? And believe me, even that won’t satisfy him for long.’

‘The pair of you need to shut the fuck up!’ Colvin gave Ballater a shove, stepping away from his immediate orbit, his hand still clasped around the razor’s scuffed ivory handle.

Panda Paterson was at Ballater’s side, helping him to his feet. ‘Easy, Mickey, easy.’

‘I’m not the one that’s tooled up, Panda.’

Dod Menzies had put himself between Thomson and the others. He was holding both hands up as if in surrender, though one of them still held an empty mixer bottle.

‘None of this is helping,’ he said.

‘Cutting that bastard might, though,’ Thomson snarled. Menzies’ free hand had begun reaching towards the raised spanner. The tool came down hard across his knuckles, causing him to gasp. He dropped the bottle, which shattered against the stone floor, and bent over, nursing the injury, muttering curses through gritted teeth.

‘You’re out of order, Spanner,’ Colvin said, his voice hoarse from the sudden adrenaline.

‘As far as I can see, Cam, I’m the only one around here not out of order. And if that’s the way it is, I suppose the only thing left to say is: fuck the lot of you. I don’t want to hear from any of you after today, and if you come looking for me, you better be carrying heavy artillery.’

‘Spanner...’

Thomson looked at Cam Colvin. ‘Lot of history, Cam. And you’ve pissed all over it. I’m out.’ He turned and headed for the door.

‘Good fucking riddance,’ Ballater called after him, rotating his shoulder as he checked it for damage.

‘Spanner,’ Colvin repeated without any real force, eyes on the closing door. Ballater had retreated behind the bar, pouring himself a whisky. Menzies was flexing his fingers and wrist, wincing in pain.

‘I need a check-up,’ he said.

‘Surgery’s open,’ Ballater informed him, setting a fresh glass on the bar next to the refilled ice bucket. Menzies plunged his hand into the ice. Paterson arrived alongside him, leaving Cam Colvin to stare at the door as if he could bring his old friend back by sheer force of will.

‘You’re better off without him,’ Ballater said. He had already regained a measure of composure, as if buoyed by Thomson’s exit.

‘He just needs a bit of time to think,’ Paterson speculated.

‘That would be a first,’ Ballater said.

‘You talk a lot of shite sometimes, Mickey, and you’re transparent with it.’ Colvin was approaching the bar.

‘Sorry, boss.’ Ballater poured another measure before holding out his hand, palm upwards. Colvin hesitated before passing him the razor, its blade folded again. He gave Ballater the hardest of stares, not relaxing until the razor was back in Ballater’s pocket. Then he turned his attention to Menzies’ hand.

‘You okay?’

Menzies lifted his fist from the ice bucket. The knuckles were swelling and beginning to discolour. ‘I think some-thing’s broken.’ He gestured towards Ballater for a refill.

‘When you’ve done that, Mickey,’ Colvin said, ‘I’ve got a job for you.’

Ballater was suppressing a thin smile as he turned from the optics with Menzies’ glass. ‘Anything you say, boss.’

‘That’s good, because what I’m about to say is London.’

Ballater’s face was suddenly a creased question. ‘London?’

‘Couple of business associates there. A deal’s going down and I need eyes and ears in the room.’

Ballater took a moment to process the information. Was this the back of the net or a sending-off? His face said he didn’t have an answer.

‘It’s not for long,’ Colvin assured him.

‘But with Spanner gone, you’re already two men down.’

‘Plenty firepower in reserve, Mickey, don’t you worry.’ Colvin glanced at his watch. ‘There’s a train at noon — gives you time to go home and pack, if you start right now.’

‘Boss, I need to know—’

‘No, you don’t. I’ll have someone meet you off the train. They’ll take you to a hotel and I’ll phone you.’ Colvin paused. ‘Always supposing that’s okay with you?’

Paterson and Menzies were twitching, neither man able to work out if this meant the empty chair had been filled.

‘You’ll be back here before you know it,’ Colvin said. ‘But I need you to be on your way.’

‘If that’s what you want, Cam.’

‘It is, Mickey.’

Ballater considered for a further moment, then finished his drink. ‘I’ll see you around, lads,’ he said to Paterson and Menzies, giving them a wave as he made for the door.

‘Watch out for Spanner,’ Menzies called to him. ‘The man doesn’t forget.’

‘Me neither, Dod, and I’ve yet to see a razor lose a fight...’

There was silence in the bar after he’d gone, as if a suspect device had been carted away. Colvin approached the optics and refilled each glass.

‘Are you sure about this, Cam?’ Panda Paterson asked.

‘Time to regroup, lads. I want you to fetch me some fresh blood. Give me your best names and let’s gather them around a table. I want them clever rather than stupid, able to give someone a fright but not Neanderthal. I appreciate it’s a tall order...’

‘I might know one or two,’ Paterson conceded.

‘Me, too,’ Menzies added.

‘By the end of the day, then, before the jungle drums start announcing recent departures.’

‘In the meantime, what do we do about Bobby?’

‘Keep digging, keep asking. Somebody out there knows something.’

‘And John Rhodes? After what he did to Betty’s taxis? We’re due him some payback, no?’

‘Are my ears burning?’

They all looked towards the doorway. A man with a heavily scarred face was holding it open while John Rhodes stood there silhouetted by the daylight behind. Both men walked in, the door rattling closed after them.

‘This is unexpected, John,’ Colvin said.

Rhodes was studying Menzies’ hand as it emerged from the ice bucket. ‘Which one did you punch, Spanner or Mickey?’ He smiled for Cam Colvin’s benefit. ‘I was in the car outside, weighing up my options. One of them was to have Gerry here hold shut the door while I torched the place.’

‘I had nothing to do with what happened at the Gay Laddie,’ Colvin stated.

‘And I believe you.’ Rhodes nodded to himself. ‘Which is why I decided jaw-jaw was better than war-war. Now who do I have to French-kiss to get a drink here?’ He had begun walking across broken glass towards the bar.

Colvin looked at the array of bottles below the row of optics. There were only two malts. He lifted the fuller one and released the cork stopper, pouring an inch into a glass and sliding it towards Rhodes.

‘Have one yourself,’ Rhodes said. Then, turning towards Paterson and Menzies: ‘Not you two, though. You can fuck off outside. Gerry will keep you company. If you get bored, you can start comparing cocks. Got to warn you, though, his dad must have been more horse than man.’

The two men looked to Colvin for their instructions. When he nodded, they made for the exit, the scarred man following them out. Colvin was refilling his own glass. He and Rhodes hoisted their drinks at the same time.

‘Here’s to business,’ Rhodes said, eyes fixed on Colvin’s. He took his time as he nosed then sipped and savoured the malt. ‘The taxis had nothing to do with me,’ he said eventually.

‘Who then?’

‘I’ve got my suspicions.’

‘Matt Mason?’

Rhodes gave a look that could have meant anything. ‘I’m hoping to know for sure by the end of the day. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘And I’m supposed to trust you?’

‘That’ll be up to you. But the way you’re haemorrhaging men, any fight between us would be pretty one-sided.’

‘Don’t count on that.’

Rhodes allowed himself a smile. ‘You might like a scrap, but you’re not the fighter you used to be — if you ever were.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘The knife between your shoulders, the one thing everyone knows about you. Funny that when I went asking, no surgery or receptionist knew anything about it. Not that that matters — print the myth, as they say in the trade. But a myth lasts only so long.’

‘And you’re immortal, are you?’

‘Not at all. That’s what separates us, Colvin — I know I’m only as good as the day I’m living.’ Rhodes tapped a meaty finger against the bar top. ‘Meaning this day right here.’ He watched Colvin try to process what he was saying. ‘Bit too philosophical for you? All right, change of tack — what’s the score with Thomson and Ballater? Neither looked too thrilled when they stomped out.’

‘I know you talked to Spanner.’

Rhodes offered a shrug. ‘I like to know what’s going on. CID had him on their radar. I needed to find out how serious that was.’

‘And also whether he was ripe to switch sides.’ Colvin’s eyes were on the door. He was wishing he hadn’t given Ballater back the razor; doubted a broken bottle would be enough against Rhodes. The man had rested one buttock on a stool while Colvin remained on the serving side of the bar, fists bunched on top of a drip tray.

‘You probably think I should have been to see you earlier,’ Rhodes said, ‘paying my respects and keen to convince you Bobby Carter’s death had nothing to do with me?’

‘Not really,’ Colvin answered. ‘Steering clear meant you looked confident, like you could afford to float above it all.’

‘I always knew you had your wits about you,’ Rhodes drawled. ‘Makes me wonder why you insist on surrounding yourself with the people you do.’

‘Same as you and Scarface, maybe. Neither of us likes competition.’

‘That may be a factor,’ Rhodes conceded before finishing his drink. ‘So what do we do now, you and me? Bit of naked wrestling on the floor? Pistols at dawn in Bellahouston Park?’

‘I still need to know who killed Bobby.’

‘I’m not sure I can help you there.’

‘You positive about that?’

‘The stuff that’s been happening since, I’m going to get to the bottom of, but not Bobby Carter. If I take care of that bit of business, do we call a truce?’

‘I’m not totally convinced I believe you about Bobby.’

Rhodes peered into his drink and gave a sigh that would have passed muster on the stage of the Theatre Royal. ‘You know he was thinking of setting up on his own? Bobby, I mean. He wanted to discuss it with me.’

‘Why you rather than me?’

‘Makes sense — if he could get the likes of me and Matt Mason on his side, it would make talking to you that bit easier.’

Colvin shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you what Bobby was doing — putting out feelers, because he had the notion someone was playing both sides.’

‘Are you sure about that? If you ask me, he’d seen too many Mafia flicks and thought the same shit would work in our Dear Green Place.’ Rhodes stared across the bar at Colvin. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if you really knew the guy at all. Maybe you just liked having him around because it meant you got to ogle his wife occasionally.’

Colvin’s eyes darkened and he squared his shoulders. Rhodes disarmed him with a smile as cold as a walk-in freezer. ‘You’ve been spotted at her house, Cam, that’s all I’m saying. Next time you’re there, ask to see Bobby’s map of Glasgow. He didn’t show it to me because I stood him up. But he did show it to Matt Mason. Apparently he was very proud of the way he’d only taken tiny bites out of Mason’s territory and mine. You didn’t fare quite as generously. That’s why he needed Mason and me on board before he brought it to you. You weren’t going to be happy about it, not happy at all. That’s the kind of man you seem willing to raze this city to the ground for. Bear that in mind, eh? Whatever else Bobby Carter was, he was not your Robert fucking Duvall.’

‘You need to leave now before I do something I won’t regret.’

Rhodes slid from the stool, drawing himself to his full height. ‘You come at me or mine, you better believe you’ll regret it.’ His eyes were drawn to the glass strewn across the floor. ‘Bit of tidying-up to do, Colvin. Don’t let me stop you fetching your dustpan.’

‘We cross paths again, you’re a dead man.’

‘At least I’ll be a dead man who never had to lie about getting knifed in the back.’

Rhodes gave a wave of one leather-gloved hand as he made his exit. Colvin stood in silence for a moment before topping up his glass. His hand shook a little, but not much. He drained his drink, exhaled, then launched the emptied glass at the nearest wall.

35

Laidlaw knocked once on the door before entering and caught Ernie Milligan red-handed as he took possession of the football programme he’d just asked Archie Love to sign. He rolled it up and stuffed it into his pocket, trying to look unflustered.

‘What do you want, Laidlaw?’ he snapped.

‘A word with you — if you’ve finished with the memorabilia.’ Laidlaw saw the swelling on Love’s forehead. ‘If you need someone to corroborate that DI Milligan inflicted that injury, I’m your man.’

‘DC Laidlaw sometimes mistakes policing for an old episode of Jokers Wild,’ Milligan stated for Love’s benefit.

‘Seriously, though...’ Laidlaw made show of examining the bruise. ‘Looks the sort of damage a hammer might do — a hammer or a spanner. Am I right?’

‘I tripped in the dressing room,’ Love said.

‘Of course you did.’ Laidlaw straightened up and followed Milligan out of the room. Milligan was scowling as he closed the door. He was about to say something, but Laidlaw got there first.

‘Describe Bobby Carter’s house to me.’

‘Didn’t I see you there just yesterday?’

‘You barred me from going inside, though, so humour me.’

‘Hallway, living room and kitchen, downstairs toilet, three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs.’

‘Just the three bedrooms?’

‘The boys share, though they’re itching for their sister to move out so they can have a room each.’

‘Anything else?’

Milligan folded his arms while he considered. ‘Top-quality furniture, carpets are a bit loud for my taste. There’s a decent-sized back garden plus a garage at the side.’

‘Car?’

‘Vauxhall Victor estate, handy for a big family.’

‘Also handy for moving large objects,’ Laidlaw added thoughtfully.

‘What the hell is all this?’ Milligan sounded genuinely curious to know.

‘You’ve not mentioned the redecorating.’

‘Okay.’

‘Whole house or just certain rooms?’

‘The living room. Wall units moved into the downstairs hall. It was a bit of a bloody squeeze, to be honest.’

‘Carpets up?’

‘Some, yes.’

‘Ladders and tins of paint?’

‘Paint yes, ladders no. Satisfied?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. You know the widow’s ex is a painter and decorator?’

‘It came up in the notes.’

Laidlaw nodded to himself, then gestured towards the door. ‘Reckon you’ve got your man?’

‘No.’

‘Just the autograph, then, eh?’

‘He was some player in his day. You reckon Spanner Thomson did that damage?’

‘Colvin’s men are too gormless to do anything other than follow their noses, same as this inquiry’s been doing.’

Milligan’s hackles rose perceptibly, but it was too late to do anything about it. Laidlaw had turned his back on him and was walking away. Milligan went after him.

‘You need to tell me what you’re doing. That’s a direct order, DC Laidlaw.’

‘Kiss my hairy arse, DI Milligan.’

‘What’s the house got to do with anything?’

‘You’re a detective. Given a few lifetimes, I’m sure even you can work it out.’

A whisky apiece with a beer chaser, Bob Lilley given no say in the order. Then the same corner table as before, the one they’d sat at with Eck Adamson. The other drinkers consisted of two women surrounded by bags of purchases from a department store, and a couple of business suits at a separate table who looked as if the future of the world rested on their shoulders. One of the women was being taken to Paris the weekend after next, while the other had a new refrigerator on order.

‘We’ve been looking in all the wrong places,’ Laidlaw said as Lilley settled next to him. It was as if his mind was half in the room and half elsewhere, like a medium tapping into the spirit world. ‘You might call it classic misdirection, but the murder itself was amateur hour. Think about it. The body was moved and then found. Why? A professional hit would have been cleaner and the body could have been buried under a motorway.’

‘The killer wanted it to be found.’

‘After a day or two, yes. But what was going on during that time?’

‘Where are you going with this, Jack?’

‘Who was it said early on — cherchez la femme? Most murders are domestic, Bob.’ Laidlaw met Lilley’s gaze for the first time and held it. ‘Bobby enjoyed the company of other women, but at home he ruled with an iron fist. Neighbour across the way heard regular arguments. Monica’s ex-husband wasn’t allowed over the threshold. It wasn’t so much a family in that house as a hostage situation. Not that we focused on any of that; we were too busy making the facts suit our preconceived ideas. Gangsters get hit by other gangsters, end of story. And to be fair to us, there was no end of suspects to keep us busy and stop us seeing what was in front of our faces.’ He paused. ‘In fact I blame Milligan for that one hundred per cent. If he’d allowed a proper detective to enter that house, they’d maybe have twigged sooner, but he kept that wee treat to himself. Stupid of us to let him do that.’

‘Twigged what, though?’

‘The whole house was redecorated a couple of months back, Bob.’

‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’

‘This murder was messy and spontaneous and personal. It then took time to work out what had to happen next. Take the body to John Rhodes’s part of town and plant it there; get rid of the knife close to where one of Cam Colvin’s team lives. Planned by someone who knew a bit about both camps. Spanner’s address would be known to anyone near the top of the Colvin hierarchy. The Parlour was where Bobby Carter was due to meet John Rhodes, except Rhodes bailed. Carter would have been fuming about that, maybe said something about it to someone close to him.’

Lilley was shaking his head as if to refuse the invitation Laidlaw was offering him. ‘I was beginning to enjoy working with you, Jack — if that’s what you can call what we’ve been doing. But now I’m not so sure.’

‘I don’t like it either, Bob, but the truth’s not about likes and dislikes, it just is. And if you liking me is dependent on me lying to you or giving you soft options, forget it.’

‘You saw the family, though — the photos in the paper, the TV pictures. They were devastated.’

‘Of course they were.’ Laidlaw paused. ‘They’d just murdered the head of the household.’

Lilley snorted in disbelief. ‘You’re saying all of them did it, based solely on someone telling you the place had been redecorated recently?’

‘Good people do bad things all the time, Bob. Especially when they feel trapped or lied to and let down over and over again. Our job, yours and mine, is to uphold the law, especially when turning a blind eye means other people getting hurt. What we had here was a classic case of the giant’s fingers.’

‘You’ve lost me again.’

‘It’s something John Updike said — details are like the giant’s fingers. No matter how big and complex something is, it all comes down to smaller details.’ Laidlaw saw the blank look on his partner’s face. ‘Okay then, how about W. H. Auden? His poem “Musée des Beaux Arts”. Friend of mine at school, Tom Docherty, he was a big fan. “About suffering they were never wrong, the Old Masters”. Auden is looking at Brueghel’s painting The Fall of Icarus. There’s this calamity happening — Icarus falling to his death — but nobody in the painting is paying any attention to it, too distracted by their everyday concerns.’

‘Right.’

‘You’re a proper philistine, aren’t you?’

‘Plain talk and plain bread are my staples, if that’s what you mean.’

‘So what do you say?’

‘To what?’

‘To coming with me.’

‘Bearsden, you mean?’

‘Where else?’

‘You don’t think you should maybe clear it with Milligan first?’

‘No.’

‘Or put together a case that’s more than an amalgamation of guesswork and lines from poems I’ve never heard of?’

Laidlaw offered a shrug and said nothing.

‘You’re going anyway, aren’t you?’ Lilley looked resigned to the fact.

‘I’m going anyway,’ Laidlaw agreed.

36

When they parked outside the house in Bearsden, Laidlaw gave a wave to Mrs Jamieson, who was peering, sentinel-like, from a gap in her net curtains. They were halfway up the path to the Carter house when its door opened, Cam Colvin paying them no heed as he stomped towards his own car. The two detectives paused to watch him.

‘Was that a street map he was holding?’ Lilley enquired.

‘You’d think by now he’d know his way around the city,’ Laidlaw agreed, tapping at the open door and stepping into the hallway. He could smell fresh paint. Whatever clutter had been in the hall, however, was no longer there. From what he could see, only the one wall here had actually had a fresh coat — the one running along the side of the staircase. He indicated as much to Bob Lilley before entering the living room. All three children — Stella, Peter and Chris — were seated there, books and comics on their laps. Their mother stood at the entrance to the kitchen. She looked jittery, Cam Colvin no doubt to blame.

‘Caught you at a bad time?’ Laidlaw asked.

‘Who the hell are you?’

It was Stella who answered her mother. ‘He’s the policeman I told you about.’

Laidlaw had walked towards the shelving unit. It was filled with paperbacks, a mix of recent bestsellers and weightier non-fiction collections.

‘I always think you can tell a lot about someone from their bookcases,’ he said. ‘This one, for example, was in the hall a few days back.’

‘So?’

‘You told Ernie Milligan it was because you were getting the place painted.’ Laidlaw made show of studying his surroundings. Monica Carter had settled herself on the arm of the chair her daughter sat on. ‘But this room’s not been touched at all, Mrs Carter.’

‘Started with the downstairs hall.’

Laidlaw began to shake his head. ‘You had the whole house redecorated a couple of months back.’ The teenagers had given up any pretence of reading and their eyes were on him. ‘No smell of fresh paint in here, just in the hall. Yet for some reason you moved the bookcase. It’s a solid bit of wood, too. No cheap rubbish for you. I’d guess it would take at least a couple of people to shift it. Question is: why move it at all?’

‘You tell me.’ Monica Carter’s look was all challenge, as if squaring up for a bar brawl.

Bob Lilley had taken a route around the perimeter of the room and was checking that there were no surprises in the kitchen. He shook his head in confirmation.

‘You really want me to do that, Mrs Carter?’ Laidlaw said. ‘Very well then — either you didn’t have time at first to do the painting, or you managed only the one coat and that wasn’t enough. The shelves were to cover the stains until you could do a better job.’ He paused. ‘By stains, I mean bloodstains, of course; your husband’s bloodstains.’

Suddenly the room was a tumult of noise as Monica Carter and her children began to protest. Laidlaw allowed it for a few seconds, then held up a hand. ‘I need everybody to shut the fuck up!’ he yelled.

The room froze, turning the family into sudden statues.

‘You should engage a lawyer,’ Laidlaw went on, his tone neutral. ‘I can suggest a good one if you’re stuck.’

‘He hit her,’ Stella was saying. ‘Even stubbed out a cigarette on her wrist.’

‘He was a bastard,’ her brother Chris added. He was the youngest, and resembled both his father and older brother, while Stella was more like her mother. ‘A bastard to all of us.’

Laidlaw nodded slowly and solemnly. He had planted his feet in front of fourteen-year old Peter, who was staring into space as if trying to make up his mind about something momentous.

‘How about you, son?’ he asked.

It was as if a switch had been flipped. Peter leaped to his feet, drawing a flick knife from his pocket, its tip aimed at Laidlaw. Laidlaw feinted to one side and as the blade approached managed to wrap his fist around the boy’s bony wrist, twisting until the knife fell to the floor. He shoved Peter back onto the sofa and crouched to pick up the weapon. The room had grown noisy again, and Monica Carter dashed forward to hug her son. She squeezed in next to him and he didn’t shrug her off. All the same, his eyes were trained on Laidlaw, and there was plenty of fire still in them.

‘Looks like we’ve found our killer,’ Bob Lilley commented.

‘It wasn’t Peter, it was me,’ Stella argued, rising to her feet.

Laidlaw waved her back down. ‘This isn’t Spartacus, Stella. Having said which, I’ve seen worse defence strategies than everybody blaming each other. Jury might have a tough job deciding between you all, based on the evidence. You could end up with “not proven”.’ He paused again, his eyes on Monica. ‘But you know what the problem with that is, don’t you, Mrs Carter?’

‘Cam Colvin,’ she answered quietly.

‘Colvin still needs to extract justice. If nobody goes away, you can expect a knock on the door one night. It doesn’t particularly matter to me which one of you wielded the knife — maybe you all took turns. But once the deed was done, you definitely acted in concert, didn’t you? Did the body go into the garage first of all? If so, we’ll find blood there. Same goes with the fresh paint — it might hide, but it never erases. Back of your estate car? Same thing.’ Laidlaw could see that his words were getting through to the widow. ‘What did Colvin want, by the way?’

‘He grabbed a map from the shelves.’ It was Stella who had spoken.

‘Don’t know why,’ her mother added. Then, having come to a decision: ‘It was me, just me and me alone.’ She looked at each of her children in turn. ‘I need you to let me do this, do you hear? I killed him and none of you knew anything about it.’ She turned her attention back to Laidlaw. ‘Is that acceptable?’

‘It’s not me you have to convince.’

‘So do I hand myself in or what?’

‘We can give you an hour’s grace, long enough to sort things out here. If you’re not at Central Division soon afterwards, you can expect us to be back with blue lights flashing and bells ringing.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

Stella had crossed to the sofa and placed herself next to her mother, so that all four sat in the closest possible proximity, like creatures huddled together for warmth, wary of the coming winter.

‘The lawyer you want is Bryce Mundell,’ Laidlaw said, before gesturing towards Lilley and making his exit.

In the hall, Lilley asked in an undertone if Laidlaw was sure the family wouldn’t make a run for it. Laidlaw shook his head.

‘They’ve been waiting for us,’ he said. ‘Patiently, all this time. We’re what they know needs to happen.’

They had just reached the car when another drew up. Ernie Milligan stepped out, his anger focused on Laidlaw.

‘What did I tell you?’ he said.

‘Never mind that — here’s what I’m telling you. We’re off to make a report to the Commander. That report will detail who murdered Bobby Carter and what happened in the aftermath. It will also flag up that if a real detective rather than a jobsworth with a hard-on had been allowed into that house earlier, this would have been done and dusted and a lot of grief might have been spared. So instead of whispering any further sweet nothings to the widow, I suggest you follow us in your car. Trust me, you don’t want to miss out.’

Laidlaw didn’t wait to hear what Milligan had to say by way of reply. He climbed into the passenger seat while Lilley started the engine. Milligan went from tapping on the window to pulling at the door handle, but Laidlaw had pushed down the lock with one hand while turning the other into a pistol, which he pointed at the road ahead, indicating that Lilley shouldn’t hang around.

As they moved off, they watched Milligan in the rear-view mirror as he scrambled to get back into his own car.

‘Are you really going to land him in it?’ Lilley asked.

‘Every chance I get, Bob,’ Laidlaw answered, leaning back and closing his eyes.

37

Seated behind his desk, Robert Frederick stared at the two detectives. Bob Lilley had taken a seat, on which he writhed and twisted as if racked by doubt. Jack Laidlaw, conversely, stood legs apart, arms by his sides, like an imposing statue erected in honour of some self-confident warrior prince.

Seeing the sceptical look on the Commander’s face, Lilley felt obliged to break the silence.

‘She did confess, sir.’

‘According to Jack here, they all did, more or less.’

‘If we can muster a forensic team to look at the paint-work...’

‘First call I need to make is to the fiscal. It’s them that’ll need convincing.’

‘Them and you both by the sound of it,’ Laidlaw announced under his breath.

The Commander glowered at him. ‘There are procedures, Jack, and a reason for those procedures. Why didn’t you arrest them at the house if you’re so sure your theory holds water?’

‘Due respect, sir, my theory could float the Ark Royal.’

‘Nobody likes a smartarse.’

‘Nobody likes Milligan either, yet he keeps rising through the ranks, almost as if a few secret handshakes beats possession of a brain.’

Colour suffused the Commander’s cheeks.

‘What Jack means is—’

‘Bob, you’d do well to keep your gob shut,’ Frederick shot back. ‘A DS and a DC don’t get to barge into some-one’s house and accuse them of murder. With their kids sitting right there next to them? Defence would have a field day in court. Any suspicions should have gone to Ernie Milligan and from him to the fiscal. Mrs Carter has now been forewarned, which means if she’s got any sense she’ll be engaging a lawyer and maybe even conferring with her offspring so they get their version of events straight. What happens if we go back there and she denies everything?’

‘We check the car and the garage,’ Laidlaw intoned, ‘see if there’s maybe a knife missing from the kitchen drawer.’

‘When I want your advice, I’ll request it in writing.’

‘It’s Ernie Milligan you should be talking to. He’s the one who could have had this done and dusted if he possessed even half an ounce of savvy.’

‘Instead of which,’ Bob Lilley added, ‘we’ve had days of escalation, two gangs ready to lay waste to each other—’

‘I get that, Bob,’ the Commander broke in. ‘But does your pal here get that his methods might have jeopardised any prosecution?’

‘I did what needed doing,’ Laidlaw said, meeting the Commander’s gaze.

Robert Frederick leaned back in his chair, shaking his head slowly, looking suddenly weary. There was a knock at the door. Without waiting to be asked, a head appeared. It was Frederick’s secretary.

‘Sorry, sir,’ she said.

‘Can’t it wait, Sally?’

‘I’m not sure it can, sir. Woman at the front desk by the name of Carter. Says she’s here to make a confession. Thing is, it’s DC Laidlaw she’s asking to see. Says she’ll talk to him and him alone...’

38

At the Top Spot, drinks were on the Commander. There was no sign of the women shoppers or the self-important suits. A game of darts had been convened, two competing teams assembled, Laidlaw and Lilley content to prop up the bar while they watched. The room was wreathed in smoke. Lilley knew he would pay for it when he got home. Margaret would insist he put everything in the laundry and head to the shower, the shower itself a rubber hose pushed onto the two taps in the bath. The hose had never fitted properly and one side or the other would invariably become dislodged, so that you ended up with scalding or freezing water, usually timed to coincide with a head covered in soap suds.

‘Can we appear for the defence, do you think?’ Laidlaw was asking, not for the first time. His eyes were slightly glazed as he attempted to deal with the constant stream of drinks placed in front of him. ‘I mean, are there precedents?’

‘Will Colvin settle for the result, that’s what I’m wondering?’

‘He better, or else he’ll have me to deal with, and now that we’ve done away with hanging, I’m more sanguine about the consequences of doing him in.’

‘Would your philosophers say the same thing?’

‘I’d happily argue my case in front of them.’ Laidlaw stared at the bottom of his emptied glass. ‘She’s about to serve a second sentence, Bob, the first being her marriage. She played that role as best she could until she had to disrupt the performance. Or maybe she was a skater, the ice breaking under her, the depths below dark as sin. Didn’t matter how well she skated, how balletically and confidently she moved, the darkness was there waiting for her. Whatever else happens, the dark remains.’

‘Lucky for us that it does, or we’d be down the dole office.’

Laidlaw gave a twitch of the mouth and eased himself away from the bar, walking with the stiff uprightness of the lightly inebriated towards the toilets. The Commander approached Lilley, clapping him on the shoulder.

‘Your boy did all right in the end, almost despite himself,’ he said.

‘He defused your city, if that’s what you mean.’

‘If he doesn’t manage to detonate himself in the near future, he might be in line for a swift promotion.’

‘That’s bound to please DI Milligan.’ Lilley looked around the bar. ‘Where is he anyway?’

‘Licking his wounds elsewhere. Though if you ask him, he’ll say he’s swotting up on the case, preparatory to interviewing the family members.’

‘I hear the mother has engaged the services of Bryce Mundell.’

The Commander nodded. ‘Though with her confession, all he’s going to be doing is scratching around for mitigating circumstances.’

‘Plenty of those, I would think.’

‘So what do you reckon to Jack Laidlaw, Bob? Truthfully, I mean, just between the two of us.’

Lilley didn’t have to think about it. ‘He’s the business.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He’s a one-off in a world of mass production. He’s not a copper who happens to be a man. He’s a man who happens to be a copper, and he carries that weight with him everywhere he goes.’ His words were surprising him while he spoke them aloud. He hadn’t realised until this moment how strongly he agreed with them. ‘Mind you,’ he felt it necessary to qualify, ‘he can be a pain in the bahookie, too, but it’s a price worth paying.’

The words seemed to percolate, the Commander nodding slowly afterwards. ‘Noted,’ he said, pretending to watch the darts game. ‘Not exactly a team player, though.’

‘I wouldn’t say darts is his forte.’

There was a cheer and a victorious raising of arms as one team checked out. Lilley and his boss watched as the scores were immediately wiped from the chalkboard with a cloth. Laidlaw was checking his fly as he returned to the bar.

‘Good work, Jack,’ the Commander said, handing him a fresh tumbler of Antiquary.

‘It’s not difficult — doesn’t everyone check afterwards that they’ve zipped up?’

‘That’s not what I was talking about.’

‘I know,’ Laidlaw said, clinking his glass against the Commander’s before taking another large swallow.

39

The blood had dried to a crust on Malky Chisholm’s face. The damage was superficial: just a couple of blows to the nose. Those punches could hurt, though. They could crush cartilage and send tears streaming from your eyes. One of Chisholm’s teeth had been loosened, too. He both knew and didn’t know where he was. It was a lock-up garage. That much had been evident from the moment the hessian sack had been removed from his head. And the fact that John Rhodes was pacing the floor in front of him meant it was probably in the Calton somewhere. Could be any one of a dozen streets, anonymous as well as private. Chisholm had heard no traffic going past, no snatches of conversation between pedestrians from beyond the breeze-block walls. This was one of those places where Rhodes could conduct his business without fear of interruption or consequence.

‘I don’t know why I didn’t figure it out sooner,’ Rhodes was saying. He was dressed in a zipped jacket, roomy denims and cheap canvas shoes. Chisholm didn’t need to be told what the outfit meant. All of it was disposable, and it would be disposed of later that night. The man with the scarred face was standing guard by the door to the outside world. Fumes lingered in the air, hinting that a vehicle of some kind had been moved out just prior to Chisholm’s enforced arrival. He’d been grabbed on the street, a hood pulled over his head before he was thrown into the back of a van. It had all been very professional. Chisholm liked to think that his crew would be as slick a machine in the circumstances, though he doubted it. John Rhodes, he was beginning to realise, was the real deal, and, moreover, a man you crossed at your peril, that peril being imminent extinction.

‘I mean,’ Rhodes went on, ‘it was a matter of elimination. Did it make sense for it to be Cam Colvin? Of course it did. It made too much sense, that was the problem. But then when the taxis got hit, well, I knew I’d not ordered that, so who had? And did that mean someone was attacking both of us in the hope of the conflict escalating?’ He stopped and bent a little, the better to be at eye level with his prisoner. Chisholm was seated on a wooden chair of the type more commonly found at a school desk, his hands tied behind him, ankles bound to the chair legs with twine. The knots were tight, producing pins and needles in his feet. There was electrical tape across his mouth, meaning he had to breathe through his bloodied nostrils.

‘You see what I’m saying?’ Rhodes went on. ‘That meant my next port of call was Matt Mason, who denied having anything to do with it. He could have been lying, of course. You never know with a bastard like him. But he sounded genuine enough, and he’s had other things on his mind, with the hospital and everything.’

He broke off, straightening up and beginning to pace again, like some caged predator. It was a narrow space. Four strides and he was at the tool-strewn workbench. When he turned, a few further paces took him to the wall opposite, where a selection of electrical leads hung from rusted nails.

‘Then,’ he continued, ‘I started thinking about you. I started thinking about you long and hard. A junior with his eyes on the boardroom. Whose boardroom, though? I’m not sure that even matters. But Bobby Carter’s death was like you’d been picked for The Golden Shot. The bolt was already loaded. You just had to aim it at the thread connecting me and Cam Colvin.’

Yes, Chisholm could have told him, and it was Jack Laidlaw who planted the seed that day in the interview room. Attack both fiefdoms, ramp up the chaos, watch them tear one another apart. As all hell breaks loose on the streets, the Cumbie sits there waiting to come crawling out once the dust settles on the battlefield. It had seemed almost too easy, and it had almost worked.

Almost.

The pacing had stopped again. Rhodes stood less than a yard from the seated figure and seemed to study him before walking behind Chisholm and placing his hands firmly on the younger man’s shoulders. With infinite slowness, the chair was tipped back until Chisholm could do nothing but stare at the face poised above him. Rhodes’s tone when speaking had been relaxed, almost laconic, but his look now was one of pure and unbridled malevolence.

‘So do I skin you myself or hand you over to Cam Colvin?’ he asked, teeth bared.

Behind the gag, Chisholm was trying to speak. Rhodes considered for a moment, then ripped the tape off, causing the young man to screw shut his eyes in momentary pain.

‘Your decision,’ he managed eventually, hoping he sounded less panicked than he felt. He was having to work hard at stopping his bladder and bowels from emptying. ‘But there’s a third option, too.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘I could be an asset to you, a real asset. I bring a whole squad with me who’ll do whatever they’re told.’

‘Whack guys on the street? Firebomb a pub? Batter the windscreens out of a fleet of taxis?’ Rhodes took a moment to consider this. ‘And you’d be willing to work for me, follow my orders?’

‘Seems to me it beats the alternatives. Look, whether or not I had anything to do with the Gay Laddie and the beatings and the damage to the cabs, I can be useful to—’

Rhodes had heard enough. The tape was stuck back over Malky Chisholm’s mouth, Rhodes squeezing it hard beneath the heel of his hand to ensure it was secure. The chair was dropped back onto all four legs again. Chisholm watched as Rhodes approached the door where the scarred man stood. The two exchanged a few muttered words. Then the scarred man nodded, his eyes on Chisholm, as John Rhodes opened the door and stepped out briskly into the sodium night. The scarred man walked towards the workbench and ran his fingers over some of the tools lying there.

He seemed to be looking for something in particular. Eventually he found it. It was wrapped in an oily-looking piece of muslin cloth. Slowly and surely he began to peel the layers of cloth away while Malky Chisholm watched, the blood pounding in his ears. He felt like he was falling with infinite slowness from a very great height, though in the full and certain knowledge that the fall itself was not going to be the death of him.

The revealed revolver, however, was another story entirely.

40

That night, Laidlaw lay in his bed at the Burleigh Hotel, Jan asleep in his wakeful arms. With the case closed, he knew he could be at home, but he needed one more night on this life raft. The Commander had hinted at a promotion, but Laidlaw couldn’t help thinking a leper’s bell might prove more appropriate. He turned his thoughts to Monica Carter. She would shift all the weight to her own broad shoulders. Her children would visit her in prison. He realised he would like to visit her, too, but he knew he never would. Such a visit might salvage something for him but would be poison to her, once the other inmates worked out what he was. He had known good people go bad before, had visited his fair share of toxic relationships, marriages seemingly fine on the outside but rotting from the core. Abusive partners, mental and physical cruelty, children little more than cannon fodder, themselves growing up damaged and ready to repeat the mistakes of their parents, knowing no other way of living and being. He wondered about Stella and Peter and Chris. What did the future hold for them? His mind was on Peter especially, with his ready knife and his eyes ablaze. Had he just got away with murder? If so, where might that eventually lead?

He tried not to think of his own wife and children. That way led to a deeper, darker ocean of hurt. Instead, he felt his arms envelop Jan. I’m clinging on for dear life, he thought to himself. Please let me see the morning...