There was no welcome mat in front of flat 211. The door was coated in sheets of bolted metal, and a protective outer door, constructed from seventies hacienda-style wrought iron, stood half a foot out from the wall. A big three-dimensional spy hole, like a marble, stuck out from the door in a way that would allow the viewer to see downstairs and into every dark shadow on the landing. The doorbell at the side was drilled into the wall. She pressed and stepped back, waiting for the answer.
"Who're ye?" It was a man's voice, a Scottish man, and he sounded nervous.
Maureen had been expecting the barman.
"I got a message to come here."
"Who from?"
"On my pager."
Four or five metal locks of different types snapped, crunched and slid back. The door opened with the chain on. A man's eye looked out at her, checking her out, looking behind her. The door shut, the chain came off and he opened it, swinging the bars out, beckoning her indoors while he kept his eye on the stairs. He was white and in his forties, with a twisted stab scar on his left cheek. The contused skin had contracted as it healed, dragging the cheek down and in. An older, cleaner slash line ran from the soft skin on the outside of his left eye, across his cheek, ending in an artful twist on the tip of his nose. Face slashing is a Scottish gang custom, used to teach lessons and mark opponents. No wonder he was nervous. No wonder he'd left Glasgow. "Come," he whispered, flapping his hand urgently, calling her in.
Maureen didn't want to go in. She didn't like the bars on the door or the dirty stairs or the locks. "Who are you?" she said, crossing her arms and shifting her weight onto one foot, letting him know she wasn't moving.
"Tarn Parlain," he said, and pointed at her. "You're from Glasgow, eh?"
"Yeah."
"You'll have heard of my family."
"No," said Maureen. "I'm sorry, I haven't."
Tarn Parlain was still watching the stairs. "Ah, come on," he said, "you've heard of the Parlains. From Paisley."
"No, I haven't, I'm sorry. Why would I have?"
He looked at her and seemed disappointed. "Well," he said, acting modest, "we're in the news a lot." He smiled and the stab scar on his cheek puckered, dragging the skin into a pointed nipple. He remembered what he looked like and let his face fall. Maureen guessed that the Parlains didn't grow prize marrows.
"Come in," he said. "I can't keep the door open."
"Why?"
"There's guys after me."
"D'you know anything about Ann?"
"Ann? The poor girl who was found? Aye, come in."
She was wary and unsure, but Maureen thought of Kilty and squeezed the stabbing comb in her pocket. She sidled past him, turning through the half foot he left for her. Parlain shut the door and Maureen watched as he did up the locks again. She tried to remember the order and method of each but by the time she had walked through the hall to the living room she'd forgotten the second and third locks.
The living room was a long rectangle with a fitted kitchen at the back and a breakfast bar marking out the territories. The flat-pack kitchen cupboards had been badly put together and several of the doors were missing. The cupboards were empty. A fussy dark green leather sofa with loose cushion attachments sat against the wall and next to it a coffee table, recently washed and still wet. The room was ridiculously clean. The walls had been painted with glaring white emulsion. There was no carpet on the floor, just big squares of immaculate bare hardboard, painted black. The picture window was barred from the inside. "Sit down." He motioned to the tattered leather sofa.
Maureen took a seat, resting her hands beside her on the leather sofa, and looked up at him. Tarn Parlain twitched like a heavy smoker and his eyes were hollow and insincere.
"Tarn," said Maureen, "did you page me?"
"Yeah."
He sat down next to her on the settee, turning to face her, his arm outstretched behind her, like a gauche teenager angling for a snog. He half smiled and pointed at her. "Sorry," he said. "What's your name again?"
She didn't want the creepy fuck to know her name. The barman had probably told him already. "Marian," she said. If they crosschecked the name each would think the other had misheard.
"Marian." He took time to think about it and she knew the barman had told him it was Maureen.
"Whereabouts in Glasgow are ye from, Marian?" he said, trying to place her in the city and work out whether she was connected.
"Just Glasgow," she said, sitting forward, taking her fags out of her pocket. She didn't want to offer them in case Parlain touched her. "The barman at the Coach and Horses gave you my pager number, didn't he?"
"Oh, aye."
"Do you know something about Ann?"
"Aye, Ann. Poor Ann." He hung his head. "That was terrible."
Maureen lifted the fag to her mouth, and as she lit it she noticed that her hands were damp and giving off an odd smell, like a detergent. They felt gritty. He had been washing his leather sofa with watery detergent. He had washed the floor too and the coffee table, and the kitchen cupboards were empty. He had washed every surface in the house. He was exactly the sort of paranoid lulu Liam would have turned into if he hadn't stopped dealing. She turned back to him, pitying him his life, nodding along with him. "Yes," she said, "it was terrible. And how did you know Ann?"
"We drank in the same pubs around here." He let the conversation falter.
"Do you know her sister?" asked Maureen.
Parlain shook his head and again they found themselves staring blankly at each other.
"She lives a few streets up," she said.
"Naw, I don't know her." He stared at Maureen as if he was waiting for her to do something.
"What is it you want to tell me, Tarn?"
"Oh." His eyes slid to the floor and he looked very serious. "You were asking about a guy. Thought I might know him."
"Do you know him?"
"Is there a photie…?"
He waited, leaning into her expectantly. The most paranoid man in Brixton had called a stranger to his fortress flat to see if he could be of any assistance. Maxine had warned her about this: she had told them to get rid of the picture. "I'm afraid I've lost it," she said innocently, "but how about if I describe him to you?"
Parlain didn't like it.
"Would you be able to identify him then?" she asked.
Parlain didn't like it at all.
"He's quite distinctive," she said.
"How did ye lose it?" he snapped.
"How did I lose what?"
"The photo." He was nearly shouting at her.
"I was in a bar today and I showed it to someone and they asked to keep it."
"In the Coach?" His face was turning red and he was on his feet, pacing up to the barred window with his hands behind his back.
"No." She tried to think of another pub. "It was the one down by the…" She pointed and frowned as if she couldn't quite remember. "By the… Opposite the railway station, across the road."
He was next to her, leaning over her and frowning. "The Swan?"
"Could be. I don't know this area well."