It would be a kind of investigation, but my kind. Since I had been a policeman in Glasgow, the expression just about every superior had used to describe me, as if they were reading from my file, was ‘maverick’. It had become equivalent to some kind of rank: Jack Laidlaw, Maverick. Well, they were right. I was a maverick. They didn’t know how much. If I wasn’t fond of lawyers, I was less fond of policemen. For years I had been working against the grain of my own nature.
How often had I felt I was working for the wrong people? How often had I felt that the source of the worst injustices wasn’t personal at all but institutional and fiscal and political? It was the crime beyond the crime that had always fascinated me, the sanctified network of legally entrenched social injustice towards which the crime I was investigating feebly gestured. ‘When a finger points at the moon,’ a Paris graffito had once said, ‘the fool looks at the finger.’ Maybe I had been watching fingers for long enough.
All my prevarications had come home to roost, my personal harpies to foul my sense of my own worth and mock the work I had been doing. If I was a detective, let me detect now. It was time to put such skills as I had into overdrive.
For I was faced with a death I had to understand. It was a death I had to investigate, not for police reasons, though perhaps with police methods. Investigator, investigate thyself. A man was dead, a man I had loved perhaps more than any other.
Nobody had said ‘crime’. But that dying seemed to me as unjust, as indicative of meaninglessness as any I had known. And I had known many. For he had been so rich in potential, so much alive, so undeserving — aren’t we all? — of a meaningless death. I knew.
I should know. He was my brother.
The doorbell rang. The sound changed the meaning of my thoughts. It’s one thing to psych yourself up inside your own head, to threaten to bring experience to book in your own mind. It’s another to translate the mental vaunting into event, to bring the intensity of your feelings against the facts and see what results. It’s the difference between the gymnasium and the championship fight. The bell said, ‘Seconds out’. You’re on your own. The proximity of someone else only made it clearer.
I padded barefoot to the door with shaving-soap round my ears and on my upper lip. In the doing of it, I had a small revelation: a dangerous world. This was how we lived now. The flat I had rented was in an old, refurbished tenement. When it was built, it had a door on the street that anyone could enter. Now it was different. The outside door was locked. You pressed a bell. Someone lifted a phone. If they knew who you were, they pressed a buzzer. You were allowed inside and came to their door. They checked you through a peep-hole. If you passed the test, they opened the door.
This was a tenement on the edge of Glasgow, not the Castle of Otranto. Anyone who lived here couldn’t have much worth stealing. Maybe a video. We had become afraid of ourselves. There was a time a man or woman would have taken pride in being able to open the door to anyone. What was happening to us?
Was even this relevant to my brother’s death? The way I felt, anything might be. I put my hand on the phone. Come in, strange world. And I’ll be watching you more closely than I ever have before. I lifted the phone.
2
‘Hullo?’
‘Hullo. Jack?’
It was Brian Harkness. It would be, as early as this. My recent condition had brought out the social worker in Brian.
‘Okay, Brian.’
I pressed the release buzzer and left my door open. I was finishing shaving when Brian came in and closed the door. He came through and sat on the edge of the bath.
‘Aye, Brian.’
‘Jack.’
He was giving me a look that should have had a stethoscope attached.
‘How you doing?’ he asked. ‘You been on the stuff?’
‘Define your terms.’
‘You been on the stuff?’
‘Brian. I get it on prescription.’
Jolly wit: the balancing pole with which we walk the tightrope. I was rinsing the last of the soap off my face.
‘Jesus, I worry about you. What you doin’ to yerself? Nobody knows where you are any more. You’re as popular with the squad as a ferret in a rabbit warren. The only time we see you’s on the job. Then you disappear. To this?’
He was looking round. I was drying my face.
‘Brian,’ I said. ‘Why are you not wearing an ample floral frock?’
‘What?’
‘You’re going to play at being my mother, dress for the part.’
‘Piss off and listen once in your life, will ye?’
‘Ma mammy never spoke like that. Times have changed.’ ‘Jack. You’ll have to pull yourself together.’
‘She spoke like that, though. If you really want to be mother, make us something to eat. I have to get ready.’
He stared at me the way relatives sometimes look at patients in a hospital, when they think they’re not being observed. But I’m not a detective for nothing. I saw that expression that wonders if the patient knows how bad he really is. He shook his head and went through to the kitchen.
I was glad to see him go for the moment. It took the pressure off. The truth was I wasn’t feeling too sure of myself. As I started to comb my wet and rumpled hair, I absorbed, in a kind of delayed action, the things he’d been saying, the reality of his concern, the valid reasons for it. The snarled hair tugged at the comb and some came out on it but I didn’t miss it. At least my hair was staying. It seemed as thick as ever and had no grey. But if my hair was there to remind me of who I had been, what else was?
Brian was right. My life was one terrible mess. Miguel de Unamuno had written something that applied to me, if I could think what it was. I read quite a lot of philosophy in a slightly frenetic way, like a man looking for the hacksaw that must be hidden somewhere, before the executioner comes. It was something about continuity. Unamuno says something like: if a man loses his sense of his own continuity, he’s had it. His bum’s out the window. Sorry, Miguel, if I’m not quoting accurately.
That was me all right. I had lost the sense of my own continuity. I was improvising myself by the day. I didn’t know who I was any more. The life I had thought I was constructing had fallen apart. Family, for example. I had always thought that was the lodestone of my life. Now I was irrevocably separated from Ena and I saw my children by appointment. My relationship with Jan lived in a kind of sensual limbo — a free-floating bed that wasn’t anchored to any social structure. Beyond the act of love, I wasn’t sure what I had to offer her. I survived by a job I doubted every day. And just when I thought I might be going under, when I needed every scrap of confirmation of life’s meaningfulness I could get, my brother, who in my worst times had seemed more substantial to me than myself, my brother had walked into a random car. Or was it so random?
Something in me had to believe it wasn’t. I wasn’t saying it was suicide. What was I saying? I didn’t know. Maybe part of what I was saying was ‘guilt’. Every time someone I love has died, I have felt guilty. I didn’t spend enough time with them, I didn’t appreciate them fully when they were here, I hadn’t given enough to them.
But the guilt, I believed wildly enough, wasn’t just mine. I’ve always been generous in that way. In just about every case I’ve investigated, I’ve wanted to implicate as many people as I could, including myself. My ideal dock would accommodate the population of the world. We would all give our evidence, tell our sad stories and then there would be a mass acquittal and we would all go away and try again. (But don’t tell the Commander of the Crime Squad that I said that.)
Scott, my dead brother, had become the focus for that manic feeling, so long suppressed in me. I needed his death to mean more than it seemed to mean. If the richness of the life in him could be snuffed on the random number-plate of a car, and that was all, I was ready to shut up shop on my beliefs and hand in my sense of morality at the desk. The world was a bingo stall.