‘So what exactly have you deduced?’
‘Remind me, what was in the victim’s pockets when they were searched?’
‘Apart from the cash — wallet, house keys, cigarettes and a fancy lighter. Nice wristwatch on him, too.’
‘So we can assume whoever killed him didn’t do it in the act of robbing him?’
‘Unless they panicked.’
Laidlaw was shaking his head. ‘A gang like the Cumbie, they’d have picked the carcass clean.’
‘Meaning Milligan’s wasting his time?’
‘And everyone’s hard graft to boot. But to come back to the vultures, Bobby Carter had been missing the best part of three days. You reckon he was lying there all that time without someone noticing? From the amount of graffiti, I’d say that lane’s a popular enough spot, maybe for a drug deal or underage drinking, or even a knee-trembler like the one that eventually saw Carter found.’
‘You’re saying the body was moved?’
‘If the autopsy’s right and he’d been dead two to three days, yes, I’m saying the body was moved.’
‘Why, though? And where from?’
Laidlaw did no more than shrug. ‘Landlord told me in confidence that Carter had been in just the one time, meeting someone who never arrived. I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a connection. I just can’t see what it is yet.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘You okay?’
‘I get migraines — and that’s to be treated confidentially, too. Think one might just be trying to book an appointment.’
‘Seen a doctor about it?’
‘I’ve got tablets.’
‘Do they work?’
‘When added to ten or twelve hours on a bed in a darkened room.’
‘You should let Milligan know.’
‘Why?’
‘Good excuse for when you go off wandering.’
‘But also a sign of weakness. I’d rather not give him any more ammunition. How about you — any progress to report?’
‘Not as such. Your wife rang, though. Wanted to know if she’d be seeing you tonight. She sounds nice.’
‘She’s great.’
‘The sort of woman a man would be happy to go home to?’ Lilley had lifted what was left of his pint and taken an exploratory sip.
‘I can get you a fresh one.’
‘In place of an answer to my question?’
Laidlaw couldn’t help the thin smile. He took a deep breath. ‘Like I say, Ena is great. It’s just that not much else is.’
‘Being a parent is hard work.’
‘Ach, it’s not that.’ He looked to the gaudily painted ceiling for inspiration. ‘I’m lonelier in my marriage than when I lived on my own, and I think Ena’s the same.’
The silence at the table was deep enough to accommodate a coffin. Eventually it was broken by the bar’s jukebox. Someone had put on ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’. The two detectives’ eyes met and they shared a battle-worn smile. A shambling figure was approaching from the bar, holding a pint of Guinness in one hand and what looked like a large dark rum in the other.
‘Hope it’s okay, Mr Laidlaw. I said you’d settle up later.’ The man sat down without waiting to be asked.
‘This is Eck Adamson,’ Laidlaw said by way of introduction. A rich bouquet of aromas reached Lilley, courtesy of the new arrival in the greasy, ill-fitting clothes. There were old shaving cuts between the patches of bristle on his chin and cheeks. The hair was sparse and prematurely silver. Adamson could have been anything between thirty and sixty and probably had no more than a decade left in him without a radical change of lifestyle. ‘I told you I know the streets,’ Laidlaw was saying, ‘but Eck here has a doctorate and any number of diplomas.’
As if in agreement with this assessment, Adamson toasted the table before sinking the rum in a single full-mouthed swallow. After a moment’s exhalation, he started making short work of the pint.
‘As you can see,’ Laidlaw went on, ‘all that expertise doesn’t come cheap. But I can always rely on Eck, because he knows that if I think he’s not earned the outlay, he’s going to get a boot to the balls and a smack to the jaw.’ His words froze Adamson mid gulp. With infinite deliberation he placed the Guinness back on the table.
‘Ernie Milligan reckons he’s got the best sources in the city,’ Lilley commented, eliciting a snort of derision from Adamson.
‘You mean Macey?’
‘Benny Mason, yes.’
‘That’s his Sunday name — and let me tell you, Macey’s about as much use as brewer’s droop at an orgy.’
‘Been to many orgies, have you?’ Lilley was smiling without humour.
‘I get plenty, don’t you worry.’
Laidlaw leaned across the table. ‘Eck, you couldn’t get a ride in a brothel with a hundred quid and a doctor’s line, but if I thought Macey had better ears it’d be him sitting there while you were curled up on the pavement next to a heating vent. So tell us what you’ve heard and I might even offer you a refill.’
It was Adamson’s turn to lean in, elbows on the table, as if ensuring his words remained the property of no one else in the bar.
‘He wasn’t the worst of men, Bobby Carter. Always stood his round as well as his ground.’
‘It’s not a eulogy I’m after, Eck.’ Laidlaw’s look was stern.
‘I’m just setting the scene. Thing is, all men have vices and weak spots, don’t they? With Carter it was women. I think hanging out with Colvin and the like only made things worse. He got the feeling women were paying him attention because they liked him rather than because of the company he was in and the money flying around.’ Adamson reckoned he was safe to pause long enough for a sip from his glass. On the other side of the table Laidlaw mirrored him.
‘So he was a womaniser,’ Lilley said across the no-man’s-land. ‘So what?’
Adamson held up a finger whose entrenched stains Swarfega would struggle to overcome. ‘One woman,’ he intoned.
‘Doubtless unmarried and with no other complications?’ Laidlaw enquired.
‘Chick McAllister’s ex.’
‘Chick McAllister as in John Rhodes’s Chick McAllister?’
‘The same.’
‘Was this public knowledge?’
‘If it was, you wouldn’t need me to tell you.’
‘So who knew? Did McAllister?’
‘Maybe. But they split up last year, amicably as far as I know.’
‘She seeing anyone apart from Carter?’
Adamson gave a shrug before sucking the last of the life from the Guinness. Laidlaw clicked his fingers towards the underworked barman, signalling for refills.
‘So what’s she called?’
‘Jennifer Love. Goes by Jenni with an i. Sounds like an alias but it’s genuine. Her dad’s Archie Love, the footballer.’
‘I know that name,’ Lilley said. ‘There was a betting scandal, wasn’t there?’
Adamson nodded. ‘And that was the end of his playing days. Since then he’s been drinking to forget.’
‘What else do you know about Jenni?’
‘Mid twenties. Likes a good time and men who can afford to bring her it on a plate. Works as a go-go dancer at Whiskies. It’s that live music place on Candleriggs.’
‘A haunt of yours, I’m sure,’ Laidlaw said, breaking off as the drinks arrived. There was one for Lilley, which he was determined to leave untouched. Again Adamson knocked back the rum in one swallow.
‘Keeps the chill off,’ he explained.
‘So will this,’ Laidlaw said, slipping him a banknote, which Adamson palmed like an expert. ‘Any other news for us while we’re being cosy and friendly?’
‘The drums are spelling out war, but that probably won’t come as a surprise.’