‘Hello, stranger.’
‘Wasn’t I just here last night?’
‘Feels longer.’ She had opened her ledger and was studying it. ‘Can’t offer you the same room — it’s taken. Guy’s here on business, but for one night only. How about I give you the suite tonight and you can move tomorrow?’
‘How much is the suite?’
‘No extra charge.’
‘Money up front?’
She shook her head. ‘I know you’re not going to run out on me.’ She turned towards the row of numbered hooks. ‘Just the one key, or will anyone be joining you?’
‘About ten other versions of me, none of whose company I can honestly say I enjoy.’ He took the key from her, eye contact lasting only slightly longer than strictly necessary.
‘Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me.’
‘You always work the late shift?’
‘I like being awake at night. There’s the feeling that anything could happen.’
‘Out there it usually does.’ Laidlaw gestured to the door behind him.
‘And in here too sometimes.’
‘Second floor?’ He was making show of studying the red-tasselled key.
‘Third. There are only two rooms up there and the other’s not taken yet, so you can make as much noise as you want.’
He got the feeling she was smiling again as he made his way towards the lift.
Day Three
12
Laidlaw was eating a cooked breakfast in the dining room when the day-shift receptionist handed him a message, apologising for her scrawled writing. It took him a couple of attempts to work out that it was from Conn Feeney. Carter’s widow was due to visit the scene of the crime before saying a few words to some tame journalists. Laidlaw didn’t bother mopping up the last of the fried egg. He slipped his jacket on and got going.
By the time he reached the Parlour, things were drawing to a close. The press photographers were taking a few final snaps. Neighbours and passers-by formed an appreciative audience on the pavement across from where Monica Carter stood, dressed in sober colours, her naturally pale face lacking any adornment, yet still striking, hair tied back, eyes misty. Two print journalists — neither of them familiar to Laidlaw — were checking their notepads in case they’d missed anything. Next to the widow stood a figure Laidlaw did recognise — Cam Colvin. He wasn’t wearing a suit as such, but both jacket and trousers were dark, as was his tie. Laidlaw doubted any of it had come from Milligan’s favoured menswear shop. One hand held Monica Carter’s elbow while she finished whatever she was telling the press.
Laidlaw was reminded of the pathologist’s words. He’d said Colvin had ‘handled her with great gentleness’. And here he was handling her again, head bowed but eyes like darts aimed at the reporters, warning them not to overstep the mark. His shoulders were slightly hunched, the result of the knife in the back that had become part of the city’s mythology. Laidlaw noticed that Colvin’s free hand was twisted almost behind his back. He was holding something there. Laidlaw moved further to the edge of the throng. It was the posy from behind the pub. Colvin had removed it for some reason.
Laidlaw scratched his jaw, realising he hadn’t shaved that morning. He kept watching as Colvin decided enough was enough. No, Mrs Carter would not be posing for a few tasteful portraits. No, she wouldn’t be sitting down for any private confab. The journalists were shooed away as a car drew to a halt, driven by one of the men Laidlaw had bearded in the Parlour. Colvin himself ushered the widow into the back seat, settling next to her. As the car drew away, normality returned, as if the curtain had come down at the end of a performance. Laidlaw saw that the door to the Parlour was slightly open, Conn Feeney watching through the gap. He gave the landlord a thumbs-up of thanks for the tip-off. Rather than acknowledge it, Feeney simply let the door swing closed. Opening time wouldn’t be for a while yet.
Laidlaw wasn’t the only onlooker who made the pilgrimage to the bins behind the pub. A couple of permed housewives in Rainmates and what looked like floral dressing gowns were ahead of him. One stooped to study the writing on the large bunch of fresh flowers.
‘They’re beauties,’ her friend said.
‘From your wife and loving children,’ the other woman recited. Then, to Laidlaw: ‘I hope you’re not thinking of nicking them.’
‘I’m not,’ he assured her. But he did wonder about the other flowers, the ones Colvin had decided didn’t belong.
‘Such a waste,’ the first woman said. Laidlaw wondered whether she meant the loss of human or horticultural life.
As the two women shuffled off, he lit a cigarette and read the inscription for himself. Over a dozen blooms rested behind the cellophane wrapping, already dead but making the best of it, which in itself wasn’t the worst of epitaphs.
Milligan was just finishing the morning briefing when Laidlaw walked into the office.
‘Nice of you to join us, Jack.’
‘I’ve been listening from the corridor — didn’t want to interrupt your flow.’
‘Then you’ll know what duties you and Bob have been assigned?’
‘Absolutely.’ Laidlaw pulled out his chair and sat down. There was a mound of fresh paperwork on his desk. The typing pool had been busy. Bob Lilley was studying his own copies, managing to avoid eye contact with his partner.
Milligan clapped his hands together twice. ‘Let’s get busy then.’
As the detectives roused themselves, Milligan began to move towards Laidlaw’s desk, but a WPC appeared in the doorway and announced that the Commander wanted a word. With a glower towards Laidlaw that warned of unfinished business, Milligan made his exit, straightening his tie as he went.
‘So what are our duties?’ Laidlaw asked Lilley.
‘I thought you knew.’
‘Let’s pretend I arrived at the station five minutes ago after a return visit to the Parlour.’
‘It opens early.’
‘I had a tip-off. Watched the widow and Cam Colvin talking to some journalists after leaving a bouquet. Colvin’s the type of gangster who likes to see his photo in the paper — means more of his fellow Glaswegians know who they’re supposed to fear. Recognition and reputation are all.’
‘So you got a good look at Carter’s wife then? Can I add you to the list of the smitten?’
‘How about you tell me what intellectual challenge we’ve been set for the rest of the day?’
‘We’re on door-to-door.’
‘The CID equivalent of jankers, in other words.’
‘Milligan’s pulling Malky Chisholm in for questioning but saving that for himself.’
‘While we waste a solid day asking the deaf, dumb and blind if they’ve seen or heard anything suspicious.’
‘I take it you have a better idea?’
‘Only if you’ve yet to mention Jennifer Love to anyone.’
‘I kept that under my hat.’
‘Any particular reason why?’
‘Eck Adamson is your snitch, meaning you should be the one given the honour.’
‘Decent of you, but that same decency might see you stuck at DS for longer than necessary. Stealing your colleagues’ glory is a tried-and-tested shortcut to advancement.’
‘I’ve always preferred scenic routes myself.’
‘Then this is your lucky day, DS Lilley.’
‘Whiskies go-go bar?’ Lilley guessed.
‘Whiskies go-go bar,’ Laidlaw echoed, shoving the paperwork to the furthest corner of his desk.