Though the club wouldn’t open for hours, staff were already busy cleaning and restocking. There was an aroma of musky sweat and spilled beer that had not yet been disguised by the cans of deodoriser. Small circular podiums, each with a chrome pole at its centre, stood at the four corners of the dance floor. Laidlaw visualised Jenni Love gyrating as the ceiling-mounted spotlights played over her body. The owner of Whiskies, a man named Jake Collins, wasn’t in yet, but the self-styled ‘bar manager’, a bleary-eyed teenager with raging acne and home-made tattoos, reckoned he could help them with an address for Jenni. As he headed to the back office, Laidlaw signalled for Lilley to accompany him. Last thing they wanted was Love being telephoned a warning. In Lilley’s absence, Laidlaw walked to the DJ booth. It boasted two record decks and a cassette player plus a control panel for the lights. A reel-to-reel sat on the floor, apparently considered obsolete. Promotional photos, their curling edges showing their age, were pinned to the booth’s back wall. Laidlaw recognised a few faces: Marmalade, Lulu, Cilla.
‘She sang in here once, you know,’ a voice called from the bar. Laidlaw turned towards the man who was unloading bottles from a crate. He was in his thirties. Sleeves rolled up, stomach bulging, a sheen of sweat on his face. ‘Lulu, I mean. Back before this place became Whiskies. Everyone from the Corries to the Poets passed through those doors.’
‘Not these days, though?’
‘Dancing’s what works up a thirst, and a DJ doesn’t cost what a proper musician does.’
Laidlaw made show of studying his surroundings. ‘Who owns the place now?’
‘Jake Collins.’
‘Aye, on paper maybe. But who’s pulling his strings? Cam Colvin?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Your face says otherwise. Ever see Bobby Carter in here?’
‘The guy who was killed?’ The man decided not to bother lying. ‘He came in now and again.’
‘With Colvin?’ A shake of the head. ‘And I’m guessing not with his wife?’
‘You’re getting Jenni’s address, so I’m assuming you already know.’
‘I don’t suppose you ever saw her ex in here, name of Chick McAllister?’
Another shake of the head, more definitive this time. The man concentrated on emptying the crate and readying the next one. Bob Lilley was emerging from the back office, flourishing a scrap of paper, the teenager at his heels.
Laidlaw gestured towards both employees. ‘If she’s flown the nest, we’ll be straight back here and you’ll be spending some time in the cells at Central Division. Enjoy the rest of your day, gents.’
13
Jennifer Love still lived at home with her parents. It was her mother who opened the door of the bungalow in Knightswood. The area was undergoing development, new tower blocks beginning to appear. In time they might swamp the existing housing altogether, smothering the life out of it. Jennifer was still in bed, Laidlaw and Lilley were informed. They knew what young people were like these days. Her mother would see if she could be roused. Mrs Love led them down the narrow hallway, past a venerable-looking paraffin heater, into the living room, where a coal fire was sparking and spitting, the fireside itself immaculate. Did they want tea or coffee? Was anything wrong?
‘Just a couple of questions about someone she might know,’ Bob Lilley explained.
‘And who might that be?’
‘Bobby Carter.’
The woman’s lips puckered but she held her counsel.
‘Your face gives you away, Mrs Love,’ Laidlaw said. ‘So if you were thinking of trying to hide anything from us, I’d advise against.’
She folded her arms slowly while she debated silently with herself.
‘Jennifer spilled the beans to me,’ she eventually admitted. ‘Not at the start, but soon enough after. And him a married man, too. But they’d stopped seeing one another. It was never that serious. I don’t think they even...’ She broke off, giving her permed hair a pat as if to tidy it. ‘Anyway, I’ll go fetch her.’
They waited in the living room. It was festooned with memorabilia from Archie Love’s playing days. Morton, Dunfermline, then a short unsuccessful spell at Rangers before seeing out his professional days at St Johnstone. There were trophies and medals, a cap from his one outing for the national team, and framed photos of him posing with everyone from Jim Baxter to Jock Stein, Hamish Imlach to Molly Weir. Other photos showed a young boy. One of these seemed to have been cropped from a larger picture, the edges rough. It sat next to a family portrait, posed in a studio, the photographer’s name embossed along the bottom of the white cardboard frame. Love looked every inch the patriarch. His wife was just about managing a smile, while Jennifer, aged probably eleven or twelve, was showing signs that she was present under sufferance and sufferance alone.
When Mrs Love returned, she told them Jennifer would be a couple of minutes. She was readying to sit down, but Laidlaw informed her they needed a bit of privacy. Her face hardened.
‘I’ll be in the kitchen then.’ There was no follow-up offer of beverages.
‘Your husband’s not here?’ Lilley enquired.
‘He runs a youth team. They keep him busy.’ She left the room.
The two men sat in silence, side by side on the sofa. Archie Love’s armchair held a cleaned ashtray and a spectacles case. The chair looked well used and Laidlaw guessed the man in the photographs had put on weight since his heyday. His wife was a sparrow by comparison, albeit one that would protect her nest to the death. Jennifer Love, when she entered, had many of her mother’s delicate features, but with added height and looks. Her dark hair was shoulder-length, her eyes lucid and watchful. She settled in what would be her mother’s usual chair, tucking her legs beneath her. Mid twenties and still living with mum and dad — Laidlaw wondered who stood to gain most from the arrangement.
‘We’d stopped seeing each other,’ she announced.
‘All the same, we’re sorry for your loss.’
She bit her bottom lip, as if realising she should be showing a sorrow that wasn’t there.
‘When was the last time you saw Mr Carter?’ Lilley asked.
‘Couple of weeks back.’
‘Was this at Whiskies?’ Lilley watched her nod. ‘He was a regular?’
‘If I was dancing, yes.’
‘Is that how you met?’
‘Yes.’
Laidlaw leaned towards her, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘And what caused the split?’ he asked.
‘Nothing really.’
‘You’d made it clear to him you weren’t going to share a bed?’
Her eyes widened a little at the question’s lack of subtlety.
‘Sorry to be so blunt, Jenni,’ he went on, ‘but this is a murder inquiry.’
She nodded again, this time in understanding. ‘I think we just didn’t have enough in common. He didn’t even like the music at the club. He just liked ogling the girls.’
‘He was generous, though — always buying the drinks? A meal now and then? Maybe a bit of jewellery?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must have known something would be expected in return. The guy was married. There was a reason he was with you rather than his wife.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘What about Cam Colvin? Ever see him at Whiskies?’
‘I never met him, but Bobby talked about him all the time. I think I was supposed to find that whole world as exciting as he did.’
‘You’ve got a head on your shoulders,’ Laidlaw said. ‘That’s something you should be proud of.’ He paused, allowing her a moment to inhale the praise. ‘What about your old boyfriend Chick?’
‘What about him?’