33
Laidlaw’s head was spinning as he left Kelvingrove on foot. Nearing a bus stop as a double-decker paused to let off a passenger, he climbed aboard and headed upstairs. The seats near the front were taken, but that didn’t bother him. It wasn’t the view he was interested in; he just needed to think. He dug out a few coins at the conductor’s approach and gripped the resultant ticket, managing to light a cigarette at the same time, sucking the smoke deep. Before he knew it, it had been reduced to a stub. He crushed it under his heel and lit another. Outside he saw a group of young men wearing football scarves. Was today Saturday? Who was playing? He had no idea. Time had ceased to mean anything. He had listened to murderers tell him during their confession that time stopped at the exact moment their victim stopped breathing, while the assailant felt as if they had departed their corporeal form and were hovering overhead, looking down on the frozen tableau. Seconds became hours, or else hours became compressed into mere blinks of the eye. No, they couldn’t remember the moments leading up to the crime, or telephoning 999, or washing the blood from their hands. Was it a Saturday, though? He hoped to hell the Old Firm weren’t playing. Those were the worst, the losing fans filled with rage as they headed home to families who held their collective breath for fear of reprisal.
Domestics: that was the term that was starting to be used. Violence carried out against you in the one place that was meant to be your refuge, your domain, your nest. Wives would go out shopping or to work on a Monday morning with a thick layer of make-up covering the damage. They would look haunted and broken, shunning eye contact, answers prepared for the questions they’d be asked by neighbours, friends, office or factory colleagues.
It was a wonder more didn’t do something about it.
Some did, though. Some did.
As Laidlaw became aware of the route the bus was taking, he realised he was nearing Central Division’s orbit. He got off at the next stop, lingering in the graffitied shelter as he finished the cigarette — it was either his second or third of the trip. He paced as he smoked. Redecorating already... absolute bloody cowboys.
‘Stupid, Jack, stupid, stupid,’ he muttered to himself, beyond caring if anyone thought him odd. He was odd — odd and stupid and sometimes wrong. But not this time. Because it made sense. For the first time since Bobby Carter’s death, everything made perfect sense.
He walked the rest of the short distance to the HQ building blinded to everything except the simplicity of what had occurred. He went straight to the crime squad office and looked around, ignoring Bob Lilley as he sought the one person he needed. Lilley, however, was not to be thwarted. He approached with what could have passed for a penitent look.
‘I’m under orders to fix a return date for a meal.’ He broke off as he noticed Laidlaw’s agitation. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Everything and nothing.’
‘More wisdom from your philosophers?’ Lilley nodded towards Laidlaw’s desk drawer. Laidlaw stared at him.
‘Know why they’re there, Bob, those books?’ The words tumbled from his mouth. ‘It’s because in a room full of detectives, they’ll be seen as clues to my character, and while everyone’s busy trying to decipher their role and meaning, I can get some work done unhindered.’ He had a fevered look to him as he stared at his colleague. ‘I think we’ve been following a string of MacGuffins that’s only got longer as this case has unfolded.’
‘Who the hell’s MacGuffin?’
‘It’s not a who, it’s a what. Alfred Hitchcock uses them all the time. It means a deflection, a false lead. You’re so sure it’s important that you ignore everything around it.’
‘Are you telling me you think you’ve worked it out?’
‘I think I’m maybe close, but I need to find Milligan to be sure.’
‘He’s questioning Archie Love.’
‘Why’s he doing that?’
‘Remember three days ago, Jack? When Love was on our list because he wouldn’t have been happy about his daughter seeing Carter?’
‘Things have moved on.’ Laidlaw made to pass Lilley on his way to the door, but Lilley gripped his arm, just above the elbow. Laidlaw was surprised by how firm the grip was. Bob Lilley had muscle to him as well as heft. It would have served him well back in the days when he had trodden the beat as a constable.
‘After I’ve spoken with Milligan, we’ll go grab a drink,’ Laidlaw said. ‘I’ll tell you my theory then. Deal?’
‘And we’ll set up a night for a meal round at ours?’
‘You strike a hard bargain, Bob.’ Laidlaw looked to where his arm was still being held, waited while the pressure eased and his colleague released him. ‘Noon sharp in the Top Spot.’
Lilley stared at Laidlaw’s back as he left, even half thought of following him. But you didn’t interfere with a force of nature, not if you knew what was good for you.
34
They weren’t gathered in the meeting room of the Coronach Hotel this time, but in the drinking club where Laidlaw had found them playing cards. No card games today, just a table set with a single chair on which sat Cam Colvin. Every other chair in the room had been stacked, giving the clear hint that they were to stay standing. The barman, who had unlocked the door to let them in, had left by that same door. Spanner Thomson looked to Panda Paterson while Mickey Ballater and Dod Menzies exchanged questioning shrugs. Colvin had a mug of coffee in front of him. He took a slurp, placing it on the table afterwards as if repositioning a precious object in its display case.
‘To say I’m disappointed would be the understatement of the year,’ he began, weighing each word by the ounce. ‘One of our best friends and closest colleagues is dumped behind a scabby pub and a week later we’re no further forward. We’ve got to ask ourselves if that’s because one of us isn’t giving it a hundred per cent, which leads me to wonder why that might be the case.’
Mickey Ballater’s attention was on Spanner Thomson. He seemed taken aback when he realised everyone else was looking not at Spanner but at him. They were doing so in imitation of their boss. Ballater met Colvin’s eyes.
‘What’s the game here?’ he asked, brow furrowing.
‘I should be asking you that, Mickey. Have you got a wee thing for the widow, eh? Fancy your chances there now Bobby’s out of the picture?’
Ballater took a step towards Spanner Thomson, both hands curling into fists.
‘Easy, Mickey,’ Colvin commanded.
‘Fuck’s sake, Cam. You’re the one who fancies her — once that dawned on me, I backed all the way off. This is Spanner trying to turn the tables because you’ve got me watching him!’
‘And how did he find out about that, Mickey? I’ll tell you: you and your big fat trap!’ Colvin rose slowly to his feet and came out from behind the table. Both his overcoat and suit jacket had been hung on pegs next to the bar. He was undoing his cufflinks and rolling up his shirtsleeves as he advanced on the group. ‘I need people around me I can trust. Neither of you seems to be fitting that particular bill.’
Ballater’s eyes were on Thomson again, his mouth as thin and firm a line as you would find along the bottom of a ledger. He seemed to make up his mind, throwing himself forward. He had given too much warning, however, and Thomson was already retreating a few steps, his hand sliding inside his coat. As the spanner emerged, wrapped in his fist, Ballater reached into his own pocket, pulling out a cut-throat razor, which opened with a flick of his wrist. Colvin snatched at Ballater’s right arm and twisted it, pulling it up behind Ballater’s back until the man’s knees buckled, a silent cry escaping his throat. The razor clattered to the floor. The forefinger of Colvin’s free hand was pointing in Thomson’s direction.