‘He said it was a shortcut.’ Moira Macrae bristled, folding her arms, creating a barricade that was not going to be breached.
‘All I had in mind was a snog,’ said Anderson.
‘The kind of snog that requires a dark alley rather than a bus stop?’
The young man glared at Laidlaw. ‘We found a dead body, in case you’re interested.’
‘Everything interests me, son. It’s what you might call a curse. You didn’t recognise the victim?’
‘Is that what he is?’ Moira Macrae was staring at him. ‘We weren’t sure.’
‘He was stabbed, as far as we can tell. Autopsy tomorrow will tell us more, hopefully. We think his name’s Bobby Carter. Does that mean anything to either of you?’
Laidlaw watched them shake their heads. A drinker had appeared at his shoulder, placing two fresh glasses on the table.
‘Just to help with the shock.’
Laidlaw turned towards the man. ‘They’re liable to go into cardiac arrest if they drink half what’s already here.’ The look he gave was as effective as wasp-killer, the man backing away in mazy fashion towards the safety of the swarm. Two uniforms were collecting contact details from various tables. Laidlaw crooked a finger towards one of them.
‘We need our two witnesses here taken to the station. We also need them relatively sober, so grab a tray and dump this lot.’ He nodded towards the array of drinks.
‘Hell of a waste.’
‘A thought that often passes through my head when I look at a uniform.’ Laidlaw was up on his feet. Four short strides took him to the bar, where Bob Lilley had a keen audience for his conversation with the barman.
‘We could do with clearing this place,’ Laidlaw commented.
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ the barman said. ‘This is the busiest I’ve been in months.’
‘Maybe you can arrange for a murder to become a regular thing. You could announce it on a board outside. If you need any help, I’m sure John Rhodes would oblige. This is his patch, after all, which means you’ll be handing a percentage of your takings to him. I’d imagine two sets of books come in handy for that.’
An impressive range of emotions had passed over the man’s face as Laidlaw spoke.
‘Don’t know who you’re talking about,’ he said.
‘That’s the best you can do? What’s your name anyway?’
‘This is Conn Feeney,’ Lilley broke in. ‘He owns the place.’
‘Nobody “owns” anything in the Calton,’ Laidlaw corrected him. ‘They’re all in hock to John Rhodes.’ He turned his attention back to Feeney. ‘You saw the body?’ Feeney nodded. ‘Recognised it?’ Another nod. ‘Mind if I ask how?’
‘Plenty people know Bobby Carter.’
‘Did he ever drink in here?’
‘I wouldn’t think so.’
‘No, because he was Cam Colvin’s man, and Cam Colvin is going to wonder how come his good friend and associate ended up skewered like a kebab behind one of John Rhodes’s pubs.’
‘This is my pub, bought and paid for.’ Feeney’s hackles were rising. Laidlaw took his time lighting a cigarette.
‘And still being paid for, I’m willing to bet.’ The smoke billowed from his nose. He noticed that Lilley’s notebook was sitting on top of the bar, a pen resting against a blank page. ‘Got enough to be going on with?’ Laidlaw asked him.
‘Hard to tell,’ Lilley answered.
‘Well, don’t let me stop you. I’ll be waiting in the car.’
The car, however, was not where Lilley found him five minutes later. Lilley’s Triumph Toledo sat across the street, unoccupied. Laidlaw was patrolling the pavement, scanning darkened tenement windows.
‘What was he doing here, Bob?’ he asked when Lilley caught up with him. ‘It’s both enemy territory and a night-life black hole. You’ve got the Parlour, and a Chinese restaurant at the far corner by the main road. One chip shop. Flats for those who wish they could afford elsewhere. A couple of builders’ yards. Bits of wasteland waiting for a developer with more money than sense.’
‘Is this you playing Socrates?’
Laidlaw wasn’t listening. Lilley had become little more than a wall he could bounce words off. ‘Meeting someone in the pub? Thinking better of it — too small, too much curiosity — so opting for the lane? Meaning it was someone he knew and trusted?’ He flicked the remains of his cigarette onto the rutted tarmac.
‘Questions for tomorrow,’ Lilley suggested, paying sudden and conspicuous attention to his wristwatch. ‘Need a lift home?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Whereabouts do you live anyway?’
‘Simshill.’
‘Married?’
‘Three kids.’
Lilley seemed to be waiting for Laidlaw to ask about his own marital arrangements, but instead Laidlaw turned and began to walk towards the main road, lost in thought once more. Halfway along, he stopped and studied the exterior of the bar again. He was still there when Lilley drove past.
‘Odd bugger,’ Lilley said under his breath. He wondered if anyone would still be at the retirement do...
Day Two
5
Lilley was locking the Toledo next morning when he saw Laidlaw walking towards Central Division. It was a red-brick building, occupying the corner of St Andrew’s Street and Turnbull Street. Laidlaw was eyeing the place warily, as if suspecting booby traps. He tensed upon noticing a figure crossing the street towards him, relaxing as he recognised his colleague.
‘You don’t drive?’ Lilley asked him.
‘I prefer buses. They open your eyes to the city around you. Though I sometimes take a Glasgow ambulance when funds allow or the need arises.’
Lilley knew he meant taxis. He looked Laidlaw up and down: same suit, shirt and tie as the previous day. ‘You didn’t go home last night,’ he stated.
‘Little wonder they made you a sergeant.’
‘So where did you sleep?’
‘The Burleigh. It’s the hotel Ben Finlay introduced me to. And to answer your next question, it’s just that sometimes home feels too far away.’
‘Your wife doesn’t mind?’
‘Her name’s Ena, by the way.’
‘And mine’s Margaret. We’ve two daughters, both adult enough to have left home.’
Laidlaw almost smiled. ‘It’s been preying on your mind that I didn’t ask.’ They began climbing the steps to the station together. ‘So what’s on today’s message list?’
‘We’ll soon find out. And you’re wrong about that “preying on your mind” thing.’
‘I’m not, though, am I?’ Laidlaw yanked open the door and preceded Bob Lilley inside.
Glasgow’s mortuary, adjacent to the High Court and across from the expanse of Glasgow Green, was a study in anonymity, single-storeyed unlike its grandiose neighbour and visited only by brisk professionals and the grieving bereaved. The deceased’s wife had been brought there in the wee small hours to identify the body. As Laidlaw and Lilley reached the viewing room, they realised the post-mortem examination was already over. The body was being sewn together by an assistant, who kept his nose pressed close to the flesh as he worked. Laidlaw hoped it was a case of myopia rather than ghoulish pleasure. Heading back into the corridor, they were in time to catch the pathologist. He still wore his scrubs, over which a bloodied apron stretched from mid chest to his knees. The green wellingtons on his feet reached to just past his ankles. He was drying his hands as the two detectives approached.