‘I mean,’ Rhodes went on, ‘it was a matter of elimination. Did it make sense for it to be Cam Colvin? Of course it did. It made too much sense, that was the problem. But then when the taxis got hit, well, I knew I’d not ordered that, so who had? And did that mean someone was attacking both of us in the hope of the conflict escalating?’ He stopped and bent a little, the better to be at eye level with his prisoner. Chisholm was seated on a wooden chair of the type more commonly found at a school desk, his hands tied behind him, ankles bound to the chair legs with twine. The knots were tight, producing pins and needles in his feet. There was electrical tape across his mouth, meaning he had to breathe through his bloodied nostrils.
‘You see what I’m saying?’ Rhodes went on. ‘That meant my next port of call was Matt Mason, who denied having anything to do with it. He could have been lying, of course. You never know with a bastard like him. But he sounded genuine enough, and he’s had other things on his mind, with the hospital and everything.’
He broke off, straightening up and beginning to pace again, like some caged predator. It was a narrow space. Four strides and he was at the tool-strewn workbench. When he turned, a few further paces took him to the wall opposite, where a selection of electrical leads hung from rusted nails.
‘Then,’ he continued, ‘I started thinking about you. I started thinking about you long and hard. A junior with his eyes on the boardroom. Whose boardroom, though? I’m not sure that even matters. But Bobby Carter’s death was like you’d been picked for The Golden Shot. The bolt was already loaded. You just had to aim it at the thread connecting me and Cam Colvin.’
Yes, Chisholm could have told him, and it was Jack Laidlaw who planted the seed that day in the interview room. Attack both fiefdoms, ramp up the chaos, watch them tear one another apart. As all hell breaks loose on the streets, the Cumbie sits there waiting to come crawling out once the dust settles on the battlefield. It had seemed almost too easy, and it had almost worked.
Almost.
The pacing had stopped again. Rhodes stood less than a yard from the seated figure and seemed to study him before walking behind Chisholm and placing his hands firmly on the younger man’s shoulders. With infinite slowness, the chair was tipped back until Chisholm could do nothing but stare at the face poised above him. Rhodes’s tone when speaking had been relaxed, almost laconic, but his look now was one of pure and unbridled malevolence.
‘So do I skin you myself or hand you over to Cam Colvin?’ he asked, teeth bared.
Behind the gag, Chisholm was trying to speak. Rhodes considered for a moment, then ripped the tape off, causing the young man to screw shut his eyes in momentary pain.
‘Your decision,’ he managed eventually, hoping he sounded less panicked than he felt. He was having to work hard at stopping his bladder and bowels from emptying. ‘But there’s a third option, too.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘I could be an asset to you, a real asset. I bring a whole squad with me who’ll do whatever they’re told.’
‘Whack guys on the street? Firebomb a pub? Batter the windscreens out of a fleet of taxis?’ Rhodes took a moment to consider this. ‘And you’d be willing to work for me, follow my orders?’
‘Seems to me it beats the alternatives. Look, whether or not I had anything to do with the Gay Laddie and the beatings and the damage to the cabs, I can be useful to—’
Rhodes had heard enough. The tape was stuck back over Malky Chisholm’s mouth, Rhodes squeezing it hard beneath the heel of his hand to ensure it was secure. The chair was dropped back onto all four legs again. Chisholm watched as Rhodes approached the door where the scarred man stood. The two exchanged a few muttered words. Then the scarred man nodded, his eyes on Chisholm, as John Rhodes opened the door and stepped out briskly into the sodium night. The scarred man walked towards the workbench and ran his fingers over some of the tools lying there.
He seemed to be looking for something in particular. Eventually he found it. It was wrapped in an oily-looking piece of muslin cloth. Slowly and surely he began to peel the layers of cloth away while Malky Chisholm watched, the blood pounding in his ears. He felt like he was falling with infinite slowness from a very great height, though in the full and certain knowledge that the fall itself was not going to be the death of him.
The revealed revolver, however, was another story entirely.
40
That night, Laidlaw lay in his bed at the Burleigh Hotel, Jan asleep in his wakeful arms. With the case closed, he knew he could be at home, but he needed one more night on this life raft. The Commander had hinted at a promotion, but Laidlaw couldn’t help thinking a leper’s bell might prove more appropriate. He turned his thoughts to Monica Carter. She would shift all the weight to her own broad shoulders. Her children would visit her in prison. He realised he would like to visit her, too, but he knew he never would. Such a visit might salvage something for him but would be poison to her, once the other inmates worked out what he was. He had known good people go bad before, had visited his fair share of toxic relationships, marriages seemingly fine on the outside but rotting from the core. Abusive partners, mental and physical cruelty, children little more than cannon fodder, themselves growing up damaged and ready to repeat the mistakes of their parents, knowing no other way of living and being. He wondered about Stella and Peter and Chris. What did the future hold for them? His mind was on Peter especially, with his ready knife and his eyes ablaze. Had he just got away with murder? If so, where might that eventually lead?
He tried not to think of his own wife and children. That way led to a deeper, darker ocean of hurt. Instead, he felt his arms envelop Jan. I’m clinging on for dear life, he thought to himself. Please let me see the morning...