The man’s breath was like a blowtorch, and Laidlaw wondered why it was that after a drink so many Glaswegians turned into the Ancient Mariner, eager to share their stories and wisdom with complete strangers. This particular example boasted a rolled-up newspaper, which he wielded like a baton, as if he could conduct the world.
‘At least it’s only my face that’s tripping me,’ Laidlaw responded. ‘Your whole life seems to be one long bout of falling over.’ He gestured towards the rips in the man’s trousers and the elbows of his worn-out jacket.
The man studied him, taking a step back as if to help him focus. ‘You look like an actor, son. Have I seen you in anything?’
‘We’re all actors in this town, haven’t you noticed? You’re acting right now.’
‘Am I?’
‘Badly — but even bad acting deserves the occasional round of applause.’ Laidlaw dug a few coins from his pocket and placed them in the man’s hand. ‘Should cover your bus fare. Either that or a paper from this week rather than last.’
There was a double-decker drawing towards them at that moment. Laidlaw gestured for the old man to precede him aboard, but then stood his ground and told the clippie he’d wait for the next one. The new passenger stared in bemusement from the window as the bell rang and the bus pulled away, depriving him of his audience. Laidlaw didn’t doubt he would soon find another.
8
Bob Lilley was making show of studying the crime-scene photos when Ernie Milligan stopped in front of him. He smelled of Old Spice and ambition, neither of which particularly bothered Lilley, though he was an Aramis man himself. Milligan took a slurp of tea from a Mexico World Cup mug, which Lilley knew would be sweetened with the usual three sugars.
‘Got enough to be getting on with?’ he enquired.
Lilley decided to tickle his boss’s belly. ‘Interesting what you said about the Cumbie. When do we talk to Chisholm?’
‘Soon enough, Bob, don’t you worry. Sorry about the post-mortem, by the way — crossed wires.’
‘You’re bound to make a few mistakes along the way.’ Lilley watched Milligan’s face stiffen. ‘I mean on a case as complex as this. Lot of plates spinning.’
‘Meantime your partner isn’t so much a plate-spinner as a Harry Houdini.’
‘Is that what Laidlaw is, my partner? I get the feeling he’d object to the description. And to answer the question you’re about to ask, I don’t have a clue where he is. He hightailed it as soon as the briefing was done.’
‘Aye, and before I could dole out tasks.’
‘From what I’ve heard, Jack Laidlaw works best when left to his own devices.’
‘He needs reined in, Bob. That’s your job.’
‘You want me tailing him around town?’
‘I don’t want him thinking he can set any agendas here, that’s all.’ Milligan broke off as a WPC began Sellotaping a fresh set of photographs and clippings to the wall, including a snap of the deceased with his wife and children.
‘Got that from the house,’ Milligan explained. ‘It’s some place — you should see it. They’ve not long moved in. Decorators are still busy.’
‘How old’s the photo?’ Lilley leaned in towards it.
‘Couple of years. Anniversary bash at the Albany. She’s not changed much.’ Milligan’s eyes were all over the widow. ‘She’ll have suitors queuing up at her door.’
‘I’m assuming she’ll be well provided for financially?’
‘There’s a will still to be read out, but you can bet there’ll be money — not all of it within reach of the taxman, judging by the deceased’s track record.’
‘Has the house been searched?’
‘We didn’t find a secret stash, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘And Carter’s office?’
‘Under way. His secretary’s helping between weeping fits.’ Milligan had noticed the Commander gesturing from the doorway. He nodded, placed the mug on the nearest desk and straightened his shoulders, but then paused for a moment. ‘Find Laidlaw. Keep me posted. Don’t let him cloud your judgement. Oh, and make sure he’s smoking and drinking plenty. I want him six feet under well before me. It’s by way of a bet where the winner gets to dance a jig on the loser’s grave.’
Lilley watched Milligan march — actually march, arms swinging — towards the door. The phone on the desk behind him was ringing, so he picked it up.
‘DS Lilley,’ he announced.
‘I’m looking for Jack. Jack Laidlaw.’
‘He’s not available at the moment. Can I take a message?’
‘I’m his wife. Ena. Just wondered if I’d be seeing him today.’
‘You know he stayed at the Burleigh last night?’
‘Not that he had the good grace to tell me himself, but I’d worked it out. You’re on that murder case?’
‘That’s right, Ena.’
‘Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name already.’
Lilley had rested his backside against a corner of the desk. ‘I’m Bob. Bob Lilley.’
‘I don’t think he’s mentioned you.’
‘Well, we’ve only recently been partnered.’ There was that word again.
‘Good luck to you.’
‘I understand he can be a handful.’ ‘Like saying Krakatoa gave off a bit of smoke.’ He could hear the smile in her voice. A tired smile, but still a smile. ‘Are you married, Bob?’
‘Too long, my wife might say. We’ve a couple of grown kids.’
‘Lucky you — our three are going to be around for a while yet.’
‘I know that can be hard. Detectives tend to work unsociable hours at the best of times.’
‘And even when they’re home, they’re sometimes not home at all.’
‘You’d get no argument from my wife.’
‘Does she have a name?’
‘Margaret.’
‘Maybe I should be swapping notes with her. Will you tell Jack I called?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’
Lilley was trying to work out what to say next, but the dialling tone told him she’d already ended the call.
9
The graffiti had been applied with an aerosol. Time was, a tin of paint and a brush would have been needed. Laidlaw was vague on how a gang named Cumbie had come to be associated with the Gorbals. Same went for the Tongs, the Spur and the Toi. They were part of a code, he supposed, and codes were not meant to be deciphered by everyone. Witness the Masonic handshake, which could be given without a non-believer being any the wiser. Not that a member of the craft would thank you for the comparison. It interested him that Lilley was not of the brotherhood; most cops felt obliged to join if they weren’t already members. Quiet conversations had been had with Laidlaw early in his career, pointing out that it would be no detriment to advancement through the ranks. Quite the opposite, in fact, if he took the speaker’s meaning. It was like the union hold over the working-class denizens of the shipyards and elsewhere: it wasn’t mandatory to sign up and pay your dues, but if you didn’t, there would always be mutterings that you weren’t a team player.
Laidlaw suspected that this was what each gang conferred on its adherents, a sense of belonging, often where none had been nurtured at home. The other pieces of graffiti told their own stories, and the fact that derogatory comments had already been added alongside the word Cumbie told him that the message had been there a while, certainly long enough for the local gang to let the Cumbie know what they thought of this territorial slight. This was no new incursion or cry of intent. It was history. Soon enough it would be defaced entirely, a fresh layer of scrawls and scuffs covering it. Milligan, as ever, wasn’t so much barking up the wrong tree as looking for a tree in the widest of oceans.