‘Should I maybe add Malky Chisholm to the mix?’
‘His lot are nothing more than toerags, Jack, you know that as well as I do.’ Rhodes’s eyes widened a little. ‘Christ, is that the angle Milligan’s taking? The bugger’s thicker than the doorstop on a plain loaf.’
‘Doesn’t mean he doesn’t sometimes get a result, fluke or no. Have we got a bit of gang warfare to look forward to, John?’
‘You’d have to ask Colvin. Me, I’m just a concerned citizen and businessman.’ Rhodes pressed his hands to his chest, hands that had throttled the life from men and picked up clubs and axes to be wielded against others, maybe even pressed a gun to a forehead or jaw. ‘I’ll see you around, Jack. Regards to Ena...’
Laidlaw was in two minds about following, but he didn’t think Rhodes would appreciate the company. His minder headed indoors with a final scowl in Laidlaw’s direction. A pair of denim-clad men in their early twenties had been watching from across the street. They now crossed, hesitating just shy of the door.
‘Was that who we think it was?’ one asked. Laidlaw nodded his response. The speaker turned to his companion. ‘We’ll maybe try the Sarry Heid instead, then.’
Laidlaw almost asked if he could join them. But instead he flagged down a passing taxi and climbed in.
‘Did you hear what happened behind that pub, son?’ the driver shouted above the noise of the overworked engine.
‘A family lost a husband and father,’ Laidlaw said. ‘That’s what happened. Now give me a bit of peace, will you? I need to do some thinking.’
Conn Feeney locked the doors of the Parlour and joined John Rhodes in the cramped back office, leaving Rhodes’s bodyguard perched on a stool at the bar. Rhodes had made himself comfortable on the only chair and was sifting through the paperwork scattered across the desk, the same antique desk he had gifted Feeney on the day he’d taken ownership of the pub, praising its solidity.
‘Belonged to a bank manager,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve checked down the back of the drawers but he didn’t leave anything.’
‘You’re sure I can’t offer you something, John?’ Feeney asked now, taking up position just inside the doorway. The room was windowless and consequently airless. Rhodes’s aftershave filled it.
‘I hear you had a visit, Conn.’
‘Cam Colvin’s boys.’
‘I suppose that’s to be expected,’ Rhodes mused. ‘If you need a bit of protection in the short term, you only have to ask.’
‘I’ll be fine, John.’
‘Police give you any grief?’
‘If you’re meaning that guy Laidlaw, the answer’s no.’
‘They’ll know I’ve got a share in this place, though, eh?’
‘If they do, they didn’t hear it from me.’
Rhodes nodded slowly, seemingly only half listening. One polished shoe tapped against the old green safe that sat on the floor alongside the desk. It, too, had come from a shutdown bank. ‘I need something, Conn,’ he said.
Feeney didn’t need telling twice. He took the key from his trouser pocket and squatted in front of the safe, unlocking it and turning the handle. The safe contained some papers, a dozen thick bundles of banknotes, and a small muslin-wrapped object. That object had made its way to Glasgow from Belfast, courtesy of someone Conn had known back in the day. Today, however, Rhodes was interested only in the cash, peeling a few notes from one of the bundles and slipping them into his jacket. Feeney knew that almost every establishment linked to John Rhodes had a safe like this. The man spread his money around, feeling this to be a safer option than storing it all in the one place.
And he didn’t trust the banking system, seeing it as the taxman’s snitch.
Having pocketed the money, however, he did allow his eyes to settle on the little muslin package.
‘It’s there if you need it,’ he said in a voice lacking all emotion.
‘I know that, John.’
Rhodes nodded to himself and patted his jacket, satisfying himself that the banknotes were safe within.
Conn Feeney took this as his cue to relock the safe.
‘Maybe a drink now, eh?’ Rhodes said. It was a mark of the man that he even made it sound like a suggestion rather than an order.
Ena Laidlaw was in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the twin-tub washing machine. Left to its own devices, the waste hose had a habit of unhooking itself from the side of the sink, sending water spewing across the linoleum floor. The pulley was already full from the previous load. This one would have to go on the clothes horse in front of the fire. Moya and Sandra were at school, Jack Junior parked on the sofa with an army of toy soldiers. Most of the washing seemed to be his. Give him sweets, chocolate or a lolly and some of it would end up on cardigan, shirt and trousers. The brown carpet in the living room had turned out to be a blessing of sorts, covering a multitude of stains.
She thought of how nice Bob Lilley had sounded on the phone. Not abrupt or wary like some detectives she’d had to call in the past. Their various stories always sounded fake or rehearsed — he’s on his way to court or Barlinnie; he’s in a meeting; he’s gone to the records office.
You know he stayed at the Burleigh last night? Just like that, without her having to ask. And then offering up that he had kids of his own and a wife called... Margaret? That was it: Margaret. Margaret Lilley, who sounded like she had the measure of her husband.
Maybe I should be swapping notes with her.
‘Maybe I should at that,’ Ena said quietly to herself, before realising that Jack Junior was standing in the doorway, an orange in his hand, juice soaking into his pullover and a sour look on his face. He had bitten into it through the thick skin.
‘I told you,’ she said with a sigh. ‘But would you take a telling?’
She had taken a couple of steps towards him when her senses alerted her to the waste hose wriggling free of its perch.
‘No you don’t, mister,’ she said, giving it a firm push with one hand as she reached with the other towards a rinsed dishcloth. In her mind she could see the telephone stool in the hall. There was a little book there next to the phone, containing addresses and numbers of friends and family. And on a shelf beneath sat the Glasgow directory, which just might have a number in it for R. Lilley or M. Lilley or even R. and M. Lilley. Once the washing was hung up, she’d boil the kettle, settle down next to Jack Junior, and he could help her look.
10
Laidlaw was at a corner table in the Top Spot. A pint was waiting for Bob Lilley but it had already gone flat, and he pushed it aside as he arrived and sat down. Laidlaw folded closed the newspaper he’d been reading.
‘What’s happening in the world?’ Lilley asked.
‘Fighting in Belfast and peace at Upper Clyde. Plus my Premium Bonds mean I have to keep working.’ His eyes met Lilley’s. ‘Thought you were standing me up.’
‘Much as I’d like to be able to rush from a murder case whenever summoned by someone who’s taken up residence in a bar...’ Lilley glanced towards the barman, who had made the call on Laidlaw’s behalf.
‘Thing is, Bob, you’d have been rushing to a murder case. This is where it’s going to get solved.’
‘The Top Spot?’
‘The streets,’ Laidlaw corrected him. ‘Sitting at a desk sucks all the oxygen out of you. That’s maybe somebody’s idea of policing, but not mine. I’m good at this city, though. I would definitely make that claim. It’s because I keep doing my homework. You going to drink that?’ When Lilley shook his head, Laidlaw poured half the stale pint into the remains of his own. ‘You can do deductive reasoning anywhere, but sometimes an office is the worst place for it, especially with Milligan nipping your napper.’