‘Janice?’
Janice absorbed the accent like a refresher-course.
‘It’s this gentleman, Miss Farren. He says he wants to see you.’
‘Very good, Janice.’
Janice went back to her customer. Miss Farren came through the curtain. He appreciated the revelation.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wanted to see me.’
‘Yes. Ah enjoyed that. But Ah’d like to talk as well.’
‘What is this?’
And then she recognised him.
‘This is Mickey Ballater. A friend of Paddy Collins. Ah’d like a word with ye. In private.’
She handled it well, converting a flicker of panic in the eyes to instant boredom. She studied the wall beside him as if there were printed instructions there.
‘You’ve come at an awkward time. I’m afraid I’m rather busy.’
‘Times’ll likely get a helluva sight more awkward if you don’t speak to me right now.’
‘I can’t imagine what it could be about.’
‘Don’t waste yer time. Ah’ll tell ye. Paddy Collins. Tony Veitch. Dave McMaster. Cam Colvin.’
‘Are all of these names supposed to mean something to me?’
‘Naw. Ah got them out the telephone directory. Let’s go inside.’
A woman had come out of the fitting-room and was talking to Janice. Lynsey Farren hesitated, perhaps gauging how much more complicated it was going to be playing to two audiences. She turned and went through the curtain.
He followed her.
It wasn’t an exceptional back-shop, a table with an electric kettle on it, a couple of chairs, a small calor-gas heater, two cartons stacked one on the other, the top one spilling an opened cellophane pack of multi-coloured blouses — but she contrived to inhabit it as if it were fully furnished with antiques. She was quizzically amused, demonstrating what a clash of styles they were.
As she took a menthol cigarette from a packet, he lifted the slim metallic grey lighter from the table and lit her cigarette. He kept the lighter in his hand as he sat down, flicking it into flame two or three times. She sat easily against the table, crossing her legs. He fidgeted a moment with the big, empty metal waste-bin on the floor and looked up. She was still wondering what it was all about.
‘Paddy Collins is dead. You knew that?’
‘Is this a joke?’
‘Fourteen stab wounds? If it is, Paddy didny see it.’
She said nothing.
‘Where’s Tony Veitch?’
‘Who’s Tony Veitch?’
‘Money for me.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help.’
‘Oh well. Ah doubt Ah’m wastin’ ma time.’
‘It looks that way.’
‘Aye.’
He stood up, seemed nonplussed. He picked up one of the blouses from the cellophane and studied it. The label inside the neck said ‘Baumwolle Cotton’.
‘Nice that,’ he said.
‘It wouldn’t suit you.’
In one action he flicked the lighter, lit the blouse and dropped it into the waste-bin. In the tightness of the room it flared like an explosion, a quick geyser of flame the heat of which she felt. It brought her off her table, mouthing outrage that died as quickly as the fire.
‘What the hell? Do you. . I’ll get the police.’
Both understood what the quickness of her silence meant. He was looking at the lighter in his hand. He shook his head.
‘You don’t want the police,’ he said. ‘But this place could burn down very easy. Not the day. Maybe later.’ He looked at her. ‘Ye want to tell the wee lassie to go out? Ye could talk freer.’
She paused only briefly, putting down her cigarette. She lifted a blouse from the pile and went out into the shop. When she came back in, he was sitting down again. Sitting against the table, she took up the cigarette but it was no longer a prop. She dragged on it anxiously.
‘Janice is still in the shop,’ she said pointedly. ‘She’s changing the window.’
He nodded.
‘Lady Lynsey Farren. Don’t think Ah’ve spoken to an actual lady before. We weren’t trippin’ over them in Crown Street. It’s nice. But then ye’re not really any different, are ye, love? Paddy told me about you, ye see. The pair o’ ye seem tae have got up tae some very unladylike capers. That was before Dave McMaster came on the scene, wasn’t it? Ye know Cam Colvin apart from last night?’
She shook her head. He decided there was no way to know if she was telling the truth. She probably smiled by committee decision.
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘We’ll do it that way. You in your small corner and me in mine. All ye have to do is listen. Tony Veitch is due me money. Paddy Collins was going to help to collect. Tony Veitch has disappeared. Paddy Collins is extra dead. That’s where we are. Ah’ll tell ye where we’re goin’. Cam Colvin is Paddy’s brother-in-law. If ye don’t know him, Ah’ll tell ye who he is. The Black Death in a pinstripe suit. Ah take money, he takes lives. He’s angry about Paddy and lookin’ for anybody connected with him recently. Ah know a lot of things Cam doesny know. You were there when Paddy met Tony Veitch. You had a wee thing with Paddy. Then you moved on to Dave McMaster.’
‘What’s Tony supposed to have done?’
‘Ye miss the point. Ah mean, we both know what he’s done. But ye miss the point. Ah’m not here to answer questions. Ah’m here to ask one. Just one. Where’s Tony Veitch?’
‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. How am I supposed to know?’
‘Ye’re either lyin’ or ye’re not. Ah haveny the time to worry about it. But Ah know one thing. Ye can find out. You an’ him was close. An’ that’s what ye’re goin’ to do. Ye got a pen?’
He tore a strip of paper off the bottom of the calendar behind him. Automatically, she picked up a pen from the table and handed it to him. He wrote something down, handed pen and paper back to her. He had written a telephone number, the pen-point having gone through the paper a couple of times.
‘What am I supposed to do with this?’
‘You’ve got the rest of the day. You phone me there. And tell me where Tony Veitch is. If Ah’m not in, you keep phoning till Ah am in.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Ah thought Ah was.’
‘There’s no way I can find out. He’s disappeared.’
‘Ye’ve got two choices. Ye find him or Ah pass on what Ah know to Cam Colvin. You tell Dave McMaster that. Ah don’t think Dave wid like that to happen. The bother could be very bad. You’re a tourist here, hen. Ye don’t know what it’s really like. Ah can arrange tae show ye. Ye like mixin’ wi’ tearaways, do ye? Ah can mix ye in that much, ye’ll never get loose again.’ He pointed at her. ‘You’re in serious trouble, milady. Ah’m offerin’ you an easy road out. Take it. Tell me what Ah don’t know, an’ Ah tell nobody what Ah do know.’
He stood up.
‘Ah’m goin’ now. Phone Dave.’
He went out. As she looked at the number he had given her, she heard Janice speaking to a customer about jeans. She wished that was all she had to worry about. She lifted the phone.
16
‘Yesterday all my mogres seemed so far away.
Now Ah’m paintin’ every bloody day.
Ah’ve chinged ma mind. Gi’es yesterday.’
The singing led them to the house. It was near the top of the road, past Hillhead Parish Church. The big double doors were lying open with a piece of cardboard against the jamb with ‘Wet Paint’ painted on it. Two men in stained white boilersuits were painting the groundfloor windows on either side of the door. The one on the left, a florid man in his fifties, was working at ground level. The other, about thirty and in need of a shave, was up a ladder because his window was above the basement flat. He was the singer. His improvised lyric had tailed off into Glaswegian mouth-music: ‘Ta-ta-reetin-deetin-beetin-bu-ta-reeting-du-da-reeting-du.’
It was a big, handsome house, three-storeyed with a long, low modern dormer window. Its Victorian portentousness, basking in the sunshine, was undermined somewhat by the nine push-buttons inset in its front. The names listed beside the buttons testified to the contemporary identity crisis being undergone by a building constructed out of a formidable self-assurance. No doubt it felt a certain affinity with James R. P. S. MacKenzie and Miss L. S. Booth-Williams. But the basement claimed to be occupied by ‘Maggie, Jeanne, Sarah and Mad Liz.’ Flat 9 said ‘The Friends of Che.’