Butcher (9 page)

Scullion rolled his eyes. ‘Sid Linklater's estimate, the hand was severed about two to three months ago. Neat cut by saw. A pro job.'

Perlman listened with the intensity of an eavesdropper even as he tried to imagine somebody entering his house and leaving the bag. Let's give Perlman a hand: hardyhar, a bad joke.

‘What about fingerprints?'

‘The bag's clean. Sid's working on the hand, which is in a serious state of decomposition, and impossible even to ascribe gender.'

Perlman considered this. No gender.

Scullion looked at his watch, making a big play of it, shoving back the sleeve of his coat and baring the watch. ‘You fancy flying solo, don't you? Detective Sergeant Biggles, watch his jetstream. I know you.'

Perlman poker-faced Scullion.

‘I can't condone it, Lou. But remember this – I don't want you keeping anything back that you might come across. And I don't want it known I'm feeding you. Clear?'

‘Screw my head to a plank of wood and tweezer my toenails out, I'd say nothing.'

‘One last thing. Don't you ever imagine I'm not on your side. But that's not a licence to call me in the dead of night.'

‘I'll get a watch, I swear.' He thought, I'd only lose it.

‘Why do you make everything so bloody difficult at times?'

‘When was I ever difficult?'

‘Every bloody chance you get.' He edged away from Lou just as a gang of travellers rushed past, scurrying for a train about to depart.

‘You want to do dinner some night next week?'

‘Dinner? You think Maddie will lay out the welcome mat?'

‘She's always quick to forgive. And you know what we'll be eating, don't you?'

Perlman watched Scullion leave the station and go out into Gordon Street. He remained a while inside, listening to trains; he'd always loved trains as a kid, he'd enjoyed maps and wondered about the names of distant destinations, what were they like? York, Penzance, Bristol. And yet here he was, as he always was, embroiled in the complicated city of his birth.

He walked out into the cold sunlight. Skelped by the wind, he returned to his parked car. Flying solo, aye, wherever the journey took you.

Inside his car, he phoned Joe Adamski on his mobile. Adamski was a Detective Sergeant in E Division, which covered the east of the city.

Adamski asked, ‘How's that bullet wound?'

‘I'm getting over it,' Perlman said.

‘Can't be easy. A bullet. I also hear you're not flavour of the month at Force HQ.'

‘Try flavour of the year, George. Never mind that, the decade. They're calling it sick leave. I've got another name for it.'

‘The cauld shoulder.'

‘A very cauld shoulder. I can't step inside Force HQ even if I was in the vicinity and desperately needed a pish. Officially I'm unofficial.'

Adamski had a throaty voice, like the rasp of a hedge cutter. ‘That's a raw deal.'

‘That's what I think … Joe, I need a wee favour. I've got a missing person in your district. It's a personal thing. I promised somebody.'

Adamski said, ‘Pen's in hand.'

Perlman took the photograph of Kirk McLatchie from his pocket. He gave Adamski a brief description, colour of eyes and hair, age and address.

‘That address,' Adamski said. ‘That's the badlands.'

‘I know, I know. I'll be grateful if you can get me anything. Let me give you this mobile number, OK?' Perlman read it out.

‘I'll get back to you if and when,' Adamski said.

Perlman thanked him, then sat for a time watching traffic on Wellington Street. He considered the decomposing hand: what had become of the rest of the body? Had it been cut into pieces and dumped somewhere? Or was the hand the only thing amputated? Keep an eye open for one-handed people.

12

Baba Ragada wore a white turban and an ankle-length white robe. His face was gaunt, skin stretched like papyrus over bone. He spoke in a deep monotone Reuben Chuck found hypnotic.

‘Speak to me of your spiritual journey.'

Chuck, who squatted on the parquet flooring at the Temple of Personal Enlightenment, formerly a Salvation Army Hall, found Baba's seemingly simple questions heavily loaded. He might appear to be asking one thing, when really he was seeking an answer to something altogether different. The man had more layers than a sherry trifle.

‘You're talkin about my karma?'

‘Everything is a karmic matter. I am saying this. As your ship sails the ocean, your horizon changes. You see the curvature of this great planet alter every move you make on your epic journey. Does a passing cloud distract you from the horizon? Does an albatross in flight startle you? The great Gitavoga says we see eternity in the heart of the simple nettle, but must always be careful how we grasp it. I am saying, are you sailing in the true direction or do you allow thin winds to blow you off course?'

Reuben Chuck sniffed sandalwood incense. He liked it, found it restful. He pondered the Baba's words – how to answer the questions, there's the rub. Imagine you're a galleon on a wild sea. Aye, right. Wasn't easy. Wind in the sails. He dismissed a bunch of potential responses, none of which would have answered Baba.
I shifted seventeen ton of topqual purloined Aberdeen Angus beef … I arranged for the murders of my enemies … I have further plans of a fiscal nature …

Bigtime negative karmic acts, titanic.

He was aware of Baba Ragada staring at him, waiting. He had eyes that suggested numinous encounters with the true nature of things. All patience and quiet concentration, this Baba.

‘I sent forty blind inner-city children to Ayr on one of my buses.' Chuck smiled a little. He was sure this generosity would delight Baba.

Baba listened, then said, ‘On his deathbed Gitavoga's disciple Kativaka said, “All my life is as a hummingbird's. I pass now into the cycle of rebirth and when I return I may not remember I had wings.” You understand me, Reuben?'

‘Uh, all I was pointin out is I donated bus and driver.'

‘I am saying this to you. Your actions along the journey may not result in spiritual advancement, nor in a rebirth of joy. Nobody has a guarantee.' Baba Ragada smiled, as if a mention of a guarantee was some kind of guru in-joke. He spoke so softly Chuck strained to hear. ‘All generous acts are selfish.'

‘Selfish? How?' Chuck was both surprised and offended but hid his reactions well.

‘I am saying this. Krishna reminds us that a rich man with too many possessions may find no spiritual advancement in giving them away. What is the sacrifice involved when a man who is weighed down by material things gives away all his earthly goods, and yet remains in his heart attached to them and feels the pang of their loss? Even if this man becomes the most humble beggar, the act remains questionable as a true spiritual event in his life, unless he has realigned himself with cosmic truth. Perhaps not even then.'

Chuck hadn't read this Krishna stuff. He kept meaning to. It was such a fat book. But so was the Bible, and he'd ploughed through that. Most of it anyway. Some of it. Well, Genesis and Exodus, and one time, pissed out of his mind on rum and coke, he'd plunged into Revelations, which was a right old nightmare. ‘Are you sayin I should have driven the blind kids myself.'

Knock off point. Karmic wheel grinds into reverse, squawk.

Baba sighed softly. ‘When you have divested yourself not only of material objects but have also cleansed your soul of resentments and grudges and demands of the flesh, only when the heart is as unsullied as new-fallen snow – only then can you be certain you are acting from unconditional love.'

Reuben Chuck struggled with this concept. In his world, everything was conditional. How you behaved. How you ran your businesses. Was he supposed to have loved his enemies and allowed them to flourish? Oh aye. And how would that have gone down? Mr Reuben Softee, that's how. The gaffer's gone all funny on us. He disny even eat meat for fuckzake. He has sprouts and goat's milk, by Christ. Also he quit the bevvy. Let's depose him. Let's kick shite out of him. Kill the king.

As for his possessions, how could he give up his penthouse?

He looked at Baba and saw the long eyelashes quiver. Baba did his spooky eye routine. He drew the irises up into his head somehow and all you saw were the whites, blank and terrible. It gave Chuck the creeps first time, but he was used to it now.

‘Understand,' Baba said. ‘Forty blind children taken to enjoy some sea air, this is not a sin.'

‘Plus as much ice-cream as they could eat. Also free rides at the local carnival.
And
they walked along the promenade to enjoy fresh sea air on their wee faces.'

Baba Ragada seemed not to hear this. ‘The intention is good in itself. The
execution
is the problem in universal terms. You must listen to your heart's voice.'

And whit was the heart's voice exactly? Pondering this, Chuck gazed slowly round the room. He'd always imagined most gurus led simple lives when it came to ornaments, but Baba had been accumulating over the months many items that were clearly of value – large oriental tapestries, handmade from silk, hung on the walls. Intricate panoramas, depicting exotic trees and half-moons and stages in the Krishna's journey. There were also a couple of large carved-wood statues of the Buddha, one of which showed him surrounded by snakes. Several antique Tibetan handbells stood against the wall. He wondered how much of his own monthly donations had gone into the acquisition of this stuff. He knew he'd paid for the expensive parquet flooring, because he was the one who'd suggested it, and probably the fat embroidered silk pillows Baba sat on. The stained-glass windows, which showed mostly lambs and shepherds and a Christ with an eye recently vandalized, had obviously been the property of the Sally Ann before the Temple took over.

In one corner he noticed a galvanized bucket which was placed directly below a rain mark in the suspended ceiling. Get in a roofer, he thought, win some points in the circle of life and rebirth. Call in a glass repairman and have Christ's eye fixed. Yo ho
score
. He'd also jack up his monthly contributions which were presently running about three grand. And why not? When he'd been a Catholic he'd lashed out dosh with frenetic energy, money for a new church organ, a marble pulpit, and a sporty wee car for Father Skelton.

There
was a piece of work, that Father Skelton, paedophile. Boys here, boys there, in the bushes, in toilets, the
confessional
even. About fifty of the abused came forward when Skelton was arrested and shamed. Skelton fled the country the minute he was bailed and was last heard doing missionary work in Calcutta.

Rome took care of its own.

Chuck left the church in disgust. His soul needed another kind of infusion. If he feared anything more than the loss of respect, it was the prospect of damnation. OK, so there was no actual
hell
in this Enlightenment culture, but there was always that other threat, reincarnation in a form you didn't want. Somethin disgustin.

Like plankton. Life span three seconds. But here was the problem: if you came back as plankton or anythin else, how did you ever know? It wasn't as if plankton floatin in the deeps had a memory of being Reuben Chuck, right?

And Chuck had no recollections of ever being anybody or anything else. So this was tricky.

Some kind of amnesia had to be involved in the reincarnation process.

‘The heart's voice speaks in the language of charity,' Baba said. He lifted one emaciated hand and pointed at Chuck.

‘Charity,' Chuck said.

‘Free yourself!'

Penny dropped. ‘I donate that bus to the blind society, do you mean?'

Baba went into white-eye mode again, as if receiving reams of data from an infinite source of wisdom. ‘There is another blindness beyond the physical, Reuben. Blindness of the spirit, which affects many souls.'

A firework exploded in Chuck's head. ‘I'll give you the bus, no strings.'

Baba's eyes swivelled back into place. ‘The Temple cannot accept such a donation.'

‘It's in fine condition. And you could make good use of it, travellin to spiritual conventions or whatever. Take it, Baba. Don't refuse it.'

Baba looked thoughtful. ‘Our transportation is often uncertain, I know …'

‘I'll throw in any refurbishment you need, a complete mechanical check, and a paint job.'

Baba Ragada said, ‘Your heart is generous, Reuben.' He reached out and clasped Chuck's hand. Chuck had never touched Baba's skin before. It was cold and you could feel the bones. Did he ever eat? His hand was as heavy as a sparrow's body.

‘There is one small matter,' Baba said. ‘I understand you need to assign legal documents of ownership. Is this so?'

‘A mere detail,' Chuck said dismissively. ‘My lawyers will deal with any paperwork.'

‘I am moved, Reuben. Truly moved. You are beginning to understand the cycles.'

Reuben Chuck experienced a flame of elation. Blessed by Baba. He'd jumped a notch on the wheel. Lookin good. Lookin peachy. And all it had cost him was a bus, but that was a gift, therefore a tax deduction, and why did he need another bus anyway? Scarfin diesel like a drunk on wine. He had plenty of buses, a fleet.

Baba Ragada stood up slowly. ‘It is time now for my hour of meditation. May your dreams be scented with flowers.'

Chuck bowed his head. He always did when Baba took his leave. When he raised his face again, Baba had disappeared behind a saffron-coloured curtain beyond the heap of pillows, as if by divine magic.

Chuck walked out of the Temple. Mathieson was parked in the Jag whistling ‘All the Nice Girls Love a Sailor'. He opened the rear door and Chuck climbed in.

‘Everything OK, Mr Chuck?'

‘The berries,' Reuben Chuck said. ‘Call Willie Farl. Tell him the Temple needs some roof work. Today. Also contact that glazier who did the tinted windows in my penthouse and tell him to fix some stained glass on the double. What's his name?'