The Last Darkness (24 page)

Perlman thought: Twenty or less days to Christmas, and he had violent death in a city whose inhabitants were expecting a fat fellow in a red suit and a gang of reindeers and a whiff of goodwill on earth. Oy. Another thought struck him: What if Colin was in danger from something other than Rifkind's surgery? Maybe that was a step too far, and Colin wasn't a target of whoever had killed Wexler and Lindsay – but Perlman had a sense of unease on his brother's behalf. Money, secret affiliations, business deals – perhaps something bound Colin to the dead men.

‘Time to leave,' he said. ‘I'll call the hospital this afternoon and see how Colin got on.'

‘I'll be there around four o'clock.'

He touched the side of her face. ‘You've got paint on you. Purple suits you.'

She placed a hand over his and said, ‘I love Colin.'

‘Why are you telling me something I already know, Miriam?'

‘I felt like saying it. Maintaining a perspective, Lou.'

‘I'm not sure what that means.'

‘Don't you?'

She smiled, walked with him to the door. He raised a hand in farewell and left without looking back. He felt awkward, a bumbler. Was she reminding him of the inexorable fact he had no chance with her? Only if she knows what I feel, he thought. Only if she'd managed to see inside the bolted chamber of his heart. Had he given himself away unwittingly? He was embarrassed in the peculiar stinging, cringing way of adolescence. He thought he felt blood rush to his face, a blush. What was this – retarded development? You'll be writing wee love-notes next on scented paper, never to send them. You'll be strolling midnight parks in the misery of knowing your love was not only doomed, but that the object of your love had discovered your feelings and, effectively, had spurned you.

Spurned
. I'm even thinking like a romance magazine. He went down the stairs. Halfway, he sneezed. Light fell through a stained-glass window and he saw the fine spray of his sneeze hang a moment in the air like powder.
I love Colin
.

Of course she does. And always will.

34

He moved along the lobby to the street door. He could still vaguely hear the choir at practice, but faint now. He reached for the handle, turned it. His exit was blocked by the figure of a man in the doorway.

‘Did you shag her stupid, Sergeant? Did you make her come and scream, Mr Polisman?'

Perlman took a step back. He was aware of Eric ‘Moon' Riley holding something in one hand, a stick, a length of metal, he wasn't sure at first. Riley was short, built like a concrete cube; he had a face that looked as if it was compressed by a nylon stocking mask. No beauty. No charm.

What did Sadie see in this gargoyle? Only dope and terror.

‘Are you following me, Riley?'

‘Did she suck your willie, Sergeant? Did you ram her up the arse with your hot rod?'

‘What the fuck are you talking about?'

‘She slept at your house, right?'

‘She told you that?'

‘Our relationship relies on trust, Perlman.'

‘Trust my arse. You hit her, didn't you? You beat her, didn't you?'

‘I didn't raise a hand.'

‘I'm sure.' Perlman felt the day was caving in completely. It had become a landslide of slurry. He was up to his neck. He looked at the object Riley carried, a twelve-inch length of lead pipe. He imagined it cracking his skull. ‘If you hurt her, you fuckwit, I'll come after you.'

‘On your white horse, Sergeant? I shake. Look.' Riley rolled his little eyes and shivered. His red leather jacket creaked. He had a brass buckle on the belt of his black jeans. ‘Perlman's coming after me. I better get my arse outta town. Sheriff Perlman wants my ballocks in a sling. Oooo.'

‘Is that the pipe you hit her with, Riley?'

‘Naw, naw, I carry this for my general welfare, Sergeant. There are some rough punters in this town.'

‘Where's Sadie?'

‘Sound asleep.'

‘Where?'

‘The Sergeant and the Junkie. What a romantic story. You've got a thing for her, eh? I'm here to tell you only one thing. Hands off. You got that, Louie? Hands fucking off. She's my property. She's a no-go zone, bawheid.'

Riley flicked the air with the lead pipe. It passed within an inch or two of Perlman's face. Perlman reflected on the fact that in these times of broken-down authority you could no longer say
I'm a police officer, stop, do what I tell you or you'll be in trouble
with any hope of making it count. Say it, and you got whacked on the nut anyway. You might as well wave a lace doily.

‘Tell me you get my message and I'm gone, Jewboy.'

‘I get your message,' Perlman said. ‘Here's one for you. You hurt her, you'll answer to me. I swear to God.'

‘Hurting Sadie's like kicking your cat, for fuck's sake. Give her enough junk and she doesn't feel a fucking thing. She's a mindless hoor. What do you think? You're on some mission to save her? I pee laughing. She'll fuck anything for dope money. If I let her.'

Perlman had an urge to go for the throat, throw himself at this jerk, this moronic dod of humanity. The pipe was a major deterrent. ‘You harm her –'

‘Instead of handing out warnings, why don't you pay some attention to that poor arsehole with his head cut off out there in the suburbs?'

‘How did you hear about that?'

‘The radio. Always keep a wee tranny handy.'

So it had slipped out. It was public knowledge. You couldn't keep Artie Wexler's death in a padlocked box. Perlman imagined he heard the city draw a collective breath of astonishment. Everyday murder was one thing – the knifing, death by broken bottle, even the occasional gun – but this was the kind of slaying you expected in secretive Middle Eastern kingdoms where people had fingers hacked off for farting in public.

Not here, not in dear old heathery Scotland.

Riley turned towards the door. ‘I hope you've listened, Perlman. I'm a vicious cunt when I'm upset.'

He was gone in a flicker of light. The door swung shut behind him. Perlman stood in the dim lobby, hands thrust into his pockets. The collar of his shirt stuck to his neck. He composed himself, controlled his breathing, stepped outside. He walked to Virginia Street, where he'd parked his Mondeo.

Sadie, he thought. What can I do for you, and where can I find the time to do it, lassie? I'm devoured.

Under the dull pearl light of a fading Glasgow afternoon, he sat in his car and lit a cigarette, thinking how the city, which he loved as a man might an unreliable mistress of vast and varied experience, sometimes coated him in a film of scum.

35

BJ Quick said, ‘Good grass.'

Furf said, ‘Cool.'

‘Let's have the joint back, big man.'

Grass made Furf talkative and loose. ‘You do the hokey-cokey and you shake it all about,' he said, and passed the blackened joint to BJ Quick, who toked deeply.

They were wandering along Anderston Quay on the north bank of the Clyde. The early-afternoon air over the river was tinted a little by a grainy mist. The giant Finnieston Crane, built in the 1930s to heave locomotives on to ships, stood like a forgotten metal cathedral.

They strolled past the glassy tower of the Moat House Hotel and the shell-like structure of the Exhibition and Conference Centre, known locally as the Armadillo. They paused and surveyed the river for a while before Furf said, ‘I lived over there years ago,' and pointed with a gloved hand. ‘Lorne Street.'

BJ Quick sucked on the grass. Smoke escaped through his nostrils. Dope made him feel a strange clarity. He knew it muddled the senses of most people, turned their brains to semolina, but it acted on him differently.

Furf said, ‘There used to be a brothel over there. The Pox Palace. Got myself a bad case of the crabs there. See here, do you think I've got rabies?' He showed Quick the little bruises left by Dogue's bite.

‘Rabies, fuck off,' Quick said. He coughed, then spat in a long arc. A neon light went on and off in his head:
club farraday club farraday club farraday
. He'd already decided to give his first interview, when the club opened, to the
Sunday Express
, because it hadn't harassed him like some of the other papers, such as the
Daily Record
or the
Sunday Mail
.

‘I think we're getting away from business,' he said.

‘So we are. We were discussing … Abdullah, right?'

‘Here's what I want to know. How is it the names I pass on to him come to unhappy endings? Lindsay, okay. They say he did away with himself. Who knows if that's true? But this other punter, Wexler, was definitely murdered. So what does it mean when I give the names of two people to our mate Abdullah and they both turn up dead, eh? Coincidence? Not on your life.'

Furf frowned. He was having a hard time staying on track. ‘I saw Abdullah go inside Victor Morris this morning. Tattooheid Jack, a kid that hangs around there, said he bought a knife. Then I saw him jump in a cab –'

‘Fucksake, that's the
third
time you've told me. Your memory's shot every time you smoke grass, Furf. Now where was I? Righto. Do you know what's been crossing my mind? I'm thinking, okay, somebody sent Abdullah here to
kill
these people in the photos.'

‘
Kill
them?'

‘Why else are they feeding him the bloody names and addresses and photos? To deliver Christmas presents? You heard how Abdullah sounded off about Lindsay.
Killed my father, deserved to die, blah blah blah
. But the Arab's always too fucking
late
. Something happens to these people before he can get to them. First Lindsay pops his clogs, then the second bastard gets his head chopped off. I'm beginning to think he's not
meant
to reach his bloody targets. He believes he is, but somebody else gets in there ahead of him. He's one step behind the action.'

Furfee studied his worrisome hand again. ‘Who the hell sent him here anyway?'

‘Good question. And who's beating him to the punch? And who the fuck asked
me
to be the go-between? I mean, basically this job is delivering envelopes, and they're willing to pay
twenty thou
? How come
my
name was picked out of the hat?'

Furf said, ‘It pongs, BJ. What do we do?'

‘Do? We keep delivering the photos, what else? We go about our business and we ask no questions.'

‘If it's dodgy –'

‘Dodgy or not, either I deliver or I'm out of work. No moolah flows in. No moolah, no club farraday. And no future. See my drift?'

‘Clear's a.'

Quick looked in the direction of the Moat House, where a white stretch limousine was drawing up. He watched a uniformed lackey leap into position like a startled scullery-maid, bowing, opening the passenger door. A long-legged woman and a tall man, both fashionably dressed, both too beautiful for this world, emerged from the stretch and glided inside the hotel. Quick was shot through with flames of resentment. He used to get the toady treatment in the Moat House. In The Corinthian, waiters jumped when he clicked his fingers. Yes Mr Quick, no Mr Quick, anything you say Mr Quick. He'd been a celebrity, and he hated the way it had all turned to shite.

Furf lit a cigarette. ‘Listen. What if everything blows up in our faces?'

‘Blows up how?'

‘What if these people who are one step ahead of Abdullah decide they need to remove all traces of him, and everybody and everything associated with him?'

‘What am I hearing? Are you
panicking
, Furf?'

‘I never panic. Never.'

BJ Quick laid a hand on Furf's broad shoulder. ‘One step at a time, big man. If it goes badly wrong, we bail out. Simple. Have I ever led you into a bad situation?'

Furf shook his head.

‘See,' Quick said. ‘Just trust me. I'll never let you down. Remember that.'

His mobile vibrated in his coat pocket. He took it out, flipped it open, answered. A man's voice said, ‘Bear. You got another message.'

36

Lou Perlman parked the Mondeo outside a fish and chip shop called Cremoni's in Dumbarton Road, a couple of blocks from Partick underground station. The restaurant, founded by an Italian immigrant family years before, was no longer the property of the Cremonis. The present owner, Perseus McKinnon, had kept the name for the sake of authenticity.

Perlman stepped into a room filled with the scent of deep-fried foods, a familiar greasy perfume of hot melted lard in which fish and meat pies and battered black puddings and haggis were cooking. He listened to the bubble and hiss of the fryer where the chips were done. Satisfying, sniff sniff, redolent of childhood: it was all very old-style Glasgow, stainless-steel fryers and formica-topped tables and bottles of malt vinegar and ketchup spillage stuck to the floor.

He approached a doorway where strands of long coloured plastic hung. He pushed these aside, entered a small back room that was part storage space, part office. A black man in his late forties sat at a metal desk. He wore shades. He had a big plump face and a pile of unruly curls such as you might see on a child before his first haircut. A barred window, located behind his head, provided slices of daylight.

‘Lou,' he said. ‘Pull up a chair.'

‘Brrrr. It's a cold one out there, Perseus.' Perlman gazed at Perseus McKinnon's black glasses, and considered the fact that, in all the years he'd known the chip-shop proprietor, he'd never seen the man's eyes.

‘There's a new Monk collection on the market,' McKinnon said.

‘I didn't know.'

‘You should keep up, Lou. Serious jazz buffs like you and me, we'll be dinosaurs one day. Who played bass on “Straight No Chaser”, recorded 23 July 1951?'

‘Tip of my tongue,' Perlman said.