White Rage (14 page)

Sandrine tutted, and kneeled beside him. ‘Let me help you up.'

‘Don't move me, Ma, want to lie here, need to.'

‘Please, Robert, you can't sleep on the floor.'

‘Sleep where I fucking please.
Robair
, sweet Jesus Christ.
I'll sail my ship alone, with all the dreams I own
… Oldie but a goodie, sonny boy.'

He was always objectionable and utterly incoherent when he was drunk. Half-done sentences, snatches of song, outbursts of remorse mixed with expressions of anger. He opened one eye, a tiny scarlet parting, and glared at her. How ugly he looked, she thought. How sad and stupid and, yes, common. Oh God, it was so hard to love him. He reeked of booze and sick. There were red marks on his cheek. What had happened to him? A girl, perhaps. Somebody he'd made unwanted advances to.

He managed to sit upright. He leaned against the side of the sofa, head drooped. She wondered how life might have been different if she'd taken her son and gone back to France after Jacques' death, but by then her father had passed away, and the estate had been divided between her brothers, and she'd been cut out of any inheritance. Her brothers never answered her letters. France had become an unattainable place of half-remembered scenery.

Forget the château. She lived in Possil, Glasgow, and there was no escape.

‘Robert, please, I will help you to get up. You need a bath.'

His limp head rolled. Blood had congealed in his hair. He'd been struck on the skull.

‘What happened? Did somebody hurt you?'

He leaned towards her. He toppled forward, his face in her lap.

Like a small boy again, she thought. Like a little child. She stroked the side of his head gently. Unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes. This pathetic drunken manchild. She was consumed by a huge sadness. Her life had gone nowhere. It was all cul-de-sacs and deprivation. She heard herself sing to her son as she'd done when he was very small.
Mon ami Pierrot
. He'd never been able to learn French. At school he was always close to the bottom of the class. He wasn't stupid, he just hadn't applied himself.

‘Ma,' he said. ‘I feel like shite. Like total
shite
. The fucking room's spinning. Jesus Christ.'

He vomited riotously into her lap, then rolled away from her and lay on his back and stared at the ceiling.

‘Oh God,' she said. ‘What a mess, what an awful mess.'

‘There's wee cracks and lines in the ceiling Ma didya know that. Mibbe one day it'll all fall down. I am totally pished Ma. Blootered.'

She got up, went inside the kitchen, soaked a sponge and started to clean her robe. The smell was rancid. Undigested foods, stale beer. She took the robe off and held it under the hot water tap. Dressed only in a slip, she shivered.

She heard her son crawl across the sitting-room floor. He made it into the kitchen. He got to his feet somehow and stood directly behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

‘Ma I'm sorry sorry really sofucking sorry.'

‘It cleans, Robert. Look. I'm cleaning it now.'

‘No Ma you don't you don't follow my drift I am sorry I am fucking
sorry
and I am not talkin about that old robe.'

‘I understand,' she said.

‘But you don't know Ma why I'm sorry you don't know you just think I'm talkin total shite coz I'm pished out my skull right eh right eh?'

‘Sleep it off, Robert,' she said.

Balance gone, moaning quietly to himself, he slid to the floor and lay on his side, eyes shut and mouth open. He made that terrible
noise
at the back of his throat. She got a blanket from a cupboard and draped it over him. She gazed at him a moment, then turned out the kitchen light.

She sat on the sitting-room sofa. She thought, thirty-seven years ago I gave birth to a beautiful boy who turned into this – this drunken lump asleep in his own vomit on the kitchen floor.

She heard him shout in his sleep.
Ten times eleven is a hundred and ten
. She wondered what he was dreaming about. Sometimes at night she heard him roar incomprehensibly while he slept, as if he was in unbearable pain.

She moved in the direction of her bedroom, and stumbled over something on the floor. She bent down. Something of Robert's. What was he doing with this? It was moist and unpleasant to the touch.

She dropped it almost as soon as she'd picked it up.

16

Perlman found a parking space in Cadogan Street, west of Central Station, and walked a couple of blocks north to Waterloo Street. The morning was dry. A frisky wind tossed used tissues and discarded plastic and all manner of paper material into the air.

He paused outside an office building in Waterloo Street. He caught his reflection in the smoked-glass door. Dark coat, flannels, brown shoes, glasses that indented the sides of his nose. Get a new lightweight pair, he thought: these heavy specs add years to your appearance. His hair, which he'd soaked and flattened before leaving home, was all over the place now, wind-tormented. He saw his face in the dark glass, hollow-cheeked, aye, but the mouth was a good firm line that suggested purpose. There was some wear in the skin of the neck, a sagging.

Not handsome, not like Colin had been. What had Miriam said?
You've got that wee boy thing
. Which was fine, he supposed, if you were seven – but for a grown man?

He pushed the door open and entered a marbled reception area. He checked the list of companies on a wall chart, found what he was looking for, then rode a lift to the fifth floor. He exited into a carpeted corridor and encountered a big oval sign that read:
Nathan Blum & Co, Solicitors
, in fancy script. A pretty receptionist, a good-looking fair-haired
shikse
, sat behind a desk. Perlman could have guessed that Nat would have a blonde for front office purposes; image was the key, from the big car to the riverfront penthouse.

‘Help you?' she asked.

‘Here to see Nat Blum,' he said.

‘Got an appointment?'

He showed his ID, which didn't generate great enthusiasm. The girl barely glanced at it. ‘You need an appointment, Detective-Sergeant.'

‘Aye, right. Watch me.' Perlman walked past the reception desk and along the corridor.

The girl called after him. ‘Here. You can't just go in like that.'

He didn't look back. The receptionist picked up a phone, probably to forewarn Blum, but Perlman had gone out of earshot and didn't hear what she was saying. He approached a door with a plaque that had Nat's name on it and he pushed it open. He relished this action, walking directly into Blum's lair without going through any basic civilities.

Blum was sitting behind his desk in shirtsleeves. He wore bright red braces. His keen-eyed hatchet face registered only a slight expression of surprise, which passed away quickly. You had to admire Blum's facial control.

‘They outlawed knocking when I wasn't looking?' Blum asked.

‘Nice room, Nat.' And so it was, book-lined, rich in blond wood and bright with chrome. Daylight came through the white slats of Venetian blinds.

Blum pushed aside a folder he'd been examining. He looked at his watch. ‘Nine sharp. My my. I didn't think your generation of policemen got up so early.'

‘I'm with the crack-of-dawn brigade, Nat.'

‘You're glowing, Perlman. I don't like it when you glow.'

‘Are these chairs for sitting in or just for show?'

‘Test-drive one and see.'

Perlman sat in a steel-framed leather chair. ‘Not comfy, Nat. Reminds me of the seats in the old La Scala picture-house in Sauchiehall Street. Before your time.'

‘Give me notice if you intend to drop in again, I'll get you a recliner.'

Perlman patted his coat pockets, located his cigarettes, took the packet out. He lit one. ‘Have you got a tape-deck handy?'

Blum smiled. ‘Let me guess. The phantom caller struck again. Only this time you captured the voice.'

Perlman took an audio-cassette from his pocket. He flashed it in the air. ‘You'll like this, Nat.'

‘Over there.' Blum nodded across the room where a sleek metal-grey sound system sat on a shelf between neatly stacked law books. ‘I assume you know how to operate it?'

Perlman walked to the cassette-player. ‘Highly futuristic, Nat. I'm impressed.'

‘Cutting edge,' Blum said. ‘Beyond cutting, for all I know.'

Perlman surveyed the smooth lines of the equipment, the recessed buttons. He searched for the tape slot. Christ, this was a complex set-up. He didn't want to be seen fumbling. He shoved the cassette into the first appropriate opening he could find and mercifully the tape vanished into the heart of the system. He looked for the power button, but Blum was a step ahead: the system lit up suddenly, glowing a discreet orange.

‘Remote.' Blum held a tiny black rectangle the size of a credit card. ‘Now I just hit the tape symbol on this wee gadget and we can relax and listen.' He sat down and folded his hands behind his neck and looked very calm.

The cassette played. The man's voice was deep, Glaswegian accent.
‘Perlman? You there? Come on, man. Pick up if you are. I don't have all night and I badly need to piss … Waiting waiting … Awright, I presume you're not at home. Here's the crux of the matter. I saw Leo Kilroy drive his Bentley on the night of December 15 at approximately eleven
.
He was heading along Dalness Street, driving at about twenty-five mph … You sure you're not listening to this, Perlman? You'll want some evidence that I'm telling the truth, I suppose … Fine. I'll get back to you.'

The tape ended.

Perlman asked, ‘Will I run it again?'

‘I don't see the point,' Blum remarked. ‘It's nothing.'

‘Nat, Nat. Don't be a schmuck. It's a long way from nothing. I
live
in Dalness Street. Somebody saw your client in his
car
in fucking Dalness Street.'

‘How do I know you didn't get some dodgy friend of yours to make that phone call?'

‘Below the belt, Nat.'

‘How do we know anything about this caller? How do we know he's not some joker stringing
you
along?'

‘For what purpose?' Perlman pushed a button; the tape slipped from the machine into his hand.

‘Malice. Money.'

‘He says he has evidence.'

‘Evidence I'll believe when I see it.'

‘The law's made you a cynic'

‘Show me a gullible lawyer, I'll show you a tosser in a dosshouse.' Blum stood up. ‘I've got an appointment.'

‘So have I,' Perlman said. He moved towards the door, paused. ‘It's up to you, naturally, but you might want to inform your client about this tape.'

‘And tell him what? I've just heard the latest fairytale from the wizard of Pitt Street? I don't think so.'

Perlman laughed. ‘The wizard of Pitt Street. I like that. Big pointy hat. Secret lining in the cloak. Abracadabra. That's me.'

Blum said, ‘Before you go. One thing puzzles me. Why do you suppose this killer didn't shoot you as well? After all, you're an eyewitness. You saw the car.'

‘My guess is he didn't have time. You fire from a moving car, hitting your target isn't easy. He wanted Colin more than he wanted me. By the time he shot my brother, he's already forty, fifty yards down the road. He doesn't want to wheel round and try his luck again. Gunfire at night in a quiet street? Nope. So he decides against the risk of drawing attention. He drives the hell away.'

Blum took his jacket from the back of his chair, and put it on. ‘It's a plausible theory. Problem is, as I keep telling you, you've got the wrong suspect. My client wouldn't know a firearm from a walking stick.'

‘And you think I'm convinced of that?'

Blum smiled. ‘The burden of proof isn't mine, Lou.'

Perlman paused in the doorway of Blum's office. He knew that as soon as he left this place, Blum would be on the blower to the fat man.

‘See you around, Nat.'

‘Not too soon, I hope. Don't you have that serious kindergarten killing to keep you occupied? Why are you flogging this dead pony? Give it a break.'

‘There's life in it yet, Nat.' Perlman hesitated before tossing the cassette through the air. ‘That's for you. I've got another copy.'

Blum snatched at it and caught it.

Perlman stepped out of the office, walked past the reception desk where the
shikse
glowered at him. He winked at her and moved towards the lift, feeling jaunty.

17

Every morning of their lives Billy Parsonage and his wife Matty played nine holes of golf at Knightswood Park Golf Course on the west side of the city. Billy had retired fifteen years ago from his position as assistant manager at a city branch of the Clydesdale Bank, and Matty had given up her career as personnel supervisor at the House of Fraser department store in Buchanan Street the same year.

Like some long-married people, they'd come to resemble each other; each had a small round rosy face set in a permanent frown, as if they mutually disapproved of the world. Golf was their passion. Matty was the better player. Billy was a stranger to coordination. He studied golf improvement books, and watched instructive videos, but nothing helped. He was cack-handed, doomed to mediocrity.

On the fourth tee he sliced his drive and the ball went wide of the fairway. He lost sight of it.

Matty said, ‘Not so hot, Billy. Not so hot.'

It's the wind,' Billy said.

‘Knocked you off balance, did it?' Matty played a lovely shot. The ball rose straight and true in the direction of the green.

Billy Parsonage fumed quietly. He dragged his bag and followed his wife along the fairway. The wind puffed up the sleeves of his rainproof jacket.

‘It's coming out of the east,' he said.