White Rage (34 page)

‘Indra Gupta, Leo. Dead kindergarten teacher?'

‘What about her?'

‘Her father, Barry Gupta, owns Bargeddie Haulage.'

‘So?'

‘Bad things are happening to Barry. Deaths in the family. Business sabotage. Theft. You name it. He's got some enemies.'

‘And you think Chasm might be helpful just because he shared a cell with this whatshisface …'

‘Glone.'

‘Glone, right. I think it's downright
scandalous
, frankly, that you can throw a man's past into his face –'

Chasm said, ‘Leo, it's okay, I don't have anything to hide.'

Perlman dropped his cigarette, flattened it underfoot.

Kilroy said, ‘Be my guest, Lou. Drop your cigarettes on my good gravel. You know what that stuff
costs
by the ton?'

‘Looks just like old dirt to me,' Perlman said.

‘It's pulverized rock from an Ayrshire quarry,' Kilroy said. ‘It's the twenty-five-year-old single malt of gravel.'

‘I wish I'd known,' Perlman said.

Chasm stooped, picked up the cigarette butt.

‘Is that what a factotum does, Frankie?' Perlman asked.

‘I'm a jack of all trades.'

Chasm gazed at Perlman in a challenging way. Perlman didn't flinch from the contact. He enjoyed a little eyeball competition.

Kilroy said, ‘Open the gates for these guys, Frankie.'

‘We being thrown out?' Perlman asked.

‘Not so much as a cuppa,' Scullion remarked.

‘I heard stories about the service here, Sandy.'

Kilroy said, ‘Lock the gates behind them, Frankie.'

Perlman walked in the direction of Sandy Scullion's Citroën. He paused with his hand on the door handle. He gazed beyond Kilroy and Chasm at the splendid front of the large house, white stucco, Spanish effect, Kilroy's hacienda, a touch of the Ibizas. But it wasn't the impressive house that caused Perlman to stand so very still, it was a shift in memory, a word on the tip of his tongue – he had it, he didn't have it, he'd lost it. It was as irritating as a tiny
krishel
of food stuck between your teeth. Cursing himself, he yanked the passenger door open.

‘Don't be a stranger,' Kilroy said.

Perlman stared at the Fat Man. ‘Boats,' he said. ‘Something to do with boats.'

‘Boats? Eh? You lost your compass, Lou?'

‘Cargo boats. That's it.' Perlman pointed a finger at Kilroy. ‘You own some cargo boats.'

‘I didn't know that was a crime. Is it new on the statute book?'

‘Boats
and
trucks,' Perlman said. He clicked thumb and middle finger together:
Eureka
. ‘The name of the company. What's the name of the company? Dammit.
Dammit
.'

Kilroy said, ‘Memory breaking apart? Let me help you. Bute Transport.'

‘That's it,' Perlman said.

‘The boats are long gone, Perlman. Uneconomical. As for the trucks, the company runs only five or six these days.'

‘And they go where?'

‘Anywhere,' Kilroy remarked.

‘You don't keep in touch with your own business?'

‘Lou, you are
embarrassingly
out of date. I'm not involved in Bute any more. The boats went to auction in '98. I wasn't happy in that line of business anyway. I like hands-on, and who wants hands-on when it comes to some smelly old cargo boats and rough seagoing sorts with holes in their jumpers and jock-rash? Not my style, Lou. I sold the trucks and the company name five months ago.'

‘Who's the new owner?'

‘I am,' Chasm said.

I didn't expect that, Perlman thought. ‘Really? Was it a credit sale, Frankie?'

‘Ex-cons don't usually have loads of the spare lying around, Perlman.'

‘You got finance?'

‘Nah, I bought it with Monopoly money. What do you think?'

‘And somebody holds the paper?'

‘Somebody always holds the paper, Perlman.'

‘This might be light years off target. Is Kilroy the note-holder?'

Chasm said, ‘He was generous when I needed it.'

‘Cosy. What do you think, Sandy?'

‘I think Frankie Chasm landed on his feet,' Scullion said.

‘Embraced by saints,' Perlman said, and slid into the passenger seat.

Scullion slammed the door and turned the car towards the gates. They opened automatically, then dosed as soon as the Citroën had cleared them.

Chasm brought Kilroy a G&T in the conservatory. He tossed it back, one gulp. He stared moodily at the waterfall.

Chasm sipped a Diet Irn-Bru.

Kilroy said, ‘Our Jew friend remembers everything. Eventually.'

‘So it seems.'

Kilroy smacked the palm of his hand on the arm of his chair. ‘Why hasn't there been a follow-up to that bloody photo? Even if it's Perlman playing a stupid fuck blackmail game, you'd think there might be another note by now. Except he comes here to ask about Glone. Fucking Glone.'

‘He wants you simmering.'

‘Where did I put that photograph anyway?'

‘In your desk,' Chasm said. He laid a hand on the Fat Man's shoulder. ‘You want another G&T? Another pill? Tell me, I'll fetch it.'

‘Bring me both.'

‘Living dangerously?'

‘Why not?'

Chasm stopped on his way out of the conservatory. ‘You weren't happy with Blum, Leo. A waste of money, you said.'

Kilroy watched tumbling water fall against rocks and vanish inside crevices, alive in the way lava is alive. He felt sluggish and uncertain of himself. And fat, fat beyond the boundaries of obesity, a gross figure in whom the shark must surely have been devoured. For so many years he'd been confident and self-assured – how had he fallen from that high place so
quickly?
What wrong turning had he made along the way? Could he take a couple of steps back and bring about repairs and restorations, so that everything might be resurrected as it had been? The Fat Man in all his roaring ostentation and glory, a dazzling rage of colour on any drab Glasgow day, a zappy eyecatcher on the streets, powder-blue mohair coat, scarlet alpaca scarf, a crazy quilt waistcoat, red and white two-tone shoes he'd picked up at the Italian Centre, a walking wobbling marvel of a man.

With some effort, he stood.

Remember this: a few days ago you were a ruthless machine. Be one again. The sleek creature in blue waters. He called out for Chasm, who came back with a second G&T and a small blue pill.

Kilroy cleared his throat. ‘See it through, Frankie.'

‘It's in motion, Leo. It's running under its own steam now. I couldn't raise a finger.'

40

Perlman shaded his eyes against an afternoon sun that had turned unexpectedly brilliant. In the start-stop traffic in Maryhill Road, where a crew of men in hard hats dug a trench for some inscrutable purpose, and the air was jarred by the sound of pneumatic drills, Scullion was becoming impatient.

‘What the hell are they digging for?' Scullion asked.

Perlman said, ‘Who knows? It's a quick-change world we live in, Sandy. Think about it. A man like Frankie Chasm comes out of Peterhead jail and straight into ownership of a fleet of trucks.'

‘Thanks to a line of credit extended by the Fat Man.'

‘What are friends for?' Perlman looked at the beery red face of a weary worker leaning on a shovel. ‘They lend money. They find jobs for each other. Consider Clone, another Peterhead alumnus. He gets out of jail and friendly Frankie Chasm contacts him and says, I've got a wee job for you, Willie. There's a few quid in it.'

‘And sends him out to Bargeddie to steal a truck …'

‘Aye. People are trying to derail Barry Gupta's empire. Family members die. Strange “accidents” happen in his places of business. Somebody nicks a truck from his yard and demolishes it. I don't think it was meant to turn out badly for Willie Glone, but somehow he made a ballocks of it and got barbecued in the wreckage.'

‘And you think Chasm is undermining competition.'

‘Waging war may be the better term.'

‘There's no direct evidence.'

‘Okay. But I don't like the fact that Chasm and Glone are fellow graduates of the Peterhead Academy for Bad People, and Glone's the one who steals a fucking truck from Gupta. That link makes my baw-hairs
tingle
. You imagine Glone woke up and said to himself,
I must steal one of Gupta's trucks today?
'

‘Assume Chasm asked him. Where does the death of Indra fit into Chasm's demolition of Gupta's kingdom? We've attributed that killing to White Rage. Are we saying, what – let me get this straight – that Chasm is connected with White Rage?'

Perlman took off his glasses and peered through them just as the light changed and the car moved. He breathed on them, wiped them on the cuff of his shirt, put them back on. ‘All I'm suggesting is a possibility worth exploring, Sandy. You see anything better in the distance?'

‘We should talk some more to Barry.'

‘Feh. He's in denial. He's all:
What enemies?
He's from the school of bruised machismo, thinks he can handle everything his own way. Barry's not the right approach.'

‘You've got another?'

‘Young Dev.'

‘He's sullen. Trapped in big Daddy's shadow.'

‘Sullen? Not after I talk to him about matters of cargo.'

‘Fine. Do that. I'm also thinking it wouldn't do any harm to send a few uniforms out to Bargeddie for a look-round.'

‘Try Joe Adamski,' Perlman suggested, and he remembered the dark shapes fleeing the posse of policemen across London Road; asylum seekers, economic refugees – what did it matter how you labelled them? They were scared people a long way from anything familiar: they were coming to a cold place where they knew nobody, and nobody wanted to know them. The disenchanted. The disenfranchised. The shoeless. ‘I think Joe would like to be in on this. You got E-Division's number?'

‘It's programmed into the mobie.' Scullion took out his phone, and drove one-handed while he punched in a couple of numbers.

The city centre loomed beyond St George's Cross and the high ridge of Garnethill where, months ago, before Colin had died, Perlman had stood with Miriam outside the synagogue and surveyed the wintry lights of the western reach of the city and understood how much he loved her. He remembered how desirable she'd looked in the hazy darkness and his heart had stammered.

One day she'll be mine
.

Scullion, who'd been speaking to Adamski, switched off his mobile. ‘Okay, done.'

‘I don't want to go barging into the Gupta household like a couple of plodders,' Perlman said. ‘I'll call Dev. Get him to meet us elsewhere.' He took Murdoch's phone from his pocket and asked the directory operator to connect him.

Dev Gupta answered, his voice sombre.

Perlman said, ‘This is your favourite policeman. I need a few minutes of your time.'

‘When?'

‘Twenty minutes, say?'

‘I can't get away from here.'

‘Try, Dev. It's about the stolen vehicle.'

‘Bad timing.'

‘I know, and I'm sorry.'

A pause. ‘Okay. Where do we meet?'

‘You choose, Dev.'

‘Crossmyloof Station?'

‘Fine,' Perlman said.

He switched off.

Scullion parked the Citroën in the car park at Crossmyloof Station. Thirty minutes had passed since Perlman's phone call, and there was no sign of Dev Gupta. Perlman rose stiff-limbed out of the car, walked up and down to get blood circulating in his legs. There was that spasm in his back again, damn it. A train rattled past heading from Glasgow towards the suburbs of Priesthill, Nitshill, Barrhead.

A blue MG approached. It halted beside the Citroën. Dev Gupta stepped out. He was dressed entirely in black. Perlman knew nothing about fashion, but he understood enough to realize that the young man's suit was implausibly expensive. Well tailored, perfect.

Scullion got out of the Citroën. He said, ‘Nice suit.'

Perlman said, ‘I was thinking just the same, Sandy.'

Dev Gupta said, ‘I agreed to meet you, so let's get to the point.'

Perlman glanced at the MG. ‘I bet you pull birds out of the trees.'

‘Now and then.'

‘Enjoy while you can. Nooky lasts only so long. One day you just can't get it up so easily.'

‘I didn't come here to discuss your sexual inadequacies,' Gupta said. ‘The accident, remember?'

Perlman said, ‘Ah, right, the stolen truck. You heard any more about it, Dev? How it happened, anything like that?'

‘I thought the whole point was that you were going to tell me.'

‘I brought you here under false pretences, son.'

‘Then I'll turn around and I'll pish off.'

Perlman caught Gupta by the sleeve. ‘You go when I let you go, my wee man. I'm going to ask you something, and you'll answer me truthfully.'

‘And if I don't?'

‘Oh sonny.' Perlman frowned. ‘Don't make me work.'

Dev Gupta said, ‘You're a hard man, Sergeant. I'm dripping sweat. Look.'

Perlman ignored the bluster. ‘Here's my question. Who the fuck is trying to wipe out your dad's business?'

‘Come again?'

‘Just name the enemy, son. And we can all go home.'

‘There's no enemy,' Gupta said.

Perlman tugged harder on the sleeve. The material was soft and weightless. With a suit like that, a man would feel he was wearing air. What was it – cashmere? Alpaca? He wondered how he'd look in such a suit: would he make Miriam's head spin?

‘Just
name
the fucker, son.'

‘There's nobody to name. Jesus Christ, let go, you'll tear the sleeve.'

‘I'm clumsy at times,' Perlman said.

Gupta, profoundly irritated, his threads threatened, shook his head. ‘Piss off.'