White Rage (44 page)

He opened the door and stuck his head in. ‘I hear you took a hit, Lou.'

‘I'll get over it.'

‘I was sorry when I heard.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Don't believe me? You're still projecting frost, Perlman.'

‘You know what I think about the way you handle things, Inspector.'

Deacon edged into Scullion's seat. He emitted a rich aftershave scent like squeezed lime. ‘You're entitled to your opinion.'

‘Right.'

‘You can think what you like.'

‘I've tried all my life to do that,' Perlman said. He looked at Deacon for a moment. That well-sculpted face, the narrow nose, the perfect square of the jaw. ‘Right from the start, you wanted me off the White Rage thing. All I got were these waves of hostility from you. The big man from Special B, and I'm just a low-grade flatfoot with more than thirty years' experience, what the fuck do I know?'

‘You were the hostile one. You still are.'

‘I happened to ask some questions, and they annoyed you.'

‘I couldn't answer them.'

‘Wrong. You
wouldn't
answer them. Take a holiday, Lou. Don't you want a break, Lou? In other words, Get to Fuck, Lou. I wasn't falling for that.'

‘You seemed, let me say,
fraught
.'

‘Fraught doesn't make it. Try
steaming
.' Perlman jabbed a finger in the air. ‘You didn't want me along, Deacon. You were running the show like a comic-book hero, and all you needed was a bunch of yes-men –'

‘I'm trying to convince myself that some of your attitude is down to your present unsettled condition, Lou. And I'm not doing very well at it.'

‘My condition? Forget it. People were dying and you were playing silly spy games. It was all bullshit. And you didn't want me asking awkward questions. And …' Perlman lost the thought a second. Something else he needed to say: what the hell was it? He still pointed a finger at Deacon but he needed words to back up the gesture. Got it. Right. ‘Out of the blue I got this message from upstairs. Tay wanted me to concentrate on my brother's case. Drop everything else. Bring it up to speed, he says. Get the files updated. I might be as fuzzy as an angora sweater at this moment, but I'm seeing it now. You tell Tay I'm a troublemaker, and he says something like
leave it to me, I'll sidetrack Perlman
. Was that it?'

‘I've got a job to do and I do it any way I see fit.'

‘And I upset you?'

‘You have a knack for that. But I don't let anything upset me for long. I prefer to deal with things before they get completely out of control. I don't like Bolshies asking unanswerable questions.'

‘Forgive me if I failed to see how delicate your line of work is.'

‘It's sensitive enough. I didn't need a bull in my china shop.'

‘Now I'm a bull.'

‘With your head down ready to lunge. You never change.'

Perlman wished he didn't have this wound, that he had the energy to take on Deacon; he wished he could align his thoughts in a sequential way, then nothing would slip out of the cerebral net. But.

‘I want White Rage, Lou. But only when I'm ready for them.'

‘And that means what exactly?'

‘Why pull in one or two jackasses if you can get them all?'

‘You think you can wipe them out.'

‘I've got some good men working all hours in precarious conditions.'

‘And when will you accomplish this destruction?'

‘There's no precise timetable.'

‘The long-serving sergeant, I know, don't tell him anything –'

‘I didn't say that.'

Perlman looked ahead through the windscreen. ‘What the fuck
are
you saying?'

‘I crush White Rage when I know I have all the members lined up and ready. Right now, we can pick them off here and there in ones and twos, but there are others, and if I don't nail them they'll only reassemble. And I don't want any strays left over when I'm done. I want it dead and buried
completely
. I don't do half-measures, Perlman.'

‘Meantime you let them continue?'

‘Up to a point. But we try to inhibit some of their excesses.'

‘Thoughtful of you, Deaky. So what? More people might just die while you wait for the chance to round up the whole network?'

‘We'll work to make sure nobody gets hurt.'

‘That's impossible.'

‘I wish I knew a better way to accomplish the demolition of White Rage. But I don't.'

‘It's fucked,' Perlman said. ‘Whisper collateral damage in my ear, why don't you?'

‘Some people we manage to take care of. Others we don't want getting in the way, maybe getting hurt.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘You're an example.' Deacon opened the door and stepped out. ‘Think about it, Perlman.'

‘Wait –'

Deacon cleared his throat and said, ‘Remember this, Perlman? A wee flashback for you. Ready?
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
…' The Inspector's accent had changed, shifting from narrow Glaswegian to broad, r's rolling, t's dropped, g's discarded like so many bent nails.

Perlman felt a weight shift and drop inside, and his heartbeat quickened. ‘I remember.'

‘And you went for it.'

Perlman said, ‘You're a fucking actor, Deacon.'

‘I have a small talent for accents.'

‘It didn't occur to me.'

‘It intrigued you, Lou. It served its purpose.'

‘To make me all gung-ho for Kilroy.'

‘Well done.'

‘And the photograph. Am I such a
shlemiel?
'

‘We're blessed with some smart tech staff. The picture was a stroll in the park. Fell for that too, right? Christ, did we light fires under you and Kilroy, or did we light fires? Okay, I didn't want you on the case because I don't like you, and we have a history I can't quite get over. So I tried to redirect you towards your brother's murder, just when it seemed your interest might be … is waning the word?'

‘It never waned, Deacon. Don't say that.'

‘Don't get so testy. Let's say you welcomed a diversion. A new case. A fresh start. Your other investigation was going nowhere. But I wanted you back on it. I wanted you snapping at Kilroy's heels and staying the fuck out of my way. And I wanted Kilroy feeling uneasy about your attentions. I got that, didn't I? Of course, I didn't realize at the time that Kilroy had an involvement with White Rage. But that worked out all right in the end.'

‘Did it?'

‘I believe so.'

Perlman arranged and rearranged these revelations as if they were tiles in a surreal game of Scrabble. Phone calls left on answering machines, a bogus photo got up by some computer wiz. Get Perlman off the stage, he's a pain in the arse, he'll intrude and make a mess, let him fart about with his brother's murder, that way he can't break anything, the china shop remains intact.

Deacon said, ‘You got your reward, Perlman. We gave you Chasm. We didn't have to. But we did. We're not looking for public acclaim. Some of us work in places where it would be fatal if we were identified.'

Deacon turned and walked away. He strolled to the end of the street where another figure emerged from shadow and, moving in step with the Big Frase, walked towards a parked car. This newcomer glanced in Perlman's direction.

Perlman saw the fawn eyepatch for only a second before the man stepped inside the car, then the vehicle moved off and vanished down an adjoining street.

Some people we look after
, he thought.

And I'm one of the chosen. Am I supposed to be grateful? Am I supposed to go on bended knee in a gesture of gratitude that I was rescued at the last possible moment from death by gunshot, while Deacon and his friends play out their tricky games? Am I to be thankful that the one-eyed man gave me Chasm and the woman on a platter? Here, Perlman, a wee present for you, delicacies, to make you feel good about yourself. You caught a killer.

No way. That wasn't it. They gave me Chasm and Celia because they couldn't come out into the open and grab them for themselves; they couldn't go public. Too risky. Deacon and his pals liked the milieu of unlit back closes, alleyways, abandoned buildings. They were in love with the notion of operating undercover.

I'm supposed to feel grateful. And I don't. He pinched the top of his nose. Oh Christ he was sleepy and didn't want to be. He needed to think a little more about Deacon.

Because it wasn't adding up. It wasn't coming out right.

He couldn't think why.

Scullion appeared, opening the door. ‘You okay?'

‘You just missed Deacon.'

‘The Big Frase? My heart beats harder. You talked to him?'

‘No. He talked to me, Sandy. There's a difference.'

‘Anything interesting?'

A blackness crossed Perlman's mind. ‘Did you know he wanted to speak to me? Is that why you left me here?'

Scullion laughed quietly. ‘What the hell are you talking about?'

Perlman settled back: what the hell
am
I talking about? ‘Maybe I dreamed him. Maybe he wasn't here at all.'

‘You never know how drugs are going to affect your head.' Scullion smiled, twisted the key in the ignition.

Perlman saw a faint white haze around the streetlamps.

Scullion drove as far as George Square where the City Chambers were illuminated. Light glowed on the Cenotaph. It wasn't far from here to Miriam's loft. A short walk, that's all. He considered getting out of the car and making his way to her.
Darling, I'm home
.

Deacon. A devious bastard. A liar. Maybe it came to the man naturally. Maybe it was part of his job description: scheme, fabricate, manipulate, deny. Perlman rubbed his face wearily. He was in a place where that line between right and wrong – normally as faint as old chalk – had faded completely into the earth.

Something's wrong, he thought again.

Go back. Go back to when this first began.

The death of Indra Gupta. Back there. Think.

Perlman fumbled through his memory. He remembered the Dalmatian leaping at him. The dead gull in his driveway. What was he forgetting? He remembered the encounter with Blum and Kilroy at Force HQ and the urge that had come over him to strangle the Fat Man. But there was more, and it was simple, and he was missing it. He thought of Deacon.
Did we light fires or did we light fires?

He turned to Scullion. ‘Remember when Indra Gupta was shot?'

‘How could I forget it?'

Perlman's memory was a boat becalmed. ‘Wasn't it the night
before
her death I got the first anonymous phone call about Kilroy?'

Scullion looked surprised. ‘You know it was. Why?'

Perlman slid his seat back and stretched his legs. Sweet Christ, was there no order in the world? Deacon knew in advance that Indra Gupta was to be killed the following day, he had the information from somewhere, from one of his infiltrators, say, one of his undercover glory boys, maybe even the Samaritan. Why make the phone call the night before? Why a pre-emptive strike, unless he wanted to make sure that Perlman had no choice except to concentrate on his brother's murder and nothing else?

Colin, remember? He's your priority, Perlman.

Deacon could have stopped that killing. He was as guilty as Bobby Descartes, as Celia, or whatever her name was. He was as guilty as White Rage. He'd allowed a young woman to die. And for what?

To protect his operation.

Now prove all this, Lou.

You can't.

‘Stop the car, Sandy.'

‘You said you were going to Miriam's.'

‘Yes.'

‘I can drop you right there. It's only a couple of blocks.'

‘I want to walk.'

‘You never mellow, do you, Lou? You can't stand to think you're somehow indebted, can you? You're the hardest person in the world to do a favour for. Fine. Open the door and walk. I think you're crazy, but what can I do about it? Promise me just one thing, you'll see a doctor before the night is out.'

‘Dib-dib.' Perlman gave a Boy Scout salute and got out of the car. Scullion waved, drove away, glanced back once, then he was gone.

Perlman crossed the street, arm pinned to his side, his steps shortened. He could feel that blood had seeped through bandages into his shirtsleeve. He walked with fierce concentration like a drunk determined to remain upright. It was a matter of dignity. He passed under streetlamps and thought of Deacon again, the territorial nature of the man, the need to draw up and protect his own boundaries of influence. And yet these borders were more fluid than fixed; they were anything Deacon wanted them to be. And Perlman had trespassed. Perlman hadn't obeyed the Keep Out signposts. Perlman had wandered into Deacon's Kingdom.

I'm lucky to be alive. Think about that.
It's not enough
. I'm coming back, I'll expose Deacon. Somehow I'll do that. I'll find a way.

He paused, leaned against a building, threw up some thin coffee-coloured liquid. A pain gripped his stomach and wouldn't let go. He moved forward holding one hand flat against the wall. He rang Miriam's buzzer.
Liebling
. He slumped, heard her voice, raised himself upward.

‘Lou,' he said.

‘I'm coming, I'm coming,' she answered.

51

He lay on a wide couch under the big skylight. The city glowed in the expanse of glass. Miriam held a warm damp rag to his forehead. He looked up at her and wondered at her tenderness. He saw her compassion as if it were an aura that hung around her in a misty outline, and he was amazed.

‘I've got some painkillers somewhere,' she said.

He heard her voice, seemingly very far away; a whisper in another room. ‘Prescription ones,' she said.