White Rage (6 page)

‘Very scary teeth,' she said. ‘He's been asking me questions.'

‘About Colin?'

‘Right. Latta makes me feel as if I was some kind of willing accomplice in Colin's financial schemes. As if I know where there's a vast cache of money and bonds or something.'

‘Is he pressuring you?'

Miriam shrugged. ‘I suppose he's just doing his job. In the charm stakes, he's a total
golem
. I don't have a clue about Colin's transactions. I never did. He had his world, I had mine. He had his spreadsheets, I had my paintings.'

‘Did Latta say it might be useful if you came back to Glasgow?'

‘He came all the way to Florence to tell me so.'

‘Nice junket,' Perlman said. ‘I'll speak to him if you like. See what he's up to.'

‘No, you don't have to do that. One day he'll find out for himself that I know nothing about Colin's business.'

Perlman shrugged. ‘There's no harm if I talk to him.'

‘Let me deal with it, Lou. I have to cope with all kinds of things now. Fend is the word.'

He felt a vague disappointment: he wanted to help. He wanted to check this thing out with Latta. But no, she didn't need him for that. He saw a quiet determination in her face. She was going to be her own person. And he let this realization disappoint him also. What had he expected? A useless sorry widow, dazed by misery, looking for support and guidance, and turning to him?
Oh, Lou, you're the only one I can count on
. The selfish heart projects its own needs. She was free. Allow her that.

‘You said Latta was one of the reasons you came back. What were the others?'

‘I don't know yet.' She drew away from him. His hand, released suddenly, slumped back against his side. ‘To visit this grave, maybe. To see if I could pick up my life again in Glasgow. I have spells when everything just
shines
with the possibility of a new life. I'm restless, energetic, I want to paint. Then the next day I'm tumbling down this spiral of gloom and I hit bottom and nothing has any electricity.'

‘You don't put your world back together overnight. Why the rush?' He wanted to add: I'm here for you all the hours God sends.

She said, ‘Tell me about the investigation.'

‘Don't ask. One of the nightmares of a cop's work is knowing the identity of a criminal and not being able to do anything about it. Something might break, I might get a nibble of luck. Some days the wind blows your way.'

She raised a hand to her neck where the skin was smooth and firm. He'd thought a thousand times of kissing her throat, unshackling himself in the intimacy of the gesture. She had tiny lines at the corners of her lips, and a darkness under her eyes, but otherwise the years had been charitable to her. She was slender. She had the body of a retired ballerina, and the kind of elegance of movement nobody can teach.

‘You want justice for Colin,' she said, and her voice was thin and strained.

‘Of course. Don't you?'

‘What do you think?'

‘He was murdered. Murderers go to jail. That's a simple equation. It doesn't matter what Colin did.'

‘In your world,' she said. ‘It matters in mine.'

‘I understand –'

‘I'm not sure you do, Lou.'

‘You're angry. You're hurt. This I understand.'

‘I'm neither angry nor hurt. Maybe I just don't want to talk about Colin. I've almost managed to leave him behind. I've been training myself not to feel his absence. After a while, it gets easier. So let's drop him.' She pressed a finger to his lip as if to silence him. He smelled her skin, a trace of whatever perfumed emollient she used to rub into her hands.

They walked a little way between graves. Tell me what's new in your life. Is there a woman? Have you met somebody?'

‘Have I
met
somebody?' He studied her face. Was this mischief? Was she
serious
? ‘What makes you think I'm even
looking
for somebody?'

‘I bet women find you attractive. You've got that wee boy thing. Women want to brush your hair and make sure your socks match. You look like a kid who's become separated from his mum in a big department store.'

‘Miriam, I'm a fifty-something cop, and I'm staring down the barrel of retirement.'

‘Quit making yourself sound like an old man, Lou.'

‘You know what lies in wait for me? A pension. Walks in the park, probably in the company of some loyal wee schmuck of a dog. I'll spend some of my endless spare time wondering what my life really amounted to, did I achieve anything, did it go the way I thought it might, all the big searching questions, et cetera. Who knows? Maybe I'll gorge myself on Viagra and trawl senior citizens' bingo clubs in search of casual sex.'

‘Funny man. I don't see you doing any such thing.'

‘So help me out. What will I be doing? Look into your crystal ball.'

‘I see clouds,' she said.

‘Heavy or passing?'

‘Hard to say.'

He moved his weight, shifted his feet. He was uncomfortable whenever he talked about himself. He gazed past her, unable to hold her eye for long, as if he might give too much of himself away. The headstones reminded him that life was a mercilessly brief business altogether, and if you didn't reach for the prize when you had the chance, you woke up one day and you were out of time. He heard sands whispering through the glass, demented clocks ticking.
I left it too long, but how could I have done it any other way?
Cowardly of you, Lou. You've faced down some vile criminals in your time, but you can't confront the notion of saying aloud what's inside you.

Then it occurred to him that maybe Miriam
didn't
know what he felt, that he'd been mistaken in assuming she did. Perhaps he fell into that sad category of a man who wants to be the lover, but is destined for ever to be the best friend.

There's an epitaph:
His love was never noticed
.

Should he have made a pass at her, chanced his arm? A different kind of man might have done that. Not you, Lou. You're too courteous for your own good, old-fashioned in matters of the heart. Was it out of a weird respect for your dead brother that you didn't tell this woman, once and for all and beyond any doubt, what you felt for her, what you've felt for many long dry years?

Miriam folded her arms against her breasts, and moved slowly away. He followed her. A slight glumness had descended on him. He was delighted to be with her, but what had possessed him to rabbit on in such an inane way about life and retirement – and Viagra, of all things? If you were trying to make yourself seem an attractive proposition, or even a promising one, you really fucked up the sales job,
shlub
.

Try another tack. ‘Have you got time for afternoon tea?'

‘I'd like that.'

‘The Willow is nice.'

‘I love the Willow. I haven't been there in ages.'

Uplifted suddenly, he was suffused with warmth; tea with Miriam, cakes on doilies, genteel sandwiches, cream and scones. Miriam facing him across the table, those chocolate-dark eyes of hers suggesting wild encounters where you adventured beyond the boundaries of your shy staid self.

His mobile phone rang. The sound startled him. He took the device from his coat pocket with a gesture of irritation.

It was Sandy Scullion. ‘We've got a situation, Lou.'

‘Don't tell me. The fish pie is off the menu.'

‘There's no menu. You better come in. Fast.'

Perlman shut his mobile off and looked at Miriam with an expression of annoyance. ‘Shite. I'm sorry…'

‘A policeman's lot,' she said. ‘Call me. By the way, that cloud in the crystal ball?'

‘Aye?'

‘It may pass.'

7

In the back of his plum-coloured chauffeur-driven Mercedes, Nat Blum sat with his briefcase on his lap. He was conscious of Kilroy's cologne, which was a little on the effete side.

Kilroy said, ‘Perlman made it all up. Plain and fucking simple.'

‘I have any number of reasons for disliking Perlman, Leo. One thing I can tell you, he's no liar.'

Kilroy issued a derogatory
pah
sound. ‘Everybody lies, Blumsky.'

‘Lou Perlman doesn't. Fact of life.'

‘Then he's a bloody rare bird.'

‘He's got some notion of honour, granted.'

‘Unlike his brother, who'd have shagged his grannie if it meant extra points on a deal. Hungry man, Colin.'

Blum gazed at the back of his driver's bald head. ‘Colin was greedy to the marrow. Lou, on the other hand, thinks he has a shot at sainthood.'

‘Do you Jews have saints?' Kilroy asked.

‘We canonize all our best accountants.'

Blum drummed his briefcase and considered this fat beast who was his client. He'd heard the usual stories, which he found prudent to ignore, about the series of boys who shared Kilroy's bed. Other reports suggested Leo was rampantly bi, and had access to a harem of pubescent girls. Blum had no idea if the rumours had a basis in fact, nor inclination to ask: if Kilroy was the most flamboyant queen in the city, or if he was AC/DC to the point where he drained megawatts from the National Grid, he was still good for a retainer of £200K+ per annum.

Besides, it was potentially dangerous to ask too many questions about Kilroy's private life, or cause him offence; he was said to have an army of thugs at his disposal. They were allegedly fond of the occasional after-hours bone-breaking in alleys, just for the sport of it. Kilroy had lethal clout. You gave him counsel, but crossed him at your peril.

Kilroy, a devotee of musicals, briefly sang a phrase from
South Pacific
. He had a voice that would chill a hangman. ‘Bali Ha'i' was quickly choked. He fell silent, and looked out at the stout respectable houses along Crow Road, which led eventually to suburban Bearsden and home, a big tree-shielded, electric-gated mansion, ersatz Spanish-style, in Ledcameroch Road, where his flamboyant presence annoyed his neighbours.

Kilroy's love of his native city was selective. On warm sunny days, ah good God, he
adored
Glasgow. There was no place on earth like it, you could take your New York and your Paris and stuff them right up your crack. Okay, Glasgow had rough areas, no-go neighbourhoods – what city didn't? But it had hundreds of acres of parks, and more wondrous Victorian architecture than you could find anywhere else on earth.

He also loved being a man of influence in this city. He was close to cardinals and bishops, contributed generously to a number of Catholic charities, dined with MPs and city councillors, and he was on first-name terms with the Lord Provost.

But come long dreich winter, or cold damp spring, he preferred escape. He cruised the warm blue waters of another hemisphere, exposing his pendulous dugs to the sun, sipping drinks festooned with parasols and cubes of pineapple.

‘Just for a minute, assume Perlman is telling the truth,' Blum said. ‘Who do you think could have phoned him?'

‘The fucking truth, Blumsky, is that any number of neds would like to see my empire collapse. I live in a state of siege. There are all kinds of fucking villains trying to climb my walls. Sometimes I can't sleep at night thinking about all this
hostility
out there. So some envious wee nob picks up a phone, calls Perlman, and lies in his teeth. Ach, let's not waste time on it. Perlman's trying to con us. I always trust my gut. It's an inbuilt shite detector.'

Blum listened to the smooth motor of his car. People like Kilroy helped keep this Merc on the road. They were scum, these high-flying crooks of Glasgow, men who ran the scams that ticked and hummed unseen beneath the surface of everyday life. Blum had chosen to blind himself to the fact that these characters lacked, for want of a better phrase, a moral sense. They were his clients, and any client was entitled to confidentiality and your best work. So you went bare-knuckle for them. And you accepted their lies as truths.

Leo's car, for instance. Blum had serious doubts that it had been stolen in the manner Kilroy claimed.
Parked it outside my house around 10.30 on the night Colin was shot, fucking hell, some naughty bugger had magicked it away by morning
. It was within the realms of possibility that Kilroy had paid somebody to steal the car. Money stuffed into a lackey's hand, a quick handover of keys. Or, if the message Perlman had received was true, it was also possible that Leo
had
been seen driving the car after Colin's death.

But who was this anonymous individual and why would he report it? Where was the gain? It was a tangled business. Lies and half-lies; the truth, never unvarnished, always seemed to be concealed at the bottom of some murky river – which was probably also the fate of the murder weapon too, covered by silt on the bed of the Clyde.

Whether you believed your clients was of no consequence. Once upon a time he'd been an idealistic student; he'd considered the law beyond corruption. Hey, look at me now. He wondered if he should laugh or cry at the loss of his youthful naivety.

‘Here's the thing. Perlman's not going to go away, Leo, no matter how many Hail Marys you say.'

Kilroy settled back in his seat and smiled. He had peculiarly small teeth, almost baby. ‘Speak to me straight. You admire Perlman?'

‘How do you mean, admire?'

‘Say you're playing the black pieces against his white.'

‘As an adversary? Admire? More like … respect. I can't say I could ever befriend him. He's too dogged. Also, and I know this is a petty thing, Leo, but he hasn't a clue how to dress. Did you see those flannels? They looked like windsocks at some abandoned airfield. And when did you last see anyone wearing specs like his? They must be National Health issue, circa 1960.'

‘Never mind all that. Does he worry you?'

‘Up to a point.'