Butcher (12 page)

He turned the key in the lock, went in.

The air was stale, atmosphere dead. The long loft was shadowy, but he could see her paintings on the wall, and her easel stood where it always did. A sadness gatecrashed him. He'd hoped that night she'd tell him they had a future together, but he couldn't remember exactly what words had passed between them. Painkillers he'd taken for his gunshot wound had made him dreamy at the time, and his recollection had an hallucinatory feel.

He ran his hand along the back of the sofa where they'd fallen asleep together in a chaste embrace. Oh Jesus, how he'd wanted her. And he'd thought at the time: this is going somewhere lovely.

He ambled past her paintings, small intricate canvasses, colourful abstracts. What the hell did I ever think we'd have in common, her a painter and lecturer at the Art School, me a cop? Reaching too far, too hard. She could speak about culture, and schools of painting, the history of art. What could he offer her in return except news from the criminal side of the city, arrests he'd made, villains encountered, or the savage politics of Pitt Street?

He entered the kitchen, looked inside the refrigerator. Mouldy sauces in jars, tubs of yoghurt long outdated, a gnarled thing that might have been a knot of ginger. He shut the door. The dishwasher was empty. He checked the phone. No tone. He opened the bedroom door.

A room he'd never been in before.

The bed was made. The quilt was a splashy lime colour. A dressing-table stood in the corner. He scanned the things that lay there. A lacquered box, lid open, an assortment of brooches and bracelets. A gifted psychic could touch these items and say
She's in Latvia, Albania, wherever
. Perlman was bereft of such ability. He picked out a string of pearls and dangled it from the palm of his hand but he received nothing, not a picture, not a ghost shimmering in his mind.

Such desperate endeavours.

He returned the necklace to the box and wondered: why did she go without taking the jewels? Because she had others, obviously. And if she was planning to go for a protracted length of time, why hadn't she cleared that stuff out of the fridge? And the phone, had she asked for that to be cut off or had the company snipped it for nonpayment? He'd check, it was easy to do.

Miriam, My Lady of the Mysteries.

He peered inside a wardrobe. Dresses and blouses and pants, all neatly hung. Beneath them lay an array of shoes. So what
did
she take with her when she left? I come here like the grieving husband, a widower, and I sift the forsaken remains. She'd gone without a word of farewell, not to him, nor to the Aunts.

The last time he talked to her, by telephone, she'd made no reference to a trip. That was during the infamous
I need some time, Lou
conversation. The first thing he knew of her journey was a postcard from Florence ten weeks ago, with the message
Lovely place, M
, followed by the ‘fond' one three weeks later from Copenhagen. She knew she was going away, except she hadn't deemed him worthy enough to be told of her intentions.

He shut the wardrobe door, sat on the edge of her bed. There was a silent alarm clock on the bedside table – and there, placed beside the alarm, something that shocked, caused a ricochet of feelings. Why would she have kept
this
, and why have it here in the bedroom of all places? He reached for it, picked it up carefully: a photograph in a thin silver frame.

It depicted Colin and Miriam in another time – five years ago, he guessed – Colin prosperous and sleekly handsome in tuxedo, Miriam heartachingly beautiful in a simple black dress. They had their arms linked and they were gazing at each other, faces turned away from the camera: two people in love.

Two people
crazy
in love.

Or was this a show for the camera, an illusion of devotion?

He wanted to think the latter. He needed to think that. But why did she keep it, given the tumultuous history of her life with Colin?

He set the photograph down and his hand trembled and the frame slipped its fragile moorings. The photograph, as well as the cardboard backing, slid out. He cursed his clumsiness. Detective Thumbs. Why didn't they make solid frames that stayed in place instead of these shaky constructions? It wasn't exactly difficult technology.

He tried to slide the picture back inside the frame, a fiddly job. He saw Miriam's handwriting on the back of the photo. Her penmanship, showy and confident, was unmistakable.
On our Anniversary, our love shines through, Miriam
. When did she write that, what anniversary?

And if she kept it near her bed, what did that signify? She still loved her late husband, needed his image close to her, hadn't ever got over him?

No, he wouldn't entertain that. He looked at his brother. The charmer, gifted with easy social graces.
Colin, you fucked up. You cheated, stole money, broke hearts
. He pressed the photograph back inside the frame but he couldn't get it to close and when he heard the floor creak in the studio, the sound of somebody's coat brushing against a wall, he hurriedly shoved the frame, photo and cardboard inside his coat pocket.

He stood up, tense, big heartbeat. Miriam coming home, his first thought, sneaking back into Glasgow. She'd wonder what he was doing in her bedroom. He felt like a snooper, a perve. Then he heard a cough, and knew at once it wasn't her. The cough was deep, masculine. He walked out of the bedroom and into the studio.

Inspector George Latta was standing in the middle of the floor, grinning at him. Latta brought back a tidal rush of bad memories. The last time he'd seen the inspector here was the night of Miriam's arrest. He'd punched Latta on that occasion and the memory was still vibrant, still sour.

‘You never got your teeth fixed, I see,' Perlman said.

‘Too busy to sit in a dentist's chair,' Latta said. He wore his customary brown felt hat and a crumpled blue gabardine coat and big sturdy black shoes as solid as ocean-going boats. He had hairy hands, like a Yeti's.

‘Worst choppers on the force,' Perlman said.

‘Strong bite, though. I could sink them in your neck and you'd be powerless.'

Vampire man. Latta's aggressive manner and his smarmy air angered Perlman. The swaggering way he strolled past Miriam's paintings was a provocation. He leaned close to the artwork and sniffed, as if he detected a bad smell. He picked up one of Miriam's brushes and looked at it, then disdainfully he tossed it down again.

‘So where did the cunt go, Perlman?'

The word cunt offended Perlman. ‘How would I know?'

‘You're not planning to meet her some day and divvy up the money, eh?'

‘Can't shake that old obsession, Latta, can you?'

‘Call it a lust for justice.' Latta continued to peer at the paintings. ‘Crap. Unambitious. Tiny. Nothing of interest here.'

Quietly Perlman said to himself, ‘Inspector Fuckedteeth's an art critic suddenly.'

Latta whipped round. ‘I didn't hear that.'

‘I was mumbling. I do that. I'm a mumbler.' Perlman wasn't going to be drawn into an argument about Miriam's work. He clenched his pocketed hands. ‘Have you been following me?'

Latta looked pleased with himself. ‘I have a pecuniary arrangement with the caretaker. Anybody asking to see this loft, she phones me. And here I am. I've been wondering when you'd come around. What took you so long?'

The caretaker, seemingly so concerned about Miriam, was Latta's in-house spy. So It was Latta's sneaky way. He corrupted people.

‘Empty lofts trouble me,' Perlman said.

‘When your lover has gone. Aw, Lou, you sad bastard, is that what it is? Missing the thieving cunt so bad you can hardly visit her old lair?'

Perlman had a jet of blood to his head. ‘You have a delicate way with language. You're a poet, Latta.'

Latta looked at Perlman in a confrontational manner, chin forward, eyes narrow. ‘I would've thought she'd have left you a clue where to find her. Maybe something hidden in this loft. Something only you'd understand. So you could meet her and count the dosh—'

‘Find a new tune, Latta. She was innocent. Or were you not in court that day?'

‘Of course I was in the bloody court and what I saw was a fucking disgrace.'

‘The jury believed the money was rightfully hers—'

‘The jury were eejits. She put on quite a show, have to say. The mourning widow, unhappy marriage, years of anguish, husband an unfaithful beast, bippety-boo, pass me a hankie. The money was never hers. You know it, I know it, it was cash your dear departed brother embezzled. And now she's done a runner with it. Wait … has she shafted you right up the arse with a pointy stick? Has she fucked you
over
, Perlman?'

Latta laughed. It was a scornful sound and Perlman laboured to keep control of himself. How long could he stand this. A shadow passed quickly across the skylight and he looked up to check its source and saw a cloud blown by a strong gust of wind above the chimney-line. Miriam had said
poor bird
the night the seabird had struck the glass roof and he remembered clearly now – the bird had struck the glass so hard it snapped its neck and slid down the slope of the skylight's angle, wings folded. And he recalled the terrible pain of his gunshot wound, and how solicitously Miriam had dressed it. She'd even cleaned his glasses, a touching little gesture.

OK, so the relationship was withering, a paralyzed limb, even if he continued in his dumb romantic way to deny the fact, and nurture a fool's hope for a sign of encouragement. But there were memories, good or bad didn't matter, and this place, rich with the ghost of her presence, meant something to him.

And now the loathsome Latta comes strutting in and sullies the loft with his sneering accusations.

‘You've been fucked, Perlman. She's pulled the wool over your eyes, am I right? Wait, make that a sack of wool. She promised you a share of the loot—'

‘The
fuck
she did—'

‘Plus nooky on a regular basis—'

Perlman took his hands from his pockets.

‘In return for your testimony that she'd been wronged by your beloved brother, and that she was honest as the day was long. You were good in court as well, have to say. Although you did yourself no fucking favours in the Force, did you? And the newspapers ate up the story like a goose at Christmas. Detective defends sister-in-law's virtue. Virtue my arse! Now she's fucked off and you'll never see a penny. Excuse me if I find fucking
big
merriment in this—'

This big merriment extended to Pitt Street HQ, to Tay's rookery where the carrion-feeders gathered, waiting for their bloody lunch: Perlman raw.

He remembered Tay's fury on their last encounter.
You can't speak on behalf of the accused, I don't care if you've been cited by the defence, it's a bloody travesty
. In that moment Tay had decided Lou's leave was going to be much longer than Perlman could ever have anticipated, although he'd never said so to his face. Tay worked the secret crevices and passageways, always grey-faced and deceptively bland, and when he acted he did so with the quiet stealth of a cobra. Slash of a pen, check a box on a form, a career demolished.

Latta quit laughing. ‘I heard about a hand in a baggie.'

‘What about it?' Lou was defensive. Another strand of his world exposed for Latta's rabid attention.

‘Suppose you tell me.'

‘Tell you what?'

‘Like, how did it get there?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Aw, come on, how could you not
know
?'

‘Are you insinuating something, Latta?'

Latta laughed. ‘Who needs insinuation? Your life's one big fuck of a mess, Perlman. Banned from HQ. Your sweetheart buggers off with the loot. Your brother was a crook. And now there's this severed thing in your bedroom. You're a fucking shite-magnet.'

Perlman shoved him back against the wall and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat.

Latta placed his hands over Perlman's and tried to pull them away. ‘This isn't the smart thing to do, Perlman.'

Perlman moved in close, drew a hand back, held it there a second in mid-air and looked into Latta's eyes, where he saw a light of apprehension and a suggestion of encouragement. Latta wanted to be struck, because it meant another black mark in the Big Book of Perlman's transgressions, but at the same time didn't welcome the pain.

It was madness, Perlman knew, but the rhythms in his brain had become a constant voodoo drumming.

He released the punch, a short right-handed blow that cracked against Latta's lips and teeth. Latta slid to the floor, and shook his head. Blood flowed from his mouth.

‘Last time I was here you hit me,' Latta said. He groaned, and his voice was cracked when he spoke. ‘It's getting to be a habit.'

‘I remember.' A swinging backhand that hit Latta in almost the same place as he'd struck him now. ‘Also I remember loving it.'

Latta put his fingertips to his mouth and looked at his blood. ‘I bled the last time as well,' he said.

‘I loved that too.'

‘You won't love the consequences nearly so much, Perlman. When I report this assault to the right people at HQ—'

‘Report anything you fucking like.' Perlman drove his foot hard as he could into Latta's thigh, and Latta moaned, clutching the place where he'd been booted.

Lou took a few paces back. He knew he'd hit Latta again unless he created some distance. ‘I've searched for a saving grace in you, Latta, and I always come up empty-handed. As a human being, you're a pisspot.'

He walked to the door. He opened it, took a step toward the stairs.

‘You're in deep,' Latta said.

Perlman ignored this, and continued to descend.

Latta shouted after him, his voice liquefied by blood. ‘Oh, I am grinning widely now. A hand in a plastic baggie! God just keeps sending me gifts!'