Butcher (29 page)

It was somebody else with the Armani bag
.

Perlman was still preoccupied with Glorianna when he reached the door of his house. He caught a strong whiff of camphor. He knew only one man who smelled like this. And here he was, The Pickler, emerging from the shadows of the shrubbery and shoving some paper slips into Perlman's hand.

‘Unwritten rule, cops and their snitches should meet in neutral places.'

‘Nobody saw me, Mr Perlman,' The Pickler whispered.

‘Remember in future.'

The Pickler sounded like a schoolboy chastised. ‘I'm sorry.'

Perlman unlocked the door. ‘What's this paper?'

‘Taxi chits. You owe me thirty-two ninety. Round it off to thirty-five, if you like.'

‘Where did you go – Inverness?'

He guessed The Pickler urgently needed to be reimbursed otherwise he wouldn't be here. Probably he knew a place where he could score some drink after hours. Perlman stepped indoors, and gestured for The Pickler to follow him. They went directly to the living room.

‘Oh, very nice place, very homey,' The Pickler said. ‘Christ, how many CDs have you got?'

‘Fifteen hundred going on two thousand. Give or take. I don't keep count.'

The Pickler yanked a CD from the stack. ‘What's this?
The Greatest Hits of Ray Charles
. Here, I've got this myself. Very nice. Ray was king. Some say Elvis others Jerry Lee but—'

‘Stick it back in the right place,' Perlman said.

The Pickler replaced it upside down. With uncharacteristic fussiness, Perlman righted it.

‘He sang great for a blind man,' The Pickler remarked. ‘I read there's a connection between loss of sight and musical abil—'

‘Not all blind men can sing,' Perlman said. He was impatient and tired and overextended, as if the day behind him had been longer than twenty-four hours. He didn't need to hear the facts and half-digested theories stored in The Pickler's head. They came out of popular science or car magazines or the
Reader's Digest
, The Pickler's favourite reading material.

The Pickler plopped himself in Lou's velvet armchair facing the silent TV. Perlman, mildly resentful he'd chosen this chair, took out his wallet and gave him thirty-two pounds. His bankroll was thinning quickly.

‘You still owe me ninety p. Don't worry, I won't sue.' The Pickler laughed and took the cash, then picked up the remote zapper and turned on the TV.
Make yourself at home
. The Pickler was one of those people who'd ask to use your toilet and flush the cistern to conceal any noise while he rifled your bathroom cabinet and siphoned off any pills he fancied.

Perlman immediately killed the TV.

‘Force of habit, Mr Perlman. Sorry.'

‘If I was a pregnant moth, your wardrobe would be the last place I'd drop my eggs. Do you bathe in that stuff?'

‘I've got wan suit, Mr Perlman, and this is it. I don't want moths eating the heart out of it. Would you – eh – have a beer handy?'

‘I never drink the stuff.'

‘Too baaaad.' The Pickler farted, a genuine ripper. ‘Sorry, Mr Perlman. That was a cheeky wee sneaker. Canny catch they softees.'

A cheeky wee sneaker? Christ, it was practically a whole wind ensemble. Perlman worried about damage to the fabric of the chair.

The air was heavy, almost chewable. Perlman opened a window.

‘Chilly in here all of a sudden, Mr Perlman.'

‘I'm a fan of fresh air.'

The Pickler rubbed his hands together and said, ‘Here's the story. I folly him down Renfrew Street brisk-like. High heels, nylons, a lovely overcoat with wan of they high collars.'

‘Skip the fashion report,' Perlman said.

‘Just painting a wee picture. He heads inna general direction of the Buchanan Galleries. He meets this guy outside. The pair o them walk to a van. I got the licence number, by the way.'

‘Good.'

The Pickler drew a stub of brown paper from his trouser pocket. ‘There it is. So they get in the van. I'm left like a tosser looking for a taxi. They're never there when you want them, you notice that? Like the polis. No offence. Finally I find one and jump into it and the van's wheeching off toward Killermont Street right where the bus station is.'

Perlman smoked a cigarette. He gestured with his hands: get to the point.

‘The van goes out Alexandra Parade, past Alexandra Park, then along Cumbernauld Road to Edinburgh Road. Past aw the housing schemes. My ex still lives there in Cranhill.'

‘I don't need a family history.'

The Pickler asked, ‘Did I no tell you I was married once? She was too hoity toity for me. Airs and graces. Fur coat nay knickers. Called me a guttersnipe. I wasn't putting up with that so I walked out—'

‘We're past the housing schemes, then what?'

‘The van drives inside the grounds of an auld house, a crumbling big place. High chimneys. Tall gates. I wait around for a while. It's no a pleasant area, Mr Perlman. This house is right up against the housing scheme and honest to God it's rough.' The Pickler frowned. ‘I'm surprised the housing authorities didn't get a compultory purchase order to dynamite the house.'

‘You mean compulsory.'

‘When I don't have a bevvy in ma hand I mix up words. You sure you don't have a snifter of something?'

Perlman shook his head. One snifter would lead to another and then The Pickler would have to be hauled out of the chair with a docker's hook.

‘OK, so the pair go inside the house. I sneak a look through the gates and watch. I'm there a while. I gave some thought to seeing if I could climb the gates – then these
shoooge
dogs come rushing at me. Wild? They're like Satan's fuckn messengers. I'm no suicidal, I'm no going over.'

‘Then you came straight back here.'

The Pickler looked offended. ‘No. I went into the scheme—'

‘Brave soul.'

‘I was a sojer once in The Black Watch, but that's another story. This scheme is kids hanging around corners looking dangerous, and some women punching the shite outta each other in a front yard and somebody's got a shotgun they're firing. Talk about entertainment. It's a dump you want to get the fuck away from quick-like.'

‘Which you did.'

‘Naw. Whatza point going aw the way out there and coming back empty-handit? Anyway look at me – you think I canny pass as a local resident? I fall into conversation with this punter, who's had a jar too many, lucky bastart, and he says there's a fuckn fruitcake living in that big house. The locals hate him. Oh and one other thing, the house is haunted. Don't look at me funny. I don't believe in ghosts, I'm only passing on what he told me. Guy who owns the house is called Dysart. Nobody seems to know what he does in there.'

‘So the locals make up their own legends.'

The Pickler shrugged. ‘That's for you to find out. I done my bit.'

‘You did fine.'

Perlman looked at the registration number of the van scribbled on the scrap of brown paper.
Question time
. Why did Ace rush out to meet Dysart almost immediately after Perlman left? Was Dysart the one who'd ‘worshipped' Ace in chop-shop times? Did Ace hurry away because he was panicked and needed to warn Dysart that Perlman was snooping, circling a past they were anxious to conceal?

Until he talked to Dysart, he'd only be guessing.

The Pickler, who'd been fidgetting, got up from his chair. ‘I'll head out then, Mr Perlman.'

‘Right. And thanks.'

‘My heid. I was nearly forgetting the address of that house. 3 Cobble Drive. Only house on the drive. Anything else, gie me a shout. I better find a taxi. I'll need—'

‘Taxi fare.'

‘You're a scholar and a gentleman.'

Perlman handed him a tenner and thought, I'll be bankrupt at this rate. He walked him to the door where he said goodnight.

The Pickler stopped dead. ‘Oh, a coupla things before I forget. I saw the van again.'

‘When?'

‘I was looking for a taxi in Edinburgh Road when it went flashing past me, heading back in the direction of town.'

‘Same van?'

‘Same white van. Same reg.'

White van, Perlman thought – one nearly squashed the cat on Wellshot Road. Glasgow was full of white vans.

‘What's your other point?'

‘The drunk geezer I'm yacking with, right? He tells me the other night a bird came running out that big house. Apparently in some distress. No shoes, crying, so I heard. Young bird, easy on the eyes. She's frantic, he says. So some kids arrange for her to get a lift back into town. A guy with a hearse obliged.'

‘A hearse,' Perlman said. ‘Did you get the name of the hearse driver?'

‘Pudge is all I got. Then my source fell down dead drunk. No shame, some people.'

Perlman locked the door and went back inside the living room.

Alone, he almost sat in the chair where The Pickler had farted. Too soon to occupy that space, still warm and doubtless suffused with The Pickler's gaseous discharge.

He shook off his coat and lay on the sofa.

He stared at the ceiling.

Puzzled. Aye, but life was a puzzle. He smoked a couple of cigarettes and remembered Glorianna's haste to leave Betty's and how she'd denied ever having met him. Even denied her name. She'd fallen out with her boyfriend, presumably Chuck – if indeed Chuck was the current one.

A disagreement, an infidelity, any one of the stresses that afflict relationships, who could say what had caused the falling-out?

And why was she afraid?

Connect it to Chuck. If they'd split up, Chuck would be worried that she knew too much about his life. She talks out of turn somewhere, let something slip, something damning. If Chuck thought that – she'd be in danger. She might have been threatened already and decided to go back to her old name, low-profile.

No more Armani bags.

Speculation. Sometimes it opened doors.

She'd been with Chuck long enough to know something about his operations. And, who knows, she might be in a mood to tell. A woman scorned.
If
she'd been scorned. Maybe she was the one who'd dumped Chuck.

Perlman lit a cigarette and thought: I owe Sandy. When he first offered assistance in the matter of the hand, Perlman had promised to pass on anything of interest he happened across. And even if the investigation of Chuck had no connection to the discovery of the Ziploc bag, he should talk to Glorianna anyway – who knows? If she was responsive, maybe he could extract something useful about Chuck's operations to give Sandy. On a platter. Here, add this tasty scallion to your busy plate, Inspector.

A scallion for Scullion.

He went up to his bedroom and, kicking his shoes off, lay down fully clothed. His mind refused to shut off. The foundry pounded, the pistons pumped. He thought of a sleeping pill, but remembered he'd given his last to Betty.

He had the urge to phone her. Almost 1 a.m., he'd be interrupting her. He recalled sitting with her on the big couch and holding her hand to comfort her, and trying as gently as he could to steer the conversation away from death and loss. Sharing grief was demanding – but he enjoyed being with her even in dire moments, and there had been a few of those. But she had laughed in her raw unfettered way when the mouse-trap snared him, and the sound delighted him, because it was a sign of life. Then she cried some more.

Talk to me about your life, Betty. In a nutshell: she'd never married. She'd been a middle-range secretary at the Gray, Dunn & Co biscuit company and then they'd cut staff back. After that she'd temped in one office after another. Finally she decided she'd make more money cleaning. And keep her own hours.

She fell asleep on the couch before he left and he'd kissed her forehead lightly, then he'd gone.

Now he wondered if she'd felt it.

34

Dysart scrubbed his hands in very hot water transformed by Dettol into the colour of thin milk. Nurse Payne handed him a towel, a pair of gloves, and tied a surgical mask over his mouth.

Scalpel
, Dorcus said.

He surveyed the young man's white skin. He had a perfect navel, a little masterpiece of symmetry. His hair was gold and clean and his face unblemished. Dysart had seen him walking down Springkell Avenue near Maxwell Park, alone, pensive, loping along unhurriedly just before daybreak. He was an easy take, barely a struggle.

Scalpel, Nurse Payne
.

Nurse Payne was slow today, mind elsewhere. She's worried.

He knew that.

He made the incision. The flesh yielded without resistance to the blade. This was his portal. From here he could go inside the boy's hidden places, advancing through an astonishing world of blood and tissue and organ.

Kidneys. Liver. Scarlet, rich in blood, protein.

He worked quickly.

Nurse Payne collected each organ after removal and wrapped it in sterilized cloth, and placed it in a blue plastic cooler stacked with packets of ice.

The heart was the last. The precious heart.

The surgical power saw buzzed in his hand as it carved through bone. Once inside the chest cavity, that cunningly fortified chamber, he carefully removed the heart, freeing it from its anchorage, the pulmonary veins, the sinus venarium, names he'd loved as a student. Before he got drummed out after pre-med. Rejected, denigrated. Don't have the right temperament, Dorcus. The Examining Board is sorry, but … He remembered their smug faces, fake sympathetic comments, their criticism of what they called his ‘temperament'. Not everybody makes it, Dorcus …

Forget all those old farts.

He liked to hold a hot human heart in his hands. The life source, the vitality. Beating day and night. Whether its owner was awake or asleep, this miraculous device went on and on. Even when you took it out of one body and planted it in another it continued to work.