Butcher (36 page)

Almost.

But he wouldn't give Chuck the sweat from his oxters. He looked at his watch. ‘What do you want to do, Boss?'

Chuck wrapped his lips round the bottle, drank, then laughed as if everything was a big joke. ‘I have some restaurant dockets I need to discuss with O'Blunt. Between you me and Paisley Road Toll, I have a funny feelin he's skimmin. Tenner here, fifty there, soon adds up. Then I want to make sure the kitchen's runnin right for tomorrow. After that … check on Dorco.'

Long drive to the edge of the city, Mathieson thought.

Chuck downed more gin. He drank like a man with yesterdays to forget. ‘One thing, Ronnie. Any time in the future I tell you I'm off to see a fuckin guru, you have permission to castrate me. OK?'

Mathieson dutifully laughed. I'd cut your balls off cheerfully.

‘Now, where was I?'

‘Dysart, Boss.'

‘Right. Take a wee drive out there and see what's the score, eh?'

‘Why not.' Mathieson took the Jag keys from his pocket. ‘Ready when you are, RC.'

‘Wait,' and Chuck tilted over a little. Whoops—

Ronnie thought, he's never had the head for booze. Never. It went through him like pish through a tennis racket.

‘First O'Blunt. Then … there was somethin else. Slipped my heid. Ah, shite, Blunt can wait. He's goin nowhere. It's Dysart I want to see. Gimme the keys.'

‘Keys?'

‘Whose fuckin Jag is it?'

Ronnie tossed them. Chuck bent for the keys, laughing at his failure to grasp them first time.

‘Your licence is out—'

‘A piece of fuckin paper ten months out of date doesn't make a man a bad driver. Don't wait up for me, Ronnie.'

‘Boss, should I come along just in case?'

‘Ah fuck off. I'm capable.' Jangling the keys, Chuck stepped boldly to the door. ‘Is this Jag automatic Ronnie?'

‘It is. You know your way?'

‘Matter of fact, yes, I do. Cobble Drive.'

Mathieson shrugged. It's no my funeral, he thought.

40

Perlman parked in Bath Street as close as he could to the place where Pudge said he'd dropped Glorianna. The rain was like rivets shot from the sky. He ran half a block with his coat over his head, then rushed dripping inside St Jude's, a ‘bijou' establishment with about a dozen bedrooms and a restaurant. It was the only hotel in the block. Two youthful waiters stood just inside the door of the dining room – spiky-haired and earringed. They stared at Perlman in his shapeless raincoat, as if they expected him to be followed by a retinue of ragamuffin street people asking for alms.

A slender black girl worked the reception desk. She wore a red mini-skirt and a white blouse. She smiled at Perlman nicely, which blunted the edge of his mood. He was flustered on account of circuit overload – a measure of dread about the outcome of the DNA test, persistent uncertainties concerning Dysart, and worry, of course, over Betty. He needed focus, but the film running through his head-sprockets was all over the place.

‘What can I do for you, sir?'

Perlman said, ‘You might have a guest here I want to see.'

‘Name?'

‘Try Cormack.'

The girl checked her computer screen. ‘I'll call her room.'

‘I'll just go up.'

‘Oh.' The girl was apologetic but firm. ‘We don't allow that, sir, unless the guest agrees. So I have to call ahead.' She reached for the phone.

‘Wait,' Perlman said. He showed his ID.

The girl examined it closely. ‘Is there going to be trouble? I mean, anything that would generate bad PR for us?'

‘I'm not here to drag her off in handcuffs, if that's what you're worried about.' Perlman offered this lightly, but the girl's response was a frown.

‘OK … room 12.'

Perlman moved to the staircase, climbed. He wanted to look back and just for the hell of it say,
Special Services team right behind me, love, grenades and bazookas, duck
.

Up he went. It had been an afternoon of stairways and climbing.

He knocked softly on the door of room 12 and called out his name.

A silence. ‘What do you want?'

‘Five minutes of your time.'

She opened the door an inch, saw that he was alone, then slipped the security chain off.

Perlman stepped in, Glorianna shut the door, replaced the chain.

‘Busy reading?' Perlman said, looking at the mass of glossy mags on the bed.

‘Very observant. No wonder you're a polisman. I'm just killing time.'

‘Until what?'

She lit a cigarette and walked barefoot to the window. She dropped her lighter in the pocket of her white terry robe and turned to him. She was better looking without the make-up, more attractive than the day he'd met her in George Square. Untouched, pale, her skin had a natural luminosity.

‘Do I call you Glorianna or Annie?'

She shrugged: who cares?

Perlman said, ‘Annie has a certain purity about it.'

‘Purity?' She blew a smoke ring. ‘You're not here to talk shite are you?'

‘Why are you hiding from Chuck?'

‘What makes you think I'm hiding?'

‘He wouldn't be looking for you otherwise.'

She opened the mini-bar and took out a small bottle of ginger ale, which fizzed as she uncapped it. ‘OK, I don't want Chuck near me.'

‘And what did he do to deserve the heave-ho?'

‘As if that's any of your business.' She was bold on the surface, but Perlman sensed underlying anxiety, tension – the same guarded nervousness she'd projected at Betty's.

Her clothes lay scattered around. ‘Messy,' he said. ‘Just like your flat.'

‘When were
you
ever in my flat?'

‘Earlier today. Ran into your boyfriend there.'

Annie lit a cigarette from the butt of the old one. Her hand shook. She had difficulty docking the cigarettes. ‘What was my former boyfriend doing there anyway?'

‘Like I said, looking for you. He's unravelling faster than a cheap cardigan.'

‘And what were
you
doing?'

‘Same as Chuck. Looking for you.'

She sat on the bed. ‘Why?'

‘Just mooching around, Annie. You probably picked up a fair amount of knowledge about Chuck's business over the past couple of years—'

‘How much more
transparent
can you get? Me and Chuck might be on the skids, but you think I'm going to tell
you
anything? Newsflash – wrong girl here. I don't know the way he operates and even if I did I wouldn't tell a soul, and definitely not a polisman.'

She's a tough wee number in some ways, Perlman thought. He opened the mini-bar and plucked out a bottle of mineral water.

‘Help yourself, why don't you,' she said.

‘I will. Thanks.' He drank some, then sat in a chair facing her.

She asked, ‘How's Betty?'

‘Grief-stricken. Stressed.'

‘I've always liked her. She doesn't know anything about my life as Glorianna. I never told her.'

‘I gathered that.'

‘God only knows why, but she's fond of you.'

Perlman said, ‘I like to think we've become friends.'

‘Friends – that all?'

‘Friends, right.' Perlman shuffled his feet. He wasn't here to talk about Betty. It had been a couple of hours since he'd spoken to her – he needed to see her, and to know how she was handling the gannets of the local press. Soon,
soon
.

Annie looked at her wristwatch, which lay on the bedside table. ‘Your five minutes are ticking away.'

He took another glug of water. ‘What's it like to travel in a hearse.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘Tell me what Dysart did to scare you.'

‘I don't want to talk about Dysart.'

‘Why?'

‘Because.'

‘Because isn't an answer, Annie. You went to his house why … start there. I'm a wee bit puzzled about what you and Dorcus could possibly have in common.'

‘Absolutely nothing. Believe me.'

‘But you went all the way out there anyway? So you're a student of old houses. Or you love the quirky charm of housing schemes.'

‘Yeh, right. They're so picturesque, so
very
sophisticated. Bookshops, espresso scenting the air.'

‘You ran screaming from that house, Annie.'

‘That's a lie.'

‘I'm only reporting what I heard. I'm assuming Dysart threatened you in some way.'

‘Assume what you like.'

Perlman was quiet, then changed the angle of his approach a little. ‘It's a bloody scary house, Annie. You expect the Munsters to greet you. The locals say it's haunted.'

‘Ballocks. I never noticed a thing.'

Stonewalling. Perlman had talked to bags of cement more forthcoming. ‘Did you get a tour of the place?'

‘No, and I didn't ask for one either.' Annie opened the drawer and removed a nail-file and began to work her nails.

He leaned against the wall. His coat was heavy with rain, and he felt dampness seep through to the bone.
I'll come down with something
. ‘I'm beginning to wonder if you're protecting Dysart for some reason. Or is it Chuck you're trying to shield?'

‘I'm looking out for myself, Perlman.'

He took off his coat.

‘Don't get any ideas about staying,' Annie said.

‘I'm only trying to dry out my coat a wee bit before I leave.' Perlman slipped his mobile phone from a wet pocket, then placed the coat over a radiator. ‘I hate to waste time, Annie. I bet Chuck feels the same way.'

Annie held one hand out and checked her nails, then peered at Perlman between her fingers. ‘I don't have any idea what Chuck feels.'

‘He's thinking he's wasting a fuck of a lot of time looking for you, dear. He's sitting at his desk, I bet, waiting for a call.'

She saw the mobile in his hand and read his intention immediately. She raised her face aggressively, and muscles tensed in her neck. ‘You
wouldn't
.'

‘I wouldn't want to, Annie.'

‘Don't call him, Perlman.'

‘Then suppose you
talk
to me.'

He watched her go to the mini-bar and remove a half-empty bottle of white wine. She poured some into a glass and sat cross-legged on the bed. She lit a cigarette, a Camel, and was silent for a time, weighing choices.

The mobile rang, vibrating in Perlman's palm.

Annie jumped. ‘Is that Chuck?'

Perlman saw the caller's identity on the screen: it was the number for Force HQ. He signalled Annie to be quiet and answered the phone. ‘Perlman.'

Annie was still agitated. She bit her thumb nervously. She mouthed the question,
Is that Chuck?

Perlman shook his head at her.

‘Jack Wren here, Lou.'

‘Jack, you old schmoozer. You still serving Glasgow's finest?'

‘Still the reliable constable on the desk, Lou.'

Perlman had a fondness for Jack Wren. They went back years together. ‘What's the story, Jack?'

‘You're expected here at six sharp. That's coming from upstairs.'

‘From the pinnacle, eh? You any idea what for?'

‘The day they tell the downstairs staff anything is the day I'll croak. See you at six, Lou. Mind how you go.'

Perlman closed the connection. Six sharp, Tay's office. Why were they calling him in unless they had news they wanted him to hear about the DNA result? And they wouldn't ask for his presence to tell him anything cheerful, damn right. They'd never summon him for a glass of sherry and sing ‘For He's a Jolly Good Fellow'. So? What lay ahead? It could be something other than the DNA, he realized – the official pink-slip, a reprimand for punching Latta, or—

Don't borrow from the future.

Annie was sipping her wine. ‘I'll make you a deal, Perlman. I'll tell you what went on in that house, or as much as I remember – but I won't answer any questions about Chuck's business interests. Which isn't an admission I know every move he makes. Remember that.'

‘Fair enough.'

‘I also want
you
to promise me you won't tell Chuck where I am. Swear that.'

‘Such delicate negotiations,' Perlman said. ‘What do you want, Annie? An oath? I swear it, OK?'

She stared at him, as if she might find an element of trustworthiness in his face. ‘Maybe Betty goes for that just-been-dragged-in-by-the-cat look you do. You
seem
sincere. I hope she's got your number right, Perlman.'

Dragged in by the cat
. This was probably similar to
just-out-of-bed
– maybe some women saw him in this light: a stray to be sheltered, a waif to be fed. He wished he projected suave, man about town.

‘I could cross my heart, if that would help,' he offered.

Annie didn't take him up on this offer. She drank some wine and fidgeted with the stem of her glass. ‘I do massage, Perlman. I'm fucking good at it. I make home calls once in a blue moon. I know what you're thinking.'

‘No, you don't.'

‘Oh, come on, everybody leaps to the same snide conclusion when I tell them – massage plus home calls equals sex. They always say,
oh, I suppose you offer extras at a price
. Well, I don't, Perlman. I went out to that house to give Dysart a massage. No strings. No extras. I want you to understand that.'

Annie Purity. ‘I believe you. How did Dysart contact you?'

‘I did it as a favour.'

‘For who?'

‘Doesn't matter—'

‘I'd still like to know.'

‘Jeez, you're
pushy
. I hate pushy. I did it because Chuck asked me to give Dysart a good massage. And it's important to be nice to Dysart because Chuck …'

‘Chuck what?'

‘There's some kind of arrangement between them – don't ask me what. I'm not hiding anything, I just don't know.'