Butcher (44 page)

And he was sucked out into darkness even as Perlman made a rush to grab him, a vain effort, because there were bodies in his way, and, besides, gravity was faster, gravity was always faster. He heard Tartakower's cry extinguished in the second it took for him to hit the ground, and then the sound of his body crashed on damaged windows stacked out back. Glass crackled like wood in a fire.

Perlman stepped away from the open window, horrified.

‘Now
you
fuck off, polis,' one of the hoodies said.

The boy holding Issy said, ‘Aye, fuck off.'

‘We know how to bury the deid,' another one said.

‘And we know how to unbury them.'

‘Shurrup,' the boy with the ferret said.

Bury the deid, unbury them. Perlman said, ‘You
killed
him.'

‘He fuckin fell, it was a fuckin accident. Anyway, how do you know he's deid?'

‘Aye, how can you tell?' another kid said.

The big kid said, ‘Unless you fancy havin a wee accident yerself, get to fuck. And if anybody asks what happened we just say you pushed him. We're witnesses. Right?'

Witnesses of something, yes. Participants in death and burial, yes, and disinterment.

Perlman was hollow and numbed.

He watched the boy's hand stroke the red wet fur of the dead creature. It was hypnotic and sad.

I am polis, I am law and order, I should speak, say something, act.

They looked at him. An incendiary situation; it would take only a couple of hostile remarks and these kids would explode inside their hoods. Still, he had an urge born from long habit to tell them a day would come when they'd have to make statements, that there would be an investigation. But he said nothing.

Then he thought the least he could do was explain the process of law – but he realized he knew as little about that as these kids did. And right at this moment he probably cared as much as they cared, which was not at all.

Leave, before they turn on me.

Some of the boys daubed their faces with Issy's blood. One of them tossed a steel knitting-needle at Perlman. It struck the side of his face and fell to the floor. A second needle followed, clipping his chin.

He didn't linger, he went out, reached the stairs and descended a little more quickly through the same dark he'd climbed slowly before – the same but different now: there had been a kind of resolution, and a kind of bleak justice, and the heart of a mystery had been punctured.

46

Dysart removed two ice-chests from the back of the van.

He gave them to the Oriental, who said, ‘I see blood spilled inside your van. You work on wheels? What you call this? A travel surgery.'

Dorcus slammed the back doors.

‘And the lady in the front seat, who is she?'

‘My nurse,' Dysart said.

The Oriental carried the coolers to his car.

Dorcus thought: blood in the back of the van. Everything had been rushed, sloppy. They'd have to run the van through a car wash again. Hose it out, scrub it clean. He wondered what had happened to the dogs. Maybe they'd run away. He thought of the broken gates. He saw Slabbites wandering through the house, trashing stuff, stealing. They'd take the Jag, or strip it, leaving only the bones of a vehicle.

The Oriental came back with an envelope. He handed it to Dorcus. Dorcus stuck it in his back pocket.

The Oriental said, ‘This delivery much needed.'

‘People need parts,' Dorcus said.

The Oriental looked at him for a moment. ‘Parts? Ah so, yes, they do,
parts
, very funny. Very funny. Parts.' And he got inside his car and shut the door, laughing.

It was the first time Dorcus had heard him laugh, and he wondered what was so funny about parts.

He didn't want to hang around. The sky was lightening, a pale sun over Glasgow and a ghostly half moon fading in the sky at the same time. Church bells rang far off; an early Mass maybe. He got into the van and sat behind the wheel and Jackie reached for his hand.

She said, ‘You know we can't go back.'

‘Yes.'

‘Absolutely no way, Dorcus.'

‘Right,' Dorcus agreed.

‘We need to dump these wheels first chance we get. How many people did Chuck tell he was coming to visit you? We don't know, do we? But I know this – somebody
will
come looking for him. And for us.'

Dorcus turned the van out of the yard. ‘And what will they find?'

Jackie Ace said, ‘They'd need to look a long, long time before they find anything.'

Dorcus drove past the old abattoir.

‘I think London, Dorcus.'

Dorcus thought about his dogs again. Somebody would find them, take them to an animal shelter, they'd get a good home eventually.

‘Anywhere you like, Nurse.'

47

It was just after noon when Perlman arrived at Scullion's house in Drumbeck, at the edge of Bellahouston Park. Sandy, in off-duty blue jeans and loose-fitting v-neck sweater, led him into a glass conservatory. The room was airy and comfortable, armchairs covered with a bright floral motif. It looked out over a tidy lawn, a kiddy's swing, a rubber paddling pool.

Sandy picked up a copy of the
Sunday Herald
from a chair, and gestured for Lou to sit down.

‘Where's Maddie and the kids?' Perlman asked.

‘Church.'

‘You don't go with them?'

‘My faith doesn't quite fit churches. I'll tell you about it some time.'

That faith again: one day Perlman would ask for an explanation. ‘All right to smoke?'

‘I don't care, but Maddie hates the smell.'

‘House rules, have to obey,' Perlman said. Smoking
verboten:
he knew he wouldn't stay long. He didn't sit in the chair Sandy had offered. Instead he walked to the glass walls and looked out and wondered if he would have been happy with this kind of life, the wife, the kids, the accoutrements and the obligations. He didn't miss it because he'd never had it. So there was no pang, no yearning, no sense of a lost opportunity to produce little Perlmans.

‘Nice,' he said, watching the lawn in sunlight. And it was, if you liked the suburban way. ‘How did your raid go?'

‘We hauled away a fair pile of documents relating to Reuben Chuck's business enterprises. I don't believe we got everything. I have a feeling there's a stash hidden somewhere else. These lawyers are cunning. Meantime, the big man himself is nowhere to be found.'

Maybe you'll never find him, Perlman thought.

‘Tell me how you are, Lou.'

Perlman shrugged, and talked quietly about going to visit Tartakower, and his experience with the man, which, in recollection, felt as if it had happened to somebody else – a Perlman in another dimension. He remembered the scorched darkness, and Tartakower dropping from the window, and it was like watching an illusion. He thought of the hoodies, and their martyred ferret. Issy's blood was sacred. Would they stuff her – or skin her and make a jacket for their leader?

Scullion said, ‘Did Tartakower confess?'

‘Confess? Not exactly. He
hinted
. He loved enigmatic statements. What he said wouldn't hold up in a court of law, but I'm convinced he
amputated
the hand.' He spoke the words, denied himself access to the image. ‘He could've invented the story, of course, complete with realistic details. Maybe he wanted to feel important, maybe he needed a big performance in front of his teen gang … I don't doubt he was telling the truth about his feelings for my family, and I don't doubt he wanted me dead. But what am I left with? Loose ends.'

‘I know, you think you've got closure, then another door opens, and fuck knows where it's going to take you.'

Closure. Perlman thought the only true closure was death – and maybe not even then. Tartakower was dead. Chuck was merely missing at this stage. But Dysart and Ace, who knew? He wasn't worried – they'd show up sooner or later, in another city, England or overseas. According to a weary Adamski, who'd called earlier, his team had rigged up lights and, working through the night, found human tissue clogged in the sewage system, and bundles of bloodstained decaying towels stuffed inside a basement furnace that didn't work, and so was useless when it came to destroying evidence. Dysart must have intended to have it mended at some stage, and procrastinated, or didn't have the cash, or never imagined anyone would go down there and look – and then it was too late.

It's going to be a long job, Adamski had said, and a fucking nasty one.

‘We really
need
something to
wipe
in Latta's face,' Scullion said.

‘If these kids would talk about Miriam's burial, the before and the after, we'd have something. But they won't talk unless somebody brings back the rack or thumbscrews. Hindsight's a curse – I wish I'd had the presence of mind to grab the saw and take it with me, it might have helped Sid Linklater's forensic effort – assuming Tartakower's saw was the one used on Miriam. But I just wanted out, Sandy. That's all I could think of, getting out. Getting away.'

Scullion strolled his conservatory with the confident step of ownership. ‘Maybe we can retrieve the saw.'

‘How?'

Scullion grinned. ‘Some hard men in that part of the world owe me favours.'

‘Sandy, you surprise me, travelling in rough circles.'

‘I learned it all from you.'

‘I take that as praise. Would these hard men bully a bunch of kids in hoods?'

‘Kidding? They'd love it.'

Perlman saw sunlight flash on the surface of the paddling pool. ‘Also it would be helpful if we knew where Tartakower performed the amputation. Linklater might like that, scratching round for evidence.'

‘Leave it with me. You want a beer?'

Perlman patted his stomach, indicating gastric uncertainty. ‘I don't think so.'

‘One way or another we'll get enough to scupper that fucker Latta. It'll come together.'

‘I believe that,' Perlman remarked, cheered by the possibility of Latta's disgrace and downfall. ‘I'm not resigning. I'm definitely not resigning. Fuck Tay. Fuck Latta.'

‘You sure about that beer?'

‘Positive.'

Scullion patted his back. ‘Next time. Maddie says you're coming to dinner this week.'

‘So I am.' He'd forgotten.

Perlman drove to Betty's flat in London Road. There was no sign of the reporters who'd been there before. The value of news receded quickly, hot topics turned cold, the world rolled on in a series of fresh atrocities. He took out his phone and called Hilda.

‘It's the prodigal,' Hilda said.

‘The wandering Jew,' Perlman said.

‘You should wander down this side of the city one day.'

Here comes the guilt express. He asked after her health, and Marlene's. This was risky, since it sometimes involved a catalogue of complaints. He was relieved to be told only that Marlene had passed a gallstone in the night without severe pain, just some small discomfort. End of bulletin.

He wasn't going to tell Hilda over the phone about Miriam. Such news meant a personal visit.

‘So this phone call is what – just saying hello?'

‘I was thinking I'd come over later tonight.'

‘Say again what you said.'

‘You heard me, Hilda.'

‘So tonight I'll be baking?'

‘Don't make a fuss, I'll bring something.' He looked at the curtains drawn across Betty's window. Was she asleep, awake? ‘I have a question for you. Do you remember a guy you used to see … The Slob, you called him.'

‘Who told you about the Slob?'

‘Was this Ben Tartakower?'

‘Some questions you have no right to ask.' Hilda's tone was clipped.

‘He proposed to you. Yes? No?'

‘Here I close a door. Slam.'

‘I was just
curious
.'

‘And curious you'll stay.'

‘Eight o'clock OK?'

‘Eight is good. And don't forget the cheesecake, Louis.' She hung up.

She reveals herself in her refusals. Perlman put his phone away.

He got out of the car. Betty was on the pavement, smiling warmly at him. He followed her along the close to her flat. Music played quietly on her stereo. He recognized it, old Credence Clearwater.

‘I've just made some coffee.'

She went inside the kitchen and came out with a coffee jug, cups and saucers, and a plate of assorted biscuits on a tray. She poured for him, and he sipped. She was waiting for his reaction to the coffee. He told her it was good, strong, the way he enjoyed it. Small appreciations pleased her. He liked this about her. He liked a lot of things about her.

‘You look good,' he said.

‘That's probably the first compliment you've ever paid me. Except when you told me how well I cleaned your house.'

‘I've been remiss.'

‘More like preoccupied.'

‘Here's another compliment. I like the way you're dressed.' He was unaccustomed to making compliments.

‘I've never worn this before,' she said.

‘It suits you.' And it did – a well-cut dress of dark blue, knee-length. She'd done something to her hair, rearranged it, cut some of it, he wasn't sure how she'd made it different. Also she wore light makeup, subdued lipstick, a mere touch of eyeliner. So little, and yet it redefined her face, brought new light to her eyes.

She sat beside him on the sofa, holding her cup in her lap. ‘I had a phone call this morning, by the way. From Annie. Remember? You were quite taken by her.'

‘What did she have to say?'

‘It was a goodbye call. She's going to America.'

‘Good move for her.'

‘She has ambitions,' Betty said. ‘Music OK for you?'

‘Takes me back.'

‘That's what I like about it. Better days.' She drank some coffee, offered him a biscuit. He chose a chocolate bourbon.