The Papers of Tony Veitch. William McIlvanney
‘Aye, ye meet some fuckin’ lunatics in this job.’
In the mirror Harkness watched the driver’s eyes contemplate the incidence of insanity with a kind of cosmic dyspepsia. There was a certain relief in realising they were almost at their destination. He couldn’t hold in his laughter.
‘Aye. Ye learn to trust nobody. Some o’ them wid massage yer head wi’ a screwtop as fast as look at ye. The world’s a shambles.’
‘Your tip’s on the meter,’ Laidlaw said as he paid.
Harkness realised that Laidlaw was justified. Behind his distracting talk, the driver had followed an unnecessarily circuitous route. But the man looked at Laidlaw as if deciding whether to fight a duel with him.
He flicked on his ‘For Hire’ sign and took off. Harkness imagined him cruising round Glasgow like a mobile manic broadcaster, Radio Armageddon, meter ticking like a time-bomb.
‘We’ll get this to the lab,’ Laidlaw said and suddenly was laughing.
He pointed helplessly after the departing taxi, shaking his head. Harkness nodded, buckled beside him.
‘How about that?’ Harkness managed to say.
‘Like going over Niagara in a taxi.’
‘I wonder what happened in Blackhill?’ Harkness said.
10
The Top Spot, in the same building as the Theatre Royal, had changed since the theatre had been taken over by the Scottish Opera. But its continued nearness to the new Scottish Television building meant that it still got a lot of its clientele from there. Bob Lilley by-passed the public bar and went downstairs, where the arched alcoves and beer-barrel bottoms stuck on the wall to advertise Lowenbrau were like a rough set for The Student Prince.
The lounge was pleasantly busy. He saw Laidlaw sitting with Brian Harkness at one of the metal-topped tables. Harkness was saying something that Laidlaw didn’t seem to agree with. When Bob joined them, Laidlaw waited a few minutes and then said, ‘What do you have to do to get a drink here? Wear make-up?’
Harkness and Laidlaw had been talking again about the post-mortem Laidlaw had attended that morning. Harkness was glad Bob had come in.
While Laidlaw was at the bar, Harkness shook his head at Bob. Bob sat down and looked along at Laidlaw. He saw a tall, good-looking man who didn’t look like a policeman, didn’t look forty, staring at the gantry as if it was the writing on the wall. That preoccupied intensity was such a familiar aspect of Laidlaw to Bob that he wondered what was bothering Harkness.
‘It’s not a bee in his bunnet Jack’s got,’ Harkness said. ‘It’s a bloody hive.’
Sharing an office with Laidlaw, Bob was as close to him as anybody, with the exception of Harkness, although sometimes Harkness wondered. He had known Laidlaw for about a year and still found his presence a lucky dip from which any chance remark could draw a surprising response. He was about as easy to explore as the Louisiana Purchase. Among the other men on the Squad, Bob had appointed himself Laidlaw’s defence counsel, a function which must have sometimes felt like a full-time job in itself.
‘What’s up?’ Bob said.
‘A few fruitless days for us. That’s what I think’s up. Jack thinks he’s going to find out whoever did in wee Eck Adamson.’
‘Eck was murdered?’
‘Jack seems to think so.’
‘How?’
‘Ask him. So it would be all right if he just keeps his eyes open and hopes for something to turn up. But not him. I feel an obsession coming on. And it’s hopeless, isn’t it? You might as well point to a snowstorm and say, “See that snowflake at the end of the road. Go and get it.” No chance. And you know what Jack’s like when he’s got a cause. Even a lost one. About as easy to ignore as a Salvation Army drum. He’s going to start putting everybody’s humph up. The Crime Squad’ll look like the Loch Ness monster.’
‘They should be used to him by now.’
‘Who gets used to Jack? You know what I mean. I like the man. I just wish somebody would give him a lorry-load of Valium for his Christmas.’
Laidlaw brought Harkness’s lager and a whisky for Bob and sipped his lime-juice and soda. Bob decided to help Harkness.
‘Eck was murdered?’ Bob asked.
Laidlaw nodded.
‘Pulmonary fibrosis. Suspected paraquat poisoning.’
‘Paraquat? Come on,’ Bob said. ‘If it’s paraquat, what makes you think it was murder? Eck had a thirst that wouldn’t have stopped at horse’s piss. As discriminating as a public lavvy. He would find it and drink it. That’s all. How can you say it was murder?’
‘It was something he said.’
‘Jack! You knew Eck. He made Pat the Liar sound like George Washington. You’re not serious. You can’t put any weight on that.’
‘I think I can. He said something about “the wine he gave me wisny wine”. I think somebody gave him a bad present.’
‘How do they know?’ Bob asked. ‘Did they find paraquat in him?’
‘No. It would’ve worked itself out by then, I suppose. I think he’d had it for a wee while. But it causes what they call proliferative changes.’
‘What is that?’ Harkness said.
‘I’m not sure. I think it means that even after the stuff’s gone, the damage caused goes on multiplying itself. I suppose it’s the exact nature of the damage that suggests paraquat. Not a nice way to go.’
‘You saw him?’
Laidlaw nodded.
‘All right, Jack,’ Bob said. ‘So he had a bad time. You’re sorry, but sorriness is no kind of substitute for common sense. Get a grip, will you? Learn to settle for doing the things you can do.’
‘Right Bob,’ Laidlaw said. ‘I think I’ve had enough of the Police College notes from Brian already. You think I don’t know? If you want to commit the perfect crime, just a crime for the sake of a crime. What do you do? Wipe out a wino. Right? For two reasons: who cares? Indifference coming at you like a river. And you trying to swim up it. Second: to solve a crime, you check with neighbours, family, friends. Who’s a wino’s friend? Another wino. Like cross-examining an answering service. Neighbours? Pigeons. Family? If they’re not in the Eastern Necropolis, they’re keeping quiet enough to be there. You can depend on it. What was the sequence of events? Who the hell knows? As predictable as a pin-ball. And there’s always the feeling that it might just have been a fun crime. A fly-swatting job. It’s as if you’re jay-walking in Hope Street. In the middle of the road you find a fly with its wings torn off. You’re going to track down the culprit? I know, Bob. I know.’
‘Then why the hell don’t you accept it?’
‘Why the hell do you? I don’t know what you feel about this job. But it fits me as comfortably as a hair-shirt. All right, I do it. Because sometimes I get to feel it matters very much. But not if I’m just a glorified street-sweeper. Filling up Barlinnie like a dustbin. There have to be some times when you don’t just collect the social taxes. You arrange a rebate. If all I’m doing is holding the establishment’s lid on for it, then stuff it. I resign. But I think there can be more to it. One of the things I’m in this job to do is learn. Not just how to catch criminals but who they really are, and maybe why. I’m not some guard-dog. Trained to answer whistles. Chase whoever I’m sent after. I’m not just suspicious of the people I’m chasing. I’m suspicious of the people I’m chasing them for. I mean to stay that way.’
‘So?’
‘So