It was only when a cleaner arrived to empty the bins that Laidlaw looked up from his reading. Checking his watch, he saw that a couple of hours had passed. He stretched his spine and rolled his shoulders.
‘Kept behind as a punishment?’ the cleaner asked as she pushed a sweeping brush across the floor.
‘Headmaster’s a sod,’ Laidlaw informed her.
‘Picking on you, eh? And you as pure as the driven snow.’
‘That’s me all right.’
He got up from his desk, deciding he’d had enough bleakness for one day. He hoped it was still raining outside. He felt the need of a cleansing shower.
‘That you done, son? If you don’t mind me saying, you look dead beat. Are you sure he’s worth it?’
‘Everybody counts,’ Laidlaw said, heading for the door.
18
When he got to the Burleigh, Jan handed him a message. It was from Bob Lilley and included Lilley’s home number.
‘There’s a phone down the hall,’ Jan said. Laidlaw dug into his pocket, bringing out a meagre selection of coins, and she relented. ‘Okay, use the one in the office — just don’t go telling the management.’
With a smile of thanks he followed her past the desk and into the cramped room behind. She brushed past him as she left. He settled into her chair and dialled the number. A woman answered, presumably Margaret.
‘Is Bob around? It’s Jack Laidlaw.’
‘Oh, Jack. I was just talking about you. I spoke to Ena this afternoon. Nice of you to invite us for a bite.’
Laidlaw’s brow furrowed. ‘We don’t often entertain,’ he eventually commented.
‘Anyway, here’s Bob.’
Laidlaw listened as the handset was swapped over. A television or radio was on in the background. He envisaged a comfortable living room. His-and-hers-chairs. Maybe a coffee table between them with the evening paper folded on it and coasters for the mugs.
‘Hiya,’ Bob Lilley said.
‘A bite to eat, Bob?’
‘Hang on a sec. Margaret, any chance of a tea?’ There were muffled sounds for a few moments. ‘That’s her gone to the kitchen,’ Lilley explained. ‘Ena phoned Margaret. Got our number from the directory. They cooked this up between them, nothing to do with me.’
‘When is this delightful dinner party supposed to happen?’
‘Tomorrow. Seven sharp.’
Laidlaw expelled some air. There was a large canvas shoulder bag on the floor next to him, presumably Jan’s. He began exploring the contents while the conversation continued. Make-up, keys, purse, an Agatha Christie paperback, a Mars bar and a packet of cheese and onion crisps, plus a scarf and fold-up umbrella. Her raincoat was on a peg behind the door.
‘What’s it in aid of, Bob?’ he asked as he rummaged.
‘I just think they got on well when they nattered. Now you and me are working together, they reckon this is the next obvious step.’
‘I’m not a great one for socialising.’
‘Pubs being the exception.’
‘That’s work, though, mostly.’
‘You want me to try to postpone it? We can always say the case is keeping us too busy.’
‘Ena would see through that. Best to just let her have her way. So what’s so urgent it couldn’t wait till morning?’
‘The dinner party’s really the reason. Thought you’d want as much notice as possible.’
‘Any news from St Andrews Street?’
‘You’d know if you dropped in occasionally.’
‘I was just there, for your information, pulling an extra shift.’
‘You disappeared sharpish after we’d delivered Spanner Thomson, though.’
‘I had stuff to do.’
‘Feel like sharing the fruits?’
‘Not quite yet. I don’t suppose our resident genius Ernie Milligan managed to conjure a confession from Thomson?’
‘We had to release him. He got a lawyer sharpish and that was that.’
‘And the knife?’
‘Only dabs belong to the kid who found it. Blood type matches the victim, but that’s as far as the lab are willing to go.’
‘The killer wiped his prints,’ Laidlaw stated.
‘Or wore gloves. Either way, we’re still treating it as the murder weapon, which means more door-to-door on the welcoming streets of Balornock.’
‘What about Malky Chisholm?’
‘Milligan decided he’d had enough fun with him and let him go.’
‘One step forward, two steps back. We’re in danger of drowning in details.’
‘Like we did with Bible John? Nights I spent at the Barrowland hoping he’d show his face...’ Only three years had passed since the killer known as Bible John had taken his last known victim. He’d met all three at the Barrowland Ballroom, which was why undercover officers had swamped the place, to no avail.
‘I bet you’re a good dancer, though,’ Laidlaw commented.
‘Problem was, so was the WPC I was partnered with. Caused a bit of friction with Margaret.’
Laidlaw had turned his attention from Jan’s bag to the items covering every inch of the desk. Paperwork, stapler, paper clips turned into a daisy chain, plus a Blackpool mug filled with pens and pencils, and a framed photo of two young kids. He picked the photo up and studied it. Taken on a summer beach, maybe even Blackpool itself.
‘Will I see you for the briefing tomorrow?’ Lilley was asking.
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Does Margaret know about the Burleigh?’
‘I’ve not told her.’
‘Ena probably will, if she hasn’t already. I’m sorry you’re being dragged into this.’
‘Into what?’ ‘Becoming pieces on the chessboard of my marriage.’
‘Can we bring anything?’
‘Just yourselves, and maybe a couple of flak jackets.’
Laidlaw ended the call and folded the note into his wallet. Could be he’d find Lilley’s number useful in future. Jan had to squeeze herself against the reception desk so he could get past her.
‘Nice picture,’ he said, gesturing towards the office.
‘My niece and nephew.’
‘No kids of your own, then?’
‘No encumbrances of any kind, Jack.’
‘Lucky you,’ he said as she handed him the key to his room.
‘So, you know, if you ever wanted to invite me to a Lena Martell show...’
‘Certainly beats the Black and White Minstrels.’
‘I’ve left you in the suite for another night. Is that all right with you?’
‘It’s a bit spacious for one person.’
‘Maybe you’ll have to do something about that.’
‘Maybe I will,’ Laidlaw said with a faltering smile.
Two of them in the stolen car, the sleeping city unaware of their progress through its deserted streets. They kept their eyes on the road ahead, occasional glances to left and right as they passed a junction. You never knew. None of the police boxes showed a light on inside. There were hotel kitchens where the night beat often took refuge, keeping warm with refills from the kettle. Bakeries, too, where rolls fresh from the oven could be chewed. Why bother pounding the pavements when all the drunks had long gone home?
The bottles clinked, one against the other, nestling on the floor between the passenger’s feet. His jaw was tight, his gloved fists tensed.
‘This is us,’ his companion said, the first words to be spoken in a good five or ten minutes.
‘Aye.’
‘I’ll drive past, just to make sure.’
‘I know you will.’