‘And John Rhodes doesn’t?’
‘John likes men who are scarred on the inside as much as the outside, but he’s not like that himself.’ Laidlaw finished his first drink as its replacement arrived. He looked around the bar. ‘Have you noticed how police never just visit pubs? It’s more like temporary ownership.’
‘Looks to me like the student union at Stirling Uni gearing up for the Queen’s visit.’ Lilley gestured towards Finlay’s table. ‘Did I miss the speeches?’
‘There was just the one — Commander Frederick. He knew the lines by heart. “Conscientious”, “much valued”, “irreplaceable”.’
Lilley gave a snort. ‘His replacement’s already in post.’
‘Do I take it you aren’t a fan?’
‘Ben’s a nice enough bloke, team player and all that. But he couldn’t detect shit in a cowshed.’
‘I’ve always liked him. He gave me some good advice once.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘When he was working a case, he said, he often stopped the night at a hotel in town. Saved him the commute and meant he kept his head in the game.’
‘Well, he might have a point there,’ Lilley conceded. ‘Like a surgeon binning the surgical gloves before going home. You don’t want the job going with you and contaminating the evening meal.’
‘I’d need a new head every day, Bob, and not even the Barras is selling them.’ Laidlaw was taking a fresh cigarette from the pack. He offered one to Lilley, who shook his head. A hand landed heavily on Lilley’s back. He swivelled to face a grinning Ernie Milligan.
‘All right, Bob?’ Milligan said.
‘This is DI Milligan,’ Lilley told Laidlaw.
‘Jack already knows me,’ Milligan interrupted. He made show of studying Laidlaw’s apparel. ‘Get yourself to Rowan’s, man, tell them I sent you. You look whatever the opposite is of professional.’ Then, to the barman: ‘Two lager, two heavy.’
Milligan’s face was flushed and his tie askew. His hair was already turning grey and he wore it longer than the Commander liked, his defence being that it helped him blend in, much as a barn door would blend in at a festival of garden rakes. Lilley had watched the change come over Laidlaw, his entire edifice tensing in Milligan’s presence, like a trap that’s had its camouflage brushed aside.
‘We were DCs together once upon a time,’ Milligan continued, seemingly unaware of his proximity to six-feet-plus of unalloyed enmity. ‘One of us has kept climbing the ladder, the other’s still at the bottom, petrified of heights.’ The tray of pints had arrived, Milligan gripping it firmly, offering a wink in Laidlaw’s direction before ploughing into the crowd again.
‘See, I don’t mind coppers like Ben Finlay,’ Laidlaw said quietly. ‘He might not be hugely gifted, but he knows right from wrong.’
‘You’re saying Ernie Milligan doesn’t?’
‘I’m saying he’d be just as happy in a uniform with a swastika on the sleeve. As long as he was left alone to do the job the way he reckoned it needed to be done, he wouldn’t complain or even stop to think.’
‘Why do I get the feeling you’ve told him as much to his face?’
‘Sometimes you have to judge a book by its cover. There’s nothing in Milligan’s pages that you couldn’t glean from a moment’s look at him.’ Laidlaw finished his whisky.
‘Speaking of books, I happened to be passing your desk. Not quite the usual Criminal Law and Road Traffic Law...’
Laidlaw almost smiled. ‘Unamuno, Kierkegaard and Camus.’
‘Reminding us you studied at university?’
‘I left after a year, not sure that’s anything to shout about.’
‘What are they for, then?’
‘We know where a crime ends,’ Laidlaw obliged. ‘It ends with a body maybe, a court case, someone going to jail. But where does it begin? That’s a much thornier question. If we could work back to those origins, maybe we could stop crimes from happening in the first place.’
‘Crime prevention already exists.’
Laidlaw shook his head. ‘It’s not cops like you and me we need so much as sociologists and philosophers. Hence those books.’
‘I’d like to see Socrates patrolling the Gallowgate on an Old Firm night.’
‘Me too. I genuinely would.’
The phone had been ringing behind the bar for a couple of minutes, the barman finally finding a moment’s breather that allowed him to answer, hand pressed to his free ear to shut out the din. He scanned the room, said something into the receiver, and left the handset dangling while he went in search of someone, returning a moment later with the Commander. Whatever information Robert Frederick received seemed to sober him up. The nearest bodies belonged to Lilley and Laidlaw, and he fixed them with a look. Having replaced the receiver, he faced them across the bar, as if about to proffer an unexpectedly large drinks bill.
‘You’ve not long arrived, Bob?’ he checked.
‘Sorry I missed your speech, sir. Jack filled me in on the highlights.’
Frederick ignored this. ‘I need the pair of you to scoot to a pub called the Parlour. Body found in the alley behind it. Word is it could be Bobby Carter.’
‘That’s in the Calton,’ Laidlaw stated. ‘John Rhodes territory.’
‘Which is why we need to tread carefully. It’ll be a while before this lot will be any help, but we’ll be there when we can.’
‘Message received,’ Lilley said.
‘And understood?’ Frederick’s eyes were on Laidlaw.
‘Absolutely,’ Laidlaw replied, his gaze on the ashtray as he stubbed out his cigarette.
4
One look at the corpse was enough for Lilley and Laidlaw. They retreated to the Parlour, leaving the crime-scene crew to it. An ambulance and two patrol cars were parked kerbside, lights flashing. Like smoke signals, they had brought the local tribe from its tepees. The Parlour was doing brisk business. One table was being granted breathing space, though. At it sat a young couple who weren’t going to remain a couple for much longer, judging by their body language. While Lilley headed to the bar, Laidlaw sat down opposite them.
‘I’m DC Laidlaw,’ he told them. ‘You’re the ones who found the body?’
Nods from both, their eyes fixed on the array of untouched drinks in front of them. Everyone in the bar, it seemed, wanted to say they’d stood them a round. This was their fifteen minutes of fame, but the clock was ticking.
‘A car will take you to the station so we can get a statement. You didn’t see anyone?’
‘Nobody still able to draw breath,’ the young man said, affecting a scintilla of what Laidlaw suspected would be his usual swagger. He wore a checked jacket and open-necked denim shirt. There were home-made tattoos on the backs of his hands, probably dating to his schooldays.
‘What’s your name, son?’ Laidlaw didn’t bother taking out his notebook. They’d be telling the same story in an interview room soon enough. All he was doing here was making an assessment for his own benefit.
‘Davie Anderson.’
‘And what do you do, Davie?’
‘Motor mechanic.’
‘Steady work, I would think. How about you, love?’
‘I’m Moira.’
‘And could Moira’s mum and dad afford a surname?’
‘Macrae.’
‘Moira’s a waitress at the Albany Hotel,’ Anderson added.
‘Posh place. That where you met?’
‘It’s not Rolls-Royces I fix. We met at the disco.’
‘This your first proper date?’
‘Second.’
Laidlaw pretended to examine their surroundings. ‘You certainly know how to treat a lady, Davie.’
‘We had a Chinese.’
‘And then in here for a nightcap, rather than Joanna’s or the Muscular Arms.’ Laidlaw nodded his understanding. ‘After which I’m assuming the back lane was your idea? Pair of you still living at home, no chance of any action indoors. Not a great night for it weather-wise, but needs must...’