34

He moved along the lobby to the street door. He could still vaguely hear the choir at practice, but faint now. He reached for the handle, turned it. His exit was blocked by the figure of a man in the doorway.

‘Did you shag her stupid, Sergeant? Did you make her come and scream, Mr Polisman?’

Perlman took a step back. He was aware of Eric ‘Moon’ Riley holding something in one hand, a stick, a length of metal, he wasn’t sure at first. Riley was short, built like a concrete cube; he had a face that looked as if it was compressed by a nylon stocking mask. No beauty. No charm.

What did Sadie see in this gargoyle? Only dope and terror.

‘Are you following me, Riley?’

‘Did she suck your willie, Sergeant? Did you ram her up the arse with your hot rod?’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘She slept at your house, right?’

‘She told you that?’

‘Our relationship relies on trust, Perlman.’

‘Trust my arse. You hit her, didn’t you? You beat her, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t raise a hand.’

‘I’m sure.’ Perlman felt the day was caving in completely. It had become a landslide of slurry. He was up to his neck. He looked at the object Riley carried, a twelve-inch length of lead pipe. He imagined it cracking his skull. ‘If you hurt her, you fuckwit, I’ll come after you.’

‘On your white horse, Sergeant? I shake. Look.’ Riley rolled his little eyes and shivered. His red leather jacket creaked. He had a brass buckle on the belt of his black jeans. ‘Perlman’s coming after me. I better get my arse outta town. Sheriff Perlman wants my ballocks in a sling. Oooo.’

‘Is that the pipe you hit her with, Riley?’

‘Naw, naw, I carry this for my general welfare, Sergeant. There are some rough punters in this town.’

‘Where’s Sadie?’

‘Sound asleep.’

‘Where?’

‘The Sergeant and the Junkie. What a romantic story. You’ve got a thing for her, eh? I’m here to tell you only one thing. Hands off. You got that, Louie? Hands fucking off. She’s my property. She’s a no-go zone, bawheid.’

Riley flicked the air with the lead pipe. It passed within an inch or two of Perlman’s face. Perlman reflected on the fact that in these times of broken-down authority you could no longer say I’m a police officer, stop, do what I tell you or you’ll be in trouble with any hope of making it count. Say it, and you got whacked on the nut anyway. You might as well wave a lace doily.

‘Tell me you get my message and I’m gone, Jewboy.’

‘I get your message,’ Perlman said. ‘Here’s one for you. You hurt her, you’ll answer to me. I swear to God.’

‘Hurting Sadie’s like kicking your cat, for fuck’s sake. Give her enough junk and she doesn’t feel a fucking thing. She’s a mindless hoor. What do you think? You’re on some mission to save her? I pee laughing. She’ll fuck anything for dope money. If I let her.’

Perlman had an urge to go for the throat, throw himself at this jerk, this moronic dod of humanity. The pipe was a major deterrent. ‘You harm her –’

‘Instead of handing out warnings, why don’t you pay some attention to that poor arsehole with his head cut off out there in the suburbs?’

‘How did you hear about that?’

‘The radio. Always keep a wee tranny handy.’

So it had slipped out. It was public knowledge. You couldn’t keep Artie Wexler’s death in a padlocked box. Perlman imagined he heard the city draw a collective breath of astonishment. Everyday murder was one thing – the knifing, death by broken bottle, even the occasional gun – but this was the kind of slaying you expected in secretive Middle Eastern kingdoms where people had fingers hacked off for farting in public.

Not here, not in dear old heathery Scotland.

Riley turned towards the door. ‘I hope you’ve listened, Perlman. I’m a vicious cunt when I’m upset.’

He was gone in a flicker of light. The door swung shut behind him. Perlman stood in the dim lobby, hands thrust into his pockets. The collar of his shirt stuck to his neck. He composed himself, controlled his breathing, stepped outside. He walked to Virginia Street, where he’d parked his Mondeo.

Sadie, he thought. What can I do for you, and where can I find the time to do it, lassie? I’m devoured.

Under the dull pearl light of a fading Glasgow afternoon, he sat in his car and lit a cigarette, thinking how the city, which he loved as a man might an unreliable mistress of vast and varied experience, sometimes coated him in a film of scum.