45

‘Smoke?’ Lou Perlman asked. He pushed a packet of Silk Cut across the table.

BJ Quick took one and Perlman leaned forward with his lighter. The interview room was small, lit by a little too much fluorescence. It smelled of old smokes and nervous tension. BJ eyed Perlman sideways, his mind flying like clouds on a windy day: where had they taken Furfee, and what was the big man saying? And how much did Perlman believe of Quick’s story? I was only trying to help, man. The trouble with Perlman was you couldn’t gather much information from his expression. His face was liked a crumpled newspaper left out too long in the rain.

Perlman switched on a small cassette-player, punched the RECORD button. Quick’s bandaged neck throbbed. For a while Perlman withdrew into silence, head shrouded with smoke.

‘What now?’ Quick asked.

‘Just giving you time to readjust your thoughts.’

‘They don’t need readjusting, Lou.’

Perlman stood up. ‘I think they do. This story of yours. It’s puerile, BJ. You expect me to believe it? BJ Quick, scoundrel and perve, suddenly gets all holy and turns law-abiding? Character transformation just like that? Did the skies part above your head and God gave you a cheeky wee grin? Take the straight and narrow, my child. All will be well. Yours sincerely, God.’

‘God doesn’t come into it, Lou.’

‘You just had a seismic change of heart, eh?’

‘Sudden like, aye.’

Perlman folded his arms. The tape-player hummed. The overhead strip of light flickered a second as if a spike had jolted the city’s electric grid.

Quick asked, ‘Listen. Can you not grant me some kind of immunity?’

‘I couldn’t grant you a free bus-pass, BJ. Immunity against what anyway?’

‘Anything. The fact I was in Furfee’s company. Guilt by association. Whatever. I mean, I helped the law, that’s got to count for something.’

Perlman thought how some criminals lived in a fabulous world where cops could make quick hassle-free deals. There were no petitions involved, no consultations, no bargaining: it was just gimme immunity, gimme a break. You can do it. They didn’t take into account the people with real power, those who sat Upstairs where all the important rubber stamps were stored. These were the men who could cut deals.

‘No can do,’ Perlman said.

Quick inhaled smoke. ‘The way I see it, you fucking owe me.’

‘Perspective is a funny thing. From my angle, you’re a liar, you’re withholding information, and you might be implicated in a murder. And I should help you?’

‘Murder my arse. I had nothing to do with Dogue.’ Quick saw club farraday float out to sea like a big abandoned galleon. Wind in the sails. Disappearing to the horizon. He was depressed. Dead dreams did a terrible thing to your head.

‘I wonder what Furfee is telling Inspector Scullion,’ Perlman said.

Quick didn’t want to think what Furfee might say. Probably nothing. Probably. In all likelihood. Which came down to: well, maybe. What the hell, Quick could deny anything Furfee said. He remembered Furfee producing the big razor and flicking the blade open and how at that very moment he’d felt his heart plunge deep into his intestines. That razor, that fucking razor. Furfee, you fucking moron, you braindead tit, you gorilla, you hadn’t ditched the weapon. Hadn’t bloody well thrown it into the river or dropped it down a sewer.

Quick tried not to think. He stubbed out his cigarette in the blue tin ashtray on the table.

Perlman said, ‘Our man could be from the Middle East.’

‘Shite. Not him again.’

‘Suppose you just play your cards face-up, and tell me what you know about him.’

‘I think I’d like to phone my lawyer now. I’ll phone Binks. I should’ve done it before all this got out of hand.’

‘Frazer Binks is a joke,’ Perlman said. ‘He couldn’t punch his way through a wafer-thin brief. Last time he failed to save you a twelve month stretch in the Bar-L on a forged phone-card scam. Didn’t he get his degree from some correspondence school in the wilds of Wales or somewhere?’

The door opened, and Scullion looked in. ‘A minute, Lou?’

Perlman switched off the tape-recorder and went out into the hallway.

Alone, Quick helped himself to another cigarette. He shut his eyes against the harsh light and wished he had a way of reversing the flow of time to that very point where he’d thrown himself at Furf. Impetuous, aye, foolish, aye, but it had seemed to him at that moment he was doing the right thing, lunging at Furf and thinking he’d disarm him and ingratiate himself with the police …

He opened his eyes.

Who the fuck am I kidding? I was going like a rocket for the door. I wanted nothing to do with Furf and the bloody razor in his hand. I wanted away and club farraday be damned, Glasgow be damned. I had no bloody interest in helping anybody but BJ Quick. I was heading far far away, the Island of Arran, say, maybe find a cave halfway up Goat Fell.

No, no, nope, that wasn’t it at all. It only seemed like that. I was really trying to help Perlman, right. Stick to that one, BJ. It’s the better story. You’re the hero of your own fiction. The nice thing about fantasies, you can pick the one that shows you in the best possible light.

He dragged on his cigarette and wondered what Scullion and Perlman were gassing about in the corridor. After a couple of minutes, Perlman came back in. He looks stupid in that old blazer, Quick thought.

Perlman said, ‘Your friend Furfee can be a talkative bugger sometimes, according to the Inspector.’

Quick smoked, staring at the tip of his cigarette and trying not to seem interested. ‘Talkative my arse. He makes Charlie Chaplin seem like a chatterbox.’ The cigarette burned his fingers and he dropped it in the ashtray. His wounded neck was aflame. He wished he could rip off the bandage and apply ice-cold water to his skin.

‘Denies killing anybody, of course,’ Perlman said.

‘Zatso.’

‘Denies knowing Terry.’

Quick said nothing, but saw a light in Perlman’s eyes, a kind of predatory brightening. He didn’t like it. ‘And?’

‘But he was prepared to talk about Abdullah.’

‘Abdullah? Who’s Abdullah?’

Perlman slapped the table hard. ‘I’m tired of your shite, Quick. I’ve had a long day, and it’s been a bloody cold one, and I’d like to get home before dawn. Don’t fuck around with me.’

‘Furf’s the one fucking around.’

‘He tells a very interesting story of you delivering envelopes to this Abdullah in Maryhill. But you weren’t working for the Post Office. More a private courier.’

‘This is a load of –’

‘According to Furfee, you picked up the envelopes in a pub called the Brewery Taps.’

‘The man’s away with the fairies.’ Fuck you to hell, Furfee.

Perlman pushed his chair back from the table and stretched his legs. Quick noticed that the cop was wearing mismatched socks.

‘Three envelopes, three deliveries,’ Perlman said.

‘He’s on medication, you know that? He dreams up shite. He’s always imagining stuff.’

‘Right, right.’

‘Some trank drug, fancy name –’

‘Furfee says he went with you a couple of times to an address in Maryhill.’

Clammy, Quick forced a look of incredulity. ‘Oh, aye, sure he did. Did he also tell you what was in these imaginary envelopes?’

‘No, he went very quiet then. Said you’d tell us that. Quite emphatic about it, in fact.’

‘How can I tell you what I don’t know, Perlman?’

‘Understand this. He’s not pleased with you, BJ. In fact he said he’d like to cut your heart out. Exact words, I’ll cut that fucker’s black heart out and stuff it up his arsehole. The way he sees it, you prevented him from getting the hell out of that loft. I have the feeling that with a wee bit more pressure, he’ll tell us anything we want to know.’

Perlman stood up. His glasses reflected light and his hair was a mass of unruly tufts. You’d never think he was a cop. Not in a hundred years. What did he look like? The guy who came to read the gas meter and looked sad because he couldn’t remember where he’d stashed his winning lottery ticket. The broken-down door-to-door salesman, a one-time software hotshot made redundant, peddling magazine subscriptions and hauling a heavy sample-case.

‘So are you talking, BJ?’ Perlman asked. ‘Either I hear it from you, or I hear it from him. I don’t care.’

‘I’m telling you –’

‘No, sonny boy, pin back your ears, I’m doing the telling. You just shut your gub and keep it shut. Let’s leave the envelopes for a minute, and take something else into account, something new I just learned … Ready for this, BJ? Hang on to your chair. Our forensics man Sid Linklater, very experienced young guy, very bright, says there’s every possibility that Terry Dogue’s throat was cut by Furfee’s razor –’

‘Ballocks.’ Quick felt clammy. His armpits flooded. He imagined how he’d react if somebody asked him to take a lie-detector test. He’d go into melt-down.

Perlman said, ‘It’s going to take more tests to be conclusive, but he’s eighty per cent sure.’

‘Okay, fine, so what, say Furf killed Dogue, it had nothing to do with me. Absolutely totally completely one hunnerd per cent nothing.’ Quick made some motions of his hands, chopping the air like a kung-fu fighter.

‘We’ve still got to break this forensic discovery to Furf,’ Perlman said. ‘How do you think he’ll react?’

‘Hell would I know?’

‘My feeling is he’d want to be very cooperative, BJ. Don’t you? I think he’d answer anything we asked. He’s looking at a very long time in a bad jail, if the tests are indisputable. I think he’ll want to bring you down with him.’

‘I was nowhere near Terry fucking Dogue.’

‘Have a smoke. Take a few minutes and think through your predicament.’

Quick looked into Perlman’s unblinking eyes. ‘You’re bluffing, you bastard. I just know it.’

‘I never bluff. So you won’t admit to any involvement with Dogue, and you won’t tell us why you played postman in Maryhill, and what was in the envelopes. Fine.’ Perlman walked to the door, clutched the handle. ‘We’ll see what Furf has to add. I’ll be back soon, BJ. Why don’t you sit here and marinate, okay?’

Perlman went out. Scullion was standing a few yards down the hallway. ‘Well, Lou?’

‘He’s feeling the pressure. Give it half an hour. I’d kill for a cup of tea.’

‘I’ll keep you company.’

They walked together down the hallway to the place where a drinks machine was located. Hot tea, coffee, broth. Scullion stuck coins into the slot. The machine hissed, then issued liquid and a blast of steam. Perlman sipped from a cardboard cup and gasped as the hot tea hit the back of his throat.

Scullion said, ‘When did Linklater say he’d come in and look at the razor?’

‘Some time in the morning,’ Perlman said. ‘There’s no hurry.’

‘You’re a cunning old fart.’

‘I’m not that old,’ Perlman said.

Scullion looked at his watch. ‘You want to take a quick glance at the Merc?’

‘Why not.’

Scullion’s mobile rang and he removed it from his pocket and answered it. ‘For you, Lou.’

Perlman took the handset.

He heard Ruth Wexler on the line, and the sound of her voice – thin, spectral, like that of somebody communicating from the place where the dead gather – unnerved him.

She said, ‘You’ll find the killer.’

‘I know I will, Ruth.’

‘Tell me you’re certain.’

‘I promise you.’

‘I’m counting on that, Lou.’