7

In the back of his plum-coloured chauffeur-driven Mercedes, Nat Blum sat with his briefcase on his lap. He was conscious of Kilroy’s cologne, which was a little on the effete side.

Kilroy said, ‘Perlman made it all up. Plain and fucking simple.’

‘I have any number of reasons for disliking Perlman, Leo. One thing I can tell you, he’s no liar.’

Kilroy issued a derogatory pah sound. ‘Everybody lies, Blumsky.’

‘Lou Perlman doesn’t. Fact of life.’

‘Then he’s a bloody rare bird.’

‘He’s got some notion of honour, granted.’

‘Unlike his brother, who’d have shagged his grannie if it meant extra points on a deal. Hungry man, Colin.’

Blum gazed at the back of his driver’s bald head. ‘Colin was greedy to the marrow. Lou, on the other hand, thinks he has a shot at sainthood.’

‘Do you Jews have saints?’ Kilroy asked.

‘We canonize all our best accountants.’

Blum drummed his briefcase and considered this fat beast who was his client. He’d heard the usual stories, which he found prudent to ignore, about the series of boys who shared Kilroy’s bed. Other reports suggested Leo was rampantly bi, and had access to a harem of pubescent girls. Blum had no idea if the rumours had a basis in fact, nor inclination to ask: if Kilroy was the most flamboyant queen in the city, or if he was AC/DC to the point where he drained megawatts from the National Grid, he was still good for a retainer of £200K+ per annum.

Besides, it was potentially dangerous to ask too many questions about Kilroy’s private life, or cause him offence; he was said to have an army of thugs at his disposal. They were allegedly fond of the occasional after-hours bone-breaking in alleys, just for the sport of it. Kilroy had lethal clout. You gave him counsel, but crossed him at your peril.

Kilroy, a devotee of musicals, briefly sang a phrase from South Pacific. He had a voice that would chill a hangman. ‘Bali Ha’i’ was quickly choked. He fell silent, and looked out at the stout respectable houses along Crow Road, which led eventually to suburban Bearsden and home, a big tree-shielded, electric-gated mansion, ersatz Spanish-style, in Ledcameroch Road, where his flamboyant presence annoyed his neighbours.

Kilroy’s love of his native city was selective. On warm sunny days, ah good God, he adored Glasgow. There was no place on earth like it, you could take your New York and your Paris and stuff them right up your crack. Okay, Glasgow had rough areas, no-go neighbourhoods – what city didn’t? But it had hundreds of acres of parks, and more wondrous Victorian architecture than you could find anywhere else on earth.

He also loved being a man of influence in this city. He was close to cardinals and bishops, contributed generously to a number of Catholic charities, dined with MPs and city councillors, and he was on first-name terms with the Lord Provost.

But come long dreich winter, or cold damp spring, he preferred escape. He cruised the warm blue waters of another hemisphere, exposing his pendulous dugs to the sun, sipping drinks festooned with parasols and cubes of pineapple.

‘Just for a minute, assume Perlman is telling the truth,’ Blum said. ‘Who do you think could have phoned him?’

‘The fucking truth, Blumsky, is that any number of neds would like to see my empire collapse. I live in a state of siege. There are all kinds of fucking villains trying to climb my walls. Sometimes I can’t sleep at night thinking about all this hostility out there. So some envious wee nob picks up a phone, calls Perlman, and lies in his teeth. Ach, let’s not waste time on it. Perlman’s trying to con us. I always trust my gut. It’s an inbuilt shite detector.’

Blum listened to the smooth motor of his car. People like Kilroy helped keep this Merc on the road. They were scum, these high-flying crooks of Glasgow, men who ran the scams that ticked and hummed unseen beneath the surface of everyday life. Blum had chosen to blind himself to the fact that these characters lacked, for want of a better phrase, a moral sense. They were his clients, and any client was entitled to confidentiality and your best work. So you went bare-knuckle for them. And you accepted their lies as truths.

Leo’s car, for instance. Blum had serious doubts that it had been stolen in the manner Kilroy claimed. Parked it outside my house around 10.30 on the night Colin was shot, fucking hell, some naughty bugger had magicked it away by morning. It was within the realms of possibility that Kilroy had paid somebody to steal the car. Money stuffed into a lackey’s hand, a quick handover of keys. Or, if the message Perlman had received was true, it was also possible that Leo had been seen driving the car after Colin’s death.

But who was this anonymous individual and why would he report it? Where was the gain? It was a tangled business. Lies and half-lies; the truth, never unvarnished, always seemed to be concealed at the bottom of some murky river – which was probably also the fate of the murder weapon too, covered by silt on the bed of the Clyde.

Whether you believed your clients was of no consequence. Once upon a time he’d been an idealistic student; he’d considered the law beyond corruption. Hey, look at me now. He wondered if he should laugh or cry at the loss of his youthful naivety.

‘Here’s the thing. Perlman’s not going to go away, Leo, no matter how many Hail Marys you say.’

Kilroy settled back in his seat and smiled. He had peculiarly small teeth, almost baby. ‘Speak to me straight. You admire Perlman?’

‘How do you mean, admire?’

‘Say you’re playing the black pieces against his white.’

‘As an adversary? Admire? More like … respect. I can’t say I could ever befriend him. He’s too dogged. Also, and I know this is a petty thing, Leo, but he hasn’t a clue how to dress. Did you see those flannels? They looked like windsocks at some abandoned airfield. And when did you last see anyone wearing specs like his? They must be National Health issue, circa 1960.’

‘Never mind all that. Does he worry you?’

‘Up to a point.’

‘He’s going to get up my nose a lot, right?’

‘All the way up.’

‘He thinks I’m just some fat dimfuck in poncey feathers.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘I don’t think he gives me respect. He doesn’t see there’s a lean shark hidden deep down inside me, Nat. This big body, these clothes – okay, I happen to like eating, gluttonous eating, and I enjoy a certain mode of dress that some might find a touch extrovert in our dull-arsed society. But sometimes people make the mistake of thinking they’re dealing with Coco the fucking clown. Big blunder, believe me.’

‘I don’t think Perlman would make that mistake, Leo.’ A lean shark, Blum thought. Extraordinary how people perceived themselves. He had an image of a huge killer fish with Kilroy’s face gliding through an aquarium tank.

Kilroy sat back. He gazed out at Bearsden Road. He felt a twinge of weariness, a tweak of discontent. A shadow of unhappiness fell across him. For years he’d been juggling this business, that business, and it was hard work to stay ahead of the pack. He tried to keep his affairs cloaked in a fog. He was the exclusive supplier of bootleg Aberdeen Angus beef, Thai prawns and certain popular brands of alcohol to many of the city’s elegant restaurants. He had a majority holding in a chain of motorway cafés – cheap eats for the masses on the move – and a huge investment in a no-frills airline. There were rumours of more nefarious activities involving contraband single malt whiskies and, as the Jew Perlman had intimated in the past, a high-dollar protection racket involving boutiques and hotels.

True or false, no matter, he’d been the subject of scrutiny and envy for years. The Strathclyde Police, in the form of Perlman, harassed him without mercy. And his business associates were jealous of his successes. Why the hell didn’t he give this place a wide fucking berth altogether? Why not lie on a teak deck in sunlight all the days of his life? Simple answer: he didn’t want anyone to think he’d run. He didn’t want anyone to believe his nerve had failed. And he still had precious fragments of Glasgow in his heart.

He said, ‘I hope Perlman doesn’t fuck with me, Nat. I wouldn’t like that. It wouldn’t sit very well with me.’

Blum said, ‘I understand.’

Kilroy closed his eyes, cleared his throat and in his rasping voice ruined the first lines of ‘Some Enchanted Evening’.

The fat man sings, Blum thought. Alas.