22

Perlman was glad to escape Force HQ. He regretted, if only in a half-hearted fashion, how he’d opened fire in front of Deacon and the others; presumably his behaviour would provide more howitzers for the stone-hearted Tay to hoist. Perlman lost it at a meeting today. Out of control, Super. Do something about him …

Too much, Perlman thought. Too much weight in the baggage I carry. Heart beginning to soften with time, you can’t hide from your own humanity. Once upon a time you exorcized the dead with ease. Now they stalk you like demons. They congregate in the corners of your brain, shrouded and horned.

At 3.10 he entered Bewley’s Hotel in Bath Street, where Dennis Murdoch was waiting in the bar. The young constable was dressed in a beige raincoat and dark brown suit and black shoes. Perlman thought: He looks like a policeman. No matter what he wears, he gives out the same aura. It was like a sonic warning: I am a copper emitting noise. It was his height, Perlman thought, and the size of his shoes, and the evangelical look in his eye. Either a big-footed Bible salesman or a policeman – and who was selling Bibles door-to-door in these heathen times?

Perlman ordered coffee, dropped a lump of sugar in, stirred it. ‘Tell me about scenic Bargeddie, Dennis.’

‘It doesn’t have a lot to offer, Sergeant.’

‘You josh. No tourist attractions? No beauty spots?’

‘It’s the back of beyond. There are places out there I’ve never even heard of – Birkenshaw. Langmuir. Crosshill. You wouldn’t go to Bargeddie unless you had a specific destination in mind.’

‘People tell me Drumpellier Country Park is pleasant.’

‘I didn’t see any park,’ Murdoch said.

‘But you saw Bargeddie Haulage.’

‘I did. The depot is situated just off Gartcosh Road. One huge metal building and a wire perimeter fence. The site is probably about a couple of acres big. Trucks coming, trucks going. I counted about twenty. What you’d expect to see at any haulage operation, Sergeant.’

‘How close did you get?’

‘I drove right up to the front gate,’ Murdoch said. ‘A guy came out, asked me what I wanted. Said I was looking for directions to Edinburgh. He told me I was trespassing on private property and piss off. Helpful bugger.’

‘Maybe he was just trying to spare you the genteel horrors of Edinburgh.’

Murdoch sipped his tea. He held the cup clamped in his big hand. ‘I didn’t hang around. The place has a sort of tense feel to it. And when they say no trespassing you get the sense that there might be a shotgun concealed nearby.’

‘Anything else?’

Murdoch produced a little green notebook. ‘Only what’s in the computer. Public knowledge. Bargeddie Haulage is owned by Zahar Industries, a subsidiary of Ramesh Holdings. The directors of Ramesh are Bharat, Madhur, Indra, Dev and Tilak Gupta. A family firm, clearly. Registered offices Crown Street, Glasgow.’

‘Who’s Madhur?’

‘Bharat’s wife,’ Murdoch said, consulting his notes.

It occurred to Perlman he’d never seen Mrs Gupta. ‘So Bharat stuck family members on the board of his holding company. Nice way of keeping total control. Wife, daughter, son … and nephew. I wonder why he went outside the immediate so-called nuclear family to bring the nephew in.’

‘Tilak Gupta’s official position was Company Secretary.’

Perlman considered another coffee, decided against it. The caffeine jag made him cranky. And he’d been cranky enough today without the help of stimulants. ‘Any irregularities?’

‘It’s a clean company. They own thirty vehicles. They had one offence two years ago, when one of their vehicles had invalid insurance. An oversight in their accounts department, seemingly. That’s it.’

‘Any idea what they carry?’

‘They have a couple of refrigerated vehicles, so foodstuffs would be one.’

Perlman imagined truckloads of frozen peas roaring down motorways. ‘What else?’

‘I saw some small cardboard packing crates inside the compound stencilled with Indian lettering,’ Murdoch said. ‘I assume it was Indian. Maybe they import spices. Or tea.’

Perlman heard a pert little waitress sing ‘the tide is high, I’m moving on’ as she sashayed past the table, balancing a tray. He watched her go. He thought about Miriam. Why hadn’t he accepted the offer of the sofa last night? The Puritan Jew.

‘It would be useful to get something more specific on the cargo.’

‘I’ll dig around,’ Murdoch said.

‘With the utmost care, son.’ Perlman looked out at Bath Street. A very light rain fell. Black taxis, buses, a city on the move. Faces in bus windows watching the street, or reading newspapers, or just dreaming whatever kind of dreams the city provoked. They hadn’t heard of White Rage yet. It was an oil well waiting to be drilled by the media – and then, gush, Glasgow would be awash in geysers of newsprint and fear. He heard headlines roar like runaway trains in his brain. He saw the computer impression of the young woman’s face splattered across the tabloids and broadsheets alike. Do You Know This Girl? Is She A Cold-Blooded Race Hatred Killer? And all the tumult he’d lived through in the aftermath of Colin’s death would come back again as the fife and drum bands of the press assembled and played their bloodcurdling tunes.

Terry Bogan appeared in the doorway. He wore a tweed overcoat and a deerstalker bent slightly out of shape. He looked like a penniless squire reduced to living in a ruined tower, which he shared with some stray cattle. He spotted Perlman, raised a hand, then marched across the floor. There were tiny drops of rain in his whiskers.

‘Thought I’d find you here. They tell me this is one of your regular haunts.’

‘It’s convenient and the coffee’s passable,’ Perlman said. He introduced Murdoch. ‘Dennis here has been on the Force for – what? Three years?’

‘Two,’ Murdoch said.

Bogan took off his hat and shook rain from it. ‘Two years? Enjoying it so far?’

‘Absolutely,’ Murdoch said.

‘Ah, youth, youth,’ Bogan said. He stuck his hat back on his head. ‘Remember those carefree days, Lou? Remember when it was a joy just to come into work, and you jumped out of bed a little bit quicker?’

‘Dennis is enthusiastic, Terry. Don’t discourage him.’

Bogan said, ‘Far be it from me. Can we talk about Tilak Gupta? A barman at the Corinthian remembers seeing him the night he died.’

‘Ah. Alone?’

‘He was draped all over some pretty young thing. Glued to her, the barman said. They might have been epoxied together. They danced most of the night. He was practically slipping her a length on the dance floor. The barman’s not sure the exact time they left.’

‘Had he seen her before?’

‘No, but he gave me a description. About five-two, weighed maybe seven stone, slender, black hair to the shoulder. Wore designer blue jeans and a blouse – white, he thinks. Might be beige.’

‘I wonder if she looks anything like this,’ Perlman said. Worth a shot. Why not? When you were fumbling in the dark you reached for the light switch. If you found it – illumination. If you didn’t, you kept groping. Besides, there were connections here, albeit thin ones: if the girl was involved in White Rage, then she couldn’t be overlooked in the matter of Tilak Gupta’s death. She had to be located and interviewed. He took a copy of the portrait from his pocket and handed it to Bogan.

Bogan said, ‘Beat you to it, Lou. I got a copy of that earlier. I showed it to my man at the Corinthian.’

‘And?’

‘He says mibbe aye, mibbe no. He tells me the face hasn’t got the mouth right, plus the brow’s too narrow. The girl looked happy when she was with Gupta. The face here makes her seem like somebody having a bad period.’

A farbishener, Perlman thought. He took the picture back, looked at it. The eyes stared straight through him, as if fixed on a point far beyond his own field of vision. Perhaps she’d been the last person to see Tilak Gupta alive. Perhaps she’d been the one who’d led Helen Mboto out of the Tinderbox. Mibbe aye, mibbe no. A policeman’s life; the only gospel truth was that uncertainties abounded.

‘We need to find this young tottie, don’t we? We need to sit her down – ’ He was interrupted by the sound of a mobile phone ringing. He reached without thinking into his pocket, but his own phone was dead. He shook it vigorously, as if he might infuse the moribund battery with life.

‘You’re supposed to keep these things charged,’ Bogan said. ‘Did nobody tell you that? Did you not read the wee book of instructions?’

‘Pish off,’ Perlman said, annoyed with himself.

The ringing phone had been Murdoch’s; the young constable was speaking into it. He handed it to Perlman and said, ‘It’s for you, Sergeant.’

Sandy Scullion’s voice was stressed, like that of a man trying to kick a drug habit. ‘Get over to Partick,’ he said.

‘Specifically where?’

‘The fish and chip shop. The one your pal owned.’