Читать книгу The Papers of Tony Veitch - William McIlvanney - Страница 9

2

The phone-call seemed just a casual interruption, but then one stone can start an avalanche.

‘And then,’ Ena had been saying. ‘What do you think? The car conked out completely. Just died on me. In the middle of the Clyde Tunnel. And where was Jack? On a case, of course. In Morecambe!’

Laidlaw had heard the story before. He had once suggested to Ena that presumably everyone had heard it, with the possible exception of the North Vietnamese. His rancour came from understanding the bizarre meaning the story had come to assume for Ena: the failure of the internal combustion engine equals marital neglect.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should’ve been running after it. I just forgot.’

The remark was accepted by the others as being funny as a dirty joke at a funeral. Laidlaw could feel his sense of isolation grow aggressive. He was saved by the phone.

‘I’ll get that,’ he said.

He was careful to moderate the pace of his departure, in case he burned the carpet. The phone was in the hall.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Detective Inspector Jack Laidlaw?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is this the Detective Inspector Jack Laidlaw? Doyen of the Crime Squad? Protector of the Poor? The Punters’ Choice?’

Laidlaw recognised first the style and then the voice. It was Eddie Devlin of the Glasgow Herald.

‘Christ, Eddie,’ he said. ‘Your copy’s getting worse. Could you not get your sub-editor to come on the phone with you?’

‘It’s all this giving the public what it wants. Listen, Jack. There’s somebody in casualty at the Royal who wants you to go in and see him.’

‘Tonight? Did they say whether I was to bring Maltesers or black grapes? What is this, Eddie?’

‘No. Straight up, Jack. I got a tip from one of the porters. Old bloke brought in. Chin like a Brillo-pad. Smelling like a grape harvest. Just about conscious. But he kept asking for Jack Laidlaw. Must see Jack Laidlaw. Porter in there is one of my tipsters. You know? Well, he’s heard me mention you before. So he thinks he better let me know. But I wouldn’t think there’s anything there for me. He’s probably just got the dt’s. No offence, Jack. I mean, you’re not Errol Flynn. But you’ve probably got the edge on spiders and pink elephants.’

‘Any wounds?’ Laidlaw said.

‘Didn’t seem to be. But I didn’t get too much information. He’s a trier, this. But he’s not too hot on the verbals.’

‘When did you get this call, Eddie?’

‘Got it at the pub here. Five minutes ago. I thought I’d better let you know before I leave. I want to look in at the Vicky. The Paddy Collins thing. I might get some famous last words. Anyway, it’s up to you, Jack.’

‘Thanks, Eddie. I owe you one.’

‘Aye. When the revolution comes, I’d like a press-card. Cheers, Jack.’

‘Cheers.’

Laidlaw put down the phone. The sound of Eddie’s voice had been an injection through the ear. Things were happening in the city. But he had guests. Well, Ena had guests. He tried to be fair and decided they wouldn’t miss him. His absence would probably be a relief.

Any weekend that Laidlaw wasn’t working was pre-arranged for him. Familiar with the anti-social hours policemen kept, Ena had learned to try and compensate. If Laidlaw insisted on treating the calendar the way an alcoholic treats liquor – big benders of absence, brief domestic drying-outs – she was determined to ensure that his off-duty time was spent exclusively with her.

She deployed baby-sitters like chessmen – check, mate. She counteracted his thirst for the streets of Glasgow with events carefully bottled like home-made wine, each neatly labelled in advance. ‘Friday – Frank and Sally coming.’ ‘Saturday – Mike and Aileen’s party.’ ‘Saturday – Al Pacino film at La Scala. Baby-sitter arranged.’

Tonight was ‘Friday – Donald and Ria.’ It wasn’t one of her best vintages, a mild cabbagey flavour that never got you high but which might, Laidlaw suspected, rot the social taste-buds over a prolonged period so that you couldn’t tell a bromide from the elixir of life. He tried not to have anything against Donald and Ria. It was just that the four of them together gave him the feeling of being involved in field-work on group sedation.

Besides, maybe it was someone who had done him a favour. Maybe it was someone who was dying. Nobody was dying in the room he had left. Maybe four or so of them were dead. But nobody was dying.

He was wearing a red polo-neck and black slacks. Reaching into the cupboard in the hall, he took out his denim jacket and put it on. He might as well announce his intention to the committee. They’d veto it, of course, but he’d made his decision. He felt guilty but that was a familiar feeling.