The Bad Fire (21 page)

‘Who?'

Perlman laughed, a smoker's bark. Twiddie didn't like this proximity to the cop. Perlman smelled of police stations. Tobacco and sweaty shirts and something dusty and metallic, maybe rusty, like old radiator pipes, and a hint of cheap soap. These scents reminded Twiddie of hours he'd spent in custody.

Perlman released the pair. He looked at Twiddie, who couldn't hold the policeman's hard stare, then he turned to Rita, who was altogether more defiant.

‘I wish you'd piss off and leave us alone,' she said. ‘We've got a right to privacy, don't we? We've got a right to sit here in the Chip and have a quiet wee drink, don't we?'

‘Rights,' Perlman said. ‘People are always moaning and whining about rights. You know what rights do, Rita? They get in the way of
law and fucking order.
' He caught Rita by the wrist. Her assorted jewels jingled. She rang like a cash register. ‘Where were you last night?'

‘At home watching a video.'

‘Boy Wonder here was with you, right?'

‘Yeh, he's always with me,' she said. ‘Aren't you, lover boy?'

‘Aye,' said Twiddie. ‘Never leave her side.'

‘And what were you two scumbags watching?
The Towering Inferno? The Day the Earth Caught Fire?
Or something new from the Arsonist's Video Rental Emporium?'

Rita said, ‘Just because I once set fire to an abandoned building you've got me down as a pyro.'

‘You play with matches, dearie. Fire intrigues you. You're like the moth, Rita. Can't stay away from the candle.'

‘That was years ago,' she said. ‘You never let a person live anything down.'

‘I'll try again,' Perlman said. ‘Where were you pair last night?'

Twiddie asked, ‘You deaf?'

Perlman caught Twiddie's nose firmly at the place where the stud had caused the bulb of inflammation, and he tugged Twiddie's head downward. ‘What did you say, John?' Perlman asked.

‘You're hurting me,' Twiddie said.

‘Speak up!'

‘I said you're fucking hurting me.'

‘SPEAK UP, I'M LOSING MY HEARING.'

The suppuration on Twiddie's nostril erupted under the pressure of Perlman's fingers. Pus spurted into the policeman's hand. He gasped in disgust and grabbed tissues from the dispenser on the bar and wiped his fingers. ‘Oh for fuck's sake, Twiddie. This is
scunnering.
'

‘I got some on my suit,' Twiddie complained.

‘It was
your
nose that exploded,' Perlman said. ‘It was
your
conk that burst.'

Twiddie cleaned the lapels of his suit with tissues. ‘This is pure Versace, Perlman. One hundred per cent. I'll sue. I'll take you to court.'

‘Why don't you just shut your fucking face? If anybody's going to court, it's you.' Perlman crumpled the napkins and tossed them over the bar into a wastebasket. He had absolutely no desire to have Twiddie's body fluids on his skin; it was an intimacy he didn't need. He had better things to do than question the Weird Couple about their whereabouts. He had a murder on his mind. But he was the resident expert on Twid and the Fire Goddess.

He glared at Twiddie. ‘You see? This is what happens when you don't deal with things, laddie. They fester. Sooner or later, oy, you've got a right bloody mess. One more time. Where were you last night?'

‘Watching a fucking
video,
' Rita said wearily.

Perlman yawned. ‘Name?'

‘
Scream,
' Rita said.

‘Engrossing.' Perlman turned to Twiddie. ‘So you were nowhere near the vicinity of Orr Street last night?'

‘I don't even know where Orr Street is,' Twiddie said.

Lou Perlman slid a finger under his eyepatch. ‘Insect bit my eyelid, which is infected,' he said. ‘This heat brings out some very strange flying things. As well as other oddities, such as a burning van near Orr Street in darkest Bridgeton, and a report – made by an alcoholic who was once an eye surgeon, if you like irony, if you know what irony
means
– that two people were seen running from the smouldering vehicle. This surgeon, a poor soul fallen on very hard times indeed, peered out of the cardboard box he calls home, and he saw a young man and woman flee the scene, positively
hooting
with merriment. It was the good doctor's impression that the couple was drunk and celebrating … And you two were watching a video called
Scream
?'

Rita raised a hand in solemn mode. ‘Honest to God.'

Perlman sighed. ‘You stand by this, Twiddie?'

‘I do,' Twiddie said.

Rita said, ‘Every time there's a fucking fire, I
swear,
' and she glared at Perlman, letting her sentence die.

Perlman looked round the bar. Then he said, ‘The fire brigade did a damn good job, got the flames out quickly. It wasn't much of a fire, I'm told. An amateur job. Those fire-brigade guys, masters of their craft. I like to fish through debris. Get my fingers filthy.'

‘Zatafact?' Twiddie said.

Rita shrugged and looked at her fingertips.

Perlman stared at the pair for a long time before he said, ‘Hope and pray you don't see me again too soon.
Vaya con dios
, my wee pals.'

Twiddie and Rita watched him leave. Twiddie was sweating, and ran a finger between collar and neck. His nostril ached where the abscess had burst.

‘You think he knows anything?' Rita asked.

‘No. He's full of shite.'

‘Will you mention this to Haggs?'

Twiddie said no, no, definitely no. The word
amateur
bothered him.

Rita asked, ‘What does
vaya
– what did that old bampot mean?'

‘Something to do with God,' John Twiddie said.

‘Was that Spanish or Jewish he was talking?'

‘They call it Yiddish,' Twiddie answered and frowned at the door through which Perlman had passed.

27

When he dropped Senga off, Eddie remained in the taxi and rode south.
What did he think he could prove by talking to Haggs?
she'd asked, but she'd dredged the address out of an old address book anyway. He opened the window and sat back and watched the city flicker past in the afternoon sun, shadow and light, fragmentary eclipses created by tenements and an occasional high-rise.
Trying to prove
… If Haggs had been the defendant in a prominent criminal trial five years ago, it was
impossible
that Chris Caskie didn't know his name unless he'd been vacationing outside the solar system at the time. Caskie, Caskie, confidante of the Mallon clan, friend to Senga, Joyce and Flora – for Christ's sake,
why
deny knowing Haggs's name?

Eddie had the feeling everything was connected in a way that was nebulous to him yet, a string of knots he couldn't unravel, Caskie's prevarication, the relationship between Haggs and Jackie, and the whereabouts of Bones, whose motive for the slaying of his old pal remained utterly obscure – unless you were Tay, who seemingly wanted quick closure.

Eddie felt the warm breeze in his hair as the cab headed down Bellgrove Street. This trip to Rouken Glen, think about it: did he expect Haggs, even if the guy happened to have information about Jackie's life and times, and Caskie's dishonesty, to volunteer his knowledge freely?

Eddie Mallon, imbued with bright-eyed Yankee innocence, seeker after truth, pilgrim: Why did I never develop the deep cynicism of the long-serving cop? His partner, Tom Collins, once said,
You want to believe the best in everybody, Eddie, doncha?
The question concealed a criticism: Why doncha grow the fuck up, Eddie? The world is populated with sleaze. People will deny their wrongdoing until hell becomes a fucking health spa.

It's me, Tom. It's the way I am. Everybody deserves a chance to tell their side of a story, don't they? You don't rush to judgement.

Tom Collins said,
In fucking Walt Disney's head, sport
.

The taxi passed the expanse of open land that was Glasgow Green, and the former Templeton's Carpet Factory, built in the late 19th century to resemble the Doge's Palace in Venice. An extravaganza, exotic,
bold
, it should have been a wild incongruity, but somehow it managed to look as if it belonged here on the north bank of the Clyde.

The cab headed along Pollokshaws Road towards Shawlands, after which the tenements gave way to less cramped housing, some stout red sandstone villas whose tidy appearance suggested the inhabitants were prosperous and lace-curtain prim. God was in his heaven, and all was well in this corner of Glasgow.

The cab driver turned his face and glanced at Eddie. ‘You said Langtree Avenue, jim?'

‘Right,' Eddie said.

‘Where money grows on trees. So they say.' The driver laughed.

Beyond Giffnock now, Fenwick Road, a big roundabout, a right turn followed by a left into Davieland Road which adjoined Rouken Glen Park, where Eddie saw sunbathers stretched on grass and dogs scampering and teenagers sitting in a huddle that emitted a blue fuzz of smoke that might have been tobacco or something illicit. The cab swung left away from the park and entered Langtree Avenue. Eddie, a little tense and uncertain, leaned forward in his seat as the driver looked for the house, which turned out to be a big detached white-painted structure surrounded by a tall hedge.

Eddie paid the driver, then walked towards the gate, carved walnut with a white enamel plate screwed into the wood. The word Drumpellier was painted on the enamel in blue floral letters. A house with a name. He pushed the gate and entered the drive and his feet crunched on gravel the colour of a flamingo. The windows struck by sun were like long mirrors. A burgundy Jaguar was parked in a shaded space at the side of the house. The lawn was trim and a single monkey puzzle tree stood in the dead centre. The thick interlocking branches of the tree resembled a pine with advanced arthritis.

He walked to the front door, noticing a security camera about four feet above him to his right. He pressed the doorbell. He heard the camera whirr quietly as it shifted a couple of inches. He understood. You didn't get inside by ringing a bell. You gained entrance only if the person staring at a monitor inside granted you permission.

Eddie looked up into the eye of the camera.

A man's voice came out of a hidden speaker. ‘Who are you?'

Eddie was startled, but tried not to show it. ‘Eddie Mallon. I'm looking for Roddy Haggs.'

The voice said, ‘Come in.' The door opened without human assistance.

Eddie went in, found himself in a big square entranceway with a marbled floor and a number of marble columns. The original rooms of the house had been demolished to make way for this one enormous space. From a hidden source came a muzak version of the soundtrack of
South Pacific
.

He crossed the floor a few yards, then paused at the edge of what people used to call conversation pits. Five steps down to a sunken square area furnished with casual chairs and huge pillows. ‘Happy Talk' finished. Now it was ‘Some Enchanted Evening'.

The man who approached Eddie was tall and cadaverous, and his head was too small for the body that supported it. But there was more to the man's unusual appearance than the size of head in relation to frame. It was his skinniness, the quality of near-transparency, that made it seem as if his height was artificial, as if he'd been stretched on a rack.

Eddie didn't need to be told that this was Roddy Haggs; he fitted Senga's description. And when Eddie accepted Haggs's handshake he wasn't surprised to discover that the man's skin was chilly. He sleeps in a box of his native soil, Eddie thought.

‘Let's go down into the pit,' Haggs said.

The pit. How appropriate. Eddie descended, Haggs followed. ‘Sit. Make yourself comfortable. Drink?'

Eddie refused the drink, then said, ‘Quite a place.'

Haggs fixed himself a small tumbler of scotch from a decanter. ‘Should be, considering the cash that went into it.'

A certain kind of person always wanted to tell you what they'd spent on their houses. They were usually self-made types. Eddie looked up; where the columns met the high ceiling assorted angels had been painted skilfully on plaster. He half-expected God to appear, staring down at him stern-eyed, a white beard in the clouds. Behave cautiously, Eddie.

Haggs said, ‘You've come home for the funeral, I assume.'

Eddie nodded. ‘Yeah.'

‘Fucking
tragedy.
' Haggs sipped his drink. ‘Me and Jackie had our differences. But I like to think we respected each other. I feel bad for Senga.'

If Haggs was an act, he was a pretty good one, Eddie thought. The sorrowful intonation in the voice, the expression of concern.

‘You knew each other a long time,' Eddie said.

‘Years and bloody years.'

Eddie hesitated before his next question. Haggs had a way of looking down the length of his nose at you, as if you were a specimen on a slide, something very small and hard to categorize. ‘You ever do any business together?'

‘I once gave him an opportunity to invest in a car-hire company, but he was a wee bit slow opening his chequebook, and the chance passed.'

‘And that's all,' Eddie said.

‘Aye. Did you expect more?'

Eddie shook his head. ‘I'm not sure. I thought maybe you had some joint ventures in the past.'

Haggs shook his head. ‘The big difference between Jackie and me is that he was interested in what he could pluck out of history, whereas I'm more intrigued by what I can make of the future. Show Jackie an old country mansion and he'd wonder what he could salvage. Show me that same house and I'd be thinking of pulling it down and putting up a block of flats. So, what brings you out into the wilds of Rouken Glen to see me?'

‘I'm the executor of Jackie's will.' Sometimes the capacity to fabricate was so slick it frightened Eddie.