The Last Darkness (17 page)

A menorah stood on an upright piano. Lou took out his cigarette lighter and lit all seven candles – maybe for a sense of inner warmth, maybe because it was just something to do. Eyes shut, he listened to the small plosives the flames made.
Blessed art thou, O Lord, who has chosen thy people Israel in love
. A fragment from the
Siddur
, something he remembered old Rabbi Friedlander reading aloud. Friedlander's tiny mouth was invisible behind his enormous white beard. His voice seemed to emerge from some place even older than his face. All the little kids thought he was God, or at least God's best pal.

He'd enjoyed Rabbi Friedlander, whose solemn words suggested that some truths were immutable, that there were constants in the world, if only you took the time to look, the time to worship. What happened, Lou? Why did you fall off God's wagon?

He opened his eyes and admonished himself for idling in memory. You should be going through Lindsay's papers, poking in the drawers of his desk, rummaging for a clue that would lead you to the killer or killers, evidence say of a terrible crime on Lindsay's part, something that got him whacked. Open a drawer, eek, there's the very thing you need. It never happened that way in life, only in the fictions perpetrated by TV and movies. In life an investigation stuttered along, a process that sometimes resembled quiltmaking, you added this thread to that, this stitch to that, and maybe at the end of all your labours you had something resembling a design from which you could glean an insight into the whys of a crime, and the identity of the criminal.

He heard the doorbell ring. He looked at his watch. 10:20.

He walked to the front door, opened it.

Artie Wexler said, ‘Why did you want to meet me here, Lou?'

‘You look drowned, Artie. Come inside the living room, take your coat off.'

Artie Wexler threw his coat over a chair. ‘That's not answering my question.'

‘You, ah, haven't heard?'

‘What's to hear?'

Shite
. Perlman had hoped Artie Wexler would have learned from radio or TV about the death of Joseph Lindsay. Maybe Sandy Scullion hadn't made any announcement to the media gang yet. Or Wexler had missed it. Whatever, the dirty work falls to me, he thought.

‘A drink, Artie?'

Wexler shook his head. ‘I'll smoke. You don't mind?'

‘Mind? You go ahead.'

Wexler lit a cigar. Lou fished Silk Cuts from his pocket and smoked, and couldn't keep his attention from straying to Wexler's hair. It's a thatch, he thought. He used to have thinning hair, Lou was sure of that. So this is a thatch, a weave. It's not his own.

‘Here we are, puffing like old men,' Wexler said.

‘Speak for yourself, Artie. You're older than me. You're about the same age as Colin.'

‘Poor Colin.'

‘You've heard about the surgery tomorrow?'

Wexler looked surprised. His small eyes widened. ‘What kind of surgery?'

‘Bypass.'

Wexler sucked on his chunky cigar. ‘I'll call Miriam in the morning. See if I can do anything to help.'

Like what? Assist at surgery? Lou Perlman let this mention of Miriam slide past him. ‘Funny, I was remembering just today the times when you and Colin used to boss me around.'

‘When was that, Lou?'

‘The old days. Remember, Artie, when I used to run and fetch you Irn-Bru or a poke of sherbet at that wee shop at the corner of Bridge Street and Norfolk Street?'

‘Your memory's clearly better than mine, Lou. I get a distinct sense you're stalling about something.'

‘I'm stalling, aye, you're right,' Perlman said.

‘It's Joe, it's about Joe.'

Perlman nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘I knew it. I've had this feeling all day long.' Artie Wexler held his cigar as tightly as a man clutching the safety-barrier on a rollercoaster ride. ‘What's happened, Lou?'

Perlman told him. Wexler listened, then placed his cigar in an ashtray and watched it burn. He said nothing for a long time. He tugged at his lower lip with the tip of an index finger. He looked, Perlman thought, like a lost boy.

‘Let me get this straight,' he said finally. ‘It was supposed to look like suicide.'

‘That was the idea.'

‘But he was definitely killed.'

‘Cocaine overdose. The interim official line is apparent suicide.'

‘Why?'

Interim official line
: Perlman was ashamed of this jargon. When had he learned to spout such guff so easily? ‘It's a strategy thing. It gives us some breathing space to make quiet inquiries without the fucking press hammering us. Think of it like a pressure valve we turn off. Frankly, I think it's a load of shite, and the truth should be set loose, but I don't make these decisions.'

Wexler didn't seem to be listening. He got up, walked to the piano, looked at the burning candles. He lowered his head, turned his face away from Lou. ‘He was a good guy. I know he was very private, kept himself to himself, and some people found him standoffish, but when he befriended you – you couldn't find a more loyal person.'

‘So who had it in for such a paragon, Artie?'

Wexler let his hands hang loose at his side. His eyes were wet. The menorah candles glowed in the polished wood surface of the piano. He said, ‘I can't imagine.'

‘Somebody wanted him dead, Artie. Somebody went to a lot of trouble and expense. Cocaine isn't cheap. Any ideas?'

‘Absolutely none.'

‘You probably knew him better than anyone. Think. Tell me about this organization he belonged to.'

‘What organization?'

‘The Middle East thing, I went to one of their dinners years ago. Joe was the MC on that occasion. Nexus.'

‘You got roped into one of those dinners too? Ruthie dragged me along to one, I don't remember when exactly. I don't remember much about the entire evening, to be honest. I know Joe got disenchanted with that stuff long ago. He told me they just squabbled all night, achieved sweet Fanny Adams, waste of time. I don't think they exist any more.'

‘You dined with him every month, right?'

‘Regular table in La Lanterna. He liked their
fegato.
'

‘Did he ever strike you as being worried about anything?'

‘Nothing he couldn't deal with.'

‘Obviously there was
something
he couldn't fucking deal with, Artie, or he wouldn't have ended up the way he did, would he?'

‘Obviously. But I don't know what. He didn't tell me.'

Perlman stared at Wexler for a few seconds. He thought Artie's flesh by candlelight looked like waxpaper. He realized he'd never liked Wexler. Not as a kid, not as man. And he remembered why, and it had nothing to do with any misconceived suspicion that there might be some form of union between Artie and Miriam, because that was beyond the limits of credibility: Miriam wouldn't be attracted by this bewigged
ganef
. No, it was back a long way before that, back in childhood, and it had to do with concealment of truth, with stolen money, and the memory, abrupt as it was, jangled inside Perlman's head like an old Salvation Army tambourine. Colin had a secret stash of coins, perhaps a pound or two in change, old florins, half-crowns, some big flat heavy pennies, cash he kept wrapped in a handkerchief stuffed into the space between the back of the wardrobe and the wall in the bedroom the brothers shared, and one day this money was gone, and Colin accused Lou of taking it. No, it was beyond accusation, Colin was absolutely
certain
Lou had swiped the hankie with the cash. The only other person who knew about the stash was Wexler, plump Artie, Colin's bosom buddy, his best friend in the history of the world, and therefore totally beyond blame. Colin had thumped Lou a few times, and forced his hands behind his back and threatened to break his arms if he didn't confess, but Lou couldn't confess to something he hadn't done, and yet – and yet at the same time he'd never accused sly Wexler of the crime, he'd never pointed at Artie and said,
he's the bloody thief, Col, not me
.

And Artie had never confessed.

A pound or two in coins, a boyhood theft, Christ, he could even remember the metallic smell of the big old pennies and the way the coins had rubbed off on the cotton handkerchief and how the hankie had become discoloured. Money smelled different back then, and it was heavier, it rattled more cheerfully in the pocket.

You were a sorry sack of shite in those days, Artie. And you're still a sack of shite, even more pathetic than you used to be, a retired moneylender, a legalized thief.

Perlman picked up his overcoat. ‘I'm going home, Artie. You staying here for a while?'

‘Here? I don't think so. I'll walk out with you, Lou.'

They turned out the lights and left the house. The wind blew hard, but the sleet had died. The sky was black, no stars, no moon. Perlman said, ‘I assume Lindsay had a car.'

‘A Mercedes. There's no sign of it. I thought probably it had been stolen.'

‘You know the year, the model?'

‘It was silvery grey. About two years old. Model, I don't know.' Wexler kicked at some damp dead leaves.

Perlman took a few steps towards his car, then stopped. ‘Tell me this, Artie. You remember taking that money?'

‘Money? What money?'

Perlman laughed. ‘If you don't remember, I'm not telling you.' He got into his car and turned on the headlights. Wexler, staring open-mouthed at the Mondeo, was white-faced in the beams. He had an arm upraised, as if to signal Lou to brake. But Perlman drove past and out into the street that would take him to Langside Road and along the eastern edge of Queen's Park, then north on Victoria Road and through the new Gorbals, where
nice
little houses had replaced the richly populated tumbling-down tenements of his childhood, and to Bridgeton and up to Duke Street where the tenements formed the walls of canyons, and then east, finally east to Egypt and sleep.

26

When Marak answered the door of the flat it was almost midnight. Ramsay and another man, dark-eyed and muscular with long black sideburns, stepped inside. They walked without invitation straight into the living room, leaving a beery scent in the air. Marak followed them. They were here to berate him for attacking their little spy, what else? He'd been expecting a reaction.

Ramsay's hair was flattened against his skull. The blond shock had collapsed. The other man stood with his back to the red bars of the electric fire, hands clasped in front of his coat.

Ramsay said, ‘What's the game, Abdullah?'

‘Game?' Marak asked. Although he addressed his question to Ramsay, he was acutely conscious of the taller man, who emitted an air of violence held very loosely in check. This was the dangerous one, he thought. This was the brute and Ramsay pulled his strings. Be careful.

‘Where in your job description does it say you're allowed to strangle my people?'

‘I lost control,' Marak said.

‘Hear that? Abdullah lost
control
. Mr Cool here just dropped the ball. You don't
fuck
with my people, Abdullah. You fuck with my people, and I take that personally.'

‘I don't like being followed,' Marak said.

‘You think you're all grown-up and don't need somebody to watch over you in this strange city, eh?'

‘I don't like being followed,' Marak said again.

Ramsay fidgeted with the ruined clump of blond hair as if he were trying to adjust his personality. ‘If I say there's to be a bloodhound, you think I'm saying it because I
fucking
like the sound of the word? I say there's to be a bloodhound, Abdullah, because I
mean
it. Got that?'

He shouts too much, Marak thought. It was a sign of somebody close to an edge. Marak stood very still in the centre of the room. He felt tense. He was anticipating an aggressive move from the big man and he wanted to be prepared for the contingency. But it was best, he knew, to be conciliatory. Too much was at stake for him to provoke these men needlessly. He understood that. He couldn't go home without accomplishing what he'd come for.

Failure was no option.

Why had he yielded to the urge to hurt that little nuisance in the doorway? He was a nothing in the scheme of things, less than nothing, an insect. And yet he'd wanted to trample him. He'd descended to a level of rage that had no connection with his purpose. Why? The desire that brought you all this way blinded you, that was why. It fogged your judgement.

Ramsay walked up very close to Marak, face to face. The smell of ale on Ramsay's breath was strong.

‘Tell your spy I'm sorry,' Marak said. ‘Such a thing will never happen again. I give you my word.'

‘You're bloody right it'll never happen again,' Ramsay said.

‘Aye, ha ha,' the big man said. ‘Never again.'

Ramsay looked at Marak. ‘And as for Lindsay – you've come a long way for fuck all, Abdullah. Whatever you wanted from Lindsay, you can scratch it.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘No TV, I see. No radio. So you don't know he's dead.'

‘Dead?'

‘Offed himself, it seems.'

‘Offed? I am sorry, this word –'

‘He hung himself, squire.'

‘No,' Marak said.

‘He committed suicide.'

‘You're making this up,' Marak said.

‘Oh aye? Why would I do that?'

‘I don't know why …'

‘Get it through your head, pal. Lindsay's dead. Okay?'

Marak looked hard into Ramsay's hard blue eyes, then he turned and walked to the window. The truth, yes, Ramsay was telling the truth. Down in the dark street rain fell. He felt a strange little chug of loneliness. He needed somebody to confide in, a trustworthy person he could ask: How does Lindsay's death affect my task? He thought of putting this question to Ramsay, but Ramsay's role in this undertaking was simply a mercenary one, and you couldn't ask advice from a man whose only interest was money. A call to the Moroccan in Haifa then? But no, not now. Lindsay had killed himself. Maybe there was justice enough in the act of self-destruction.