The Last Darkness (30 page)

‘Up yours,' Quick said.

‘Come on, don't offend me. I'm sensitive. Show me you care.' Perlman seized Quick's hand and squeezed it as tightly as he could. His grip was in far better condition than his lungs. ‘We've been around the block together, you and me. Bloody magic to see you again, chief. How's it going? Not too well by the look of things here.'

Quick grimaced. His eyes watered. ‘Hey, Perlman, let go the haaaaand, eh?'

Furfee emerged out of the shadows at the other end of the room.

‘Look what the cat dragged in,' Scullion said. ‘What's the story, Willie?'

Perlman asked, ‘Skinned anybody lately?'

‘I was in jail,' Furfee said and looked surly.

‘Let go my fucking
hand
,' Quick said again.

Perlman didn't relent. He loved the idea that he still had this power in his fingers. It made him feel young and gallus. Superman, steel hands. His hair was dark and his stomach flat and his cape had no creases.

Quick said, ‘Bloody police brutality.'

‘It's a friendly handshake, Bobby,' Perlman said.

‘My arse it is. You're hurting me, Perlman. Awright, you've proved your point. You're strong. I'm dead impressed.'

‘I should waste my time trying to impress you, Bobby? Are you still interfering with underage girls?'

‘Nobody's ever proved that, Perlman.'

‘I can sniff the whiff of perversity on you, Bobby. I have half a mind to throw you out that window head-first. It would be my most worthy contribution to mankind. I'd get some kind of award for it. Mibbe my face on a coin, or a postage stamp.' Perlman released him. He didn't approve of Quick. He didn't like that whole sorry lifestyle, international Web allegiances and graphic porno website galleries where wee girls posed lewd, and the sleaze of it all. The way he'd squeezed Quick's hand was unprofessional, but he didn't regret the lapse; he knew he'd crush the hand all over again without thinking. And worse. All he needed was an excuse.

Quick said, ‘Bursting the door down. Fucking police, think they can do anything. We live in a fascist state, Perlman.'

‘What would you know about fascism, Bobby?' Perlman gazed round the room. The only chair in the place was surrounded by dried bloodstains. He walked in a circle round them. They were brown, but didn't look aged; they hadn't had time to be absorbed by the wooden floorboards. ‘What happened here?'

Quick said, ‘Shaving cut.'

‘Must've been one hell of a big jaw.'

‘What do the pair of you want anyway?'

Sandy Scullion said, ‘Tell us about Terry.'

‘Terry who?'

‘Dogue,' Scullion said.

‘You know a Terry Dogue, Furf?' Quick asked.

Furf said, ‘No.'

‘You're pissing against the wrong lamp-post,' Quick said to Scullion.

Scullion said, ‘Dogue was found with his throat cut.'

‘Oh aye?' Furfee said.

Scullion said, ‘And you being handy with a razor, well, you're on the list, Willie.'

‘He's a changed man. I can vouch for Furf,' Quick said.

‘Hitler once vouched for Stalin,' Perlman said. ‘Let's go the easy route. It's less scenic, but it's direct. Where were you last night?'

Furfee looked at Quick for guidance. Perlman stepped promptly into Furf's line of vision. ‘No cheating, Willie. No eye contact. Straight question. Last night. Where were you?'

‘Here. There.'

‘Can you show me here and there on a map, Willie?' Perlman walked closer to Furfee.

Quick said, ‘Tell him nothing, Furf. I'll call my lawyer. Right now. Just tell this sarcastic old wanker fuck all.'

Perlman said, ‘I object to that description of me, BJ. It's been years since I wanked.'

Scullion said, ‘Call your lawyer if you like, BJ. It doesn't bother us. Look. Here's a phone.' He reached down and picked up an old black handset from the floor and passed it to Quick, who took it in a somewhat deflated manner.

‘It's been cut off,' Quick said. ‘I had a disagreement with those Telecom bastards.'

‘Maybe there's another phone somewhere in the building,' Scullion said.

‘This building? You're joking,' Quick said.

‘Then you'll find one in a pub somewhere.'

‘Try the Saracen's Head,' Perlman suggested. ‘It's along the street.'

Quick tugged at his outcrop of hair. ‘I'll do it later.'

‘Afraid to leave Willie on his tod?' Perlman asked.

‘Willie can handle himself, Perlman.'

Perlman looked into Furfee's eyes. They were dull, bovine. He was reminded of the eyes of a waxwork figure. He'd always found the likenesses at Madame Tussaud's sinister. As was Furfee. He wasn't one of the frontrunners in the brainbox steeplechase, but somehow that made him even more creepy and dangerous.

‘You remembered yet, Willie?'

‘I was walking.'

‘And?'

‘Had a beer somewhere.'

‘Where?'

‘Pub. I don't remember the name.'

‘Where's this pub?'

‘Bellahouston.'

‘Bellahouston, eh? Alone?'

‘Aye –'

‘Barman see you? Anybody that might remember you?'

‘No –'

‘Try. Remember the name of the pub. The street.' Perlman moved very close to Furfee. ‘Tell me. You carrying a blade even as we have this little tête-à-tête?'

Furfee said, ‘No.'

‘I don't altogether believe you, Furf. I'd like to have a gander. Okay with you? Turn out your pockets for me.'

Quick said, ‘Don't let him search you, Furf. He doesn't have the
right.
'

‘You're annoying me, Quick,' Perlman said. ‘I'm simply asking Furfee if he minds showing me what he has in his pockets. It's up to him.'

‘I mind,' Furfee said.

‘So you're hiding something,' Perlman said.

Furfee shook his head. ‘Nothing.'

‘You're sure, Willie?' Perlman asked.

‘I'm sure,' Furfee said.

‘Okay.' Perlman turned away: let Furfee stew in denial a moment, he thought. Change the angle. He walked back towards BJ Quick, who looked as tense as an eager dog restrained by a leash. ‘Bobby, are you categorically telling me you have no knowledge whatsoever of Terry Dogue? I want you to think before you answer.'

The trick here, Lou Perlman thought, was to suggest that you knew the answer before you even asked the question; it was a matter of manner, of tone.
Think before you answer
was a handy little admonition that, delivered with just the right touch of assurance and authority, could place a spark of doubt in the other person's mind.
The cop knows something. He's got a snapshot of me and Dogue walking along the Broomielaw
.

BJ Quick wasn't buying. ‘I never heard of him. That's the last time I'm telling you. We finished now?'

‘One last thing,' and Perlman suddenly reached inside his coat and whipped out a copy of the still made from the security video and he flashed it under Quick's face. ‘Tell me about this guy, BJ. Who he? What name?'

‘Never seen him in my life,' Quick said.

‘You're sure.'

‘Positive.'

Irritated and impatient, Perlman said, ‘Terry Dogue was seen following him. This guy's the one attacked Terry. Why would this character do that to Dogue?'

‘This is fascinating, Perlman. Yawn. Zzzzz. Snore.'

Perlman turned, quickly shoved the print in front of Furfee's face. ‘You seen this man, Furfee?'

‘Never.'

‘Look closer.'

‘Nope. Never seen him.'

‘Here. Look really fucking
close
, Willie.' Perlman pushed the print right up against Furfee's mouth. His impatience was changing to anger. It was a hot feeling, like standing in front of an open fire and unable to retreat from the flame because you were impeded in some way.

Furfee stepped back. ‘Hey, hold on, wait –'

Perlman shoved the paper forward again, as if he meant to stuff it between the big man's lips. Paper couldn't hurt; what he wanted was something hard and sharp to stick into Furfee's big dumb criminal face; but it was more than that, more than Furfee, he wanted to take apart the mean stupidity of waste and violence he saw every day of his life, it was Moon Riley bursting Sadie's face with his knuckles, and anaemic teenage girls on the game, screwing drunks at the back of closes and giving blow jobs in alleys, it was BJ Quick scanning porno websites for naked nine-year-olds, it was the epidemic of vandalism, and the mountains of trash, the broken streetlamps and the burnt-out phone booths and the boarded-up windows of abandoned houses, and it was Furfee skinning some bastard's arm as you might the haunch of a dead stag, it was all this foul
stuff
that came rushing at him like black hearses in an insane hurry to disgorge their dead – and it crystallized in the sight of Willie Furfee's big sullen mouth.

‘Here, eat
this
,' and he forced the creased paper against Furfee's teeth. He sensed the mouth behind, the black hollow, the throat; that was where he wanted to cram this print. Right down the Peeler's gullet, and may he choke on it.

Sandy Scullion said, ‘Hey Lou, calm it, for Christ's sake.'

‘Don't react, Willie,' Quick said. ‘Don't lift a finger. Take what he gives and do fuck all about it, understand me? It's fucking
provocation.
'

Perlman stepped away from Furfee, suddenly aware of Furfee's shoelace-thin tie and the three-quarter-length coat and the black velvet collar. Something stirred in the hinterland of memory. Black velvet. He was breathing a little too hard for his own peace of mind. Keep the temper. Never lose the rag. It's bad for the whole nervous system. He tried to relax and to clamber out of the crazy mood that had overcome him a moment before, and he looked at Furfee in a manner that might almost have been one of patience, but not quite.

‘Nice coat, Willie.'

‘It's original,' Furfee said. ‘Made in 1957.'

‘And you're proud of it.' Perlman fingered the velvet collar. ‘Fine stitching. Let me take a shot in the dark here, Willie. Were you at the Royal Infirmary last night?'

‘What're you on about?' Furfee said.

‘You were at the Royal last night and you took Terry Dogue out of there. Am I right?'

‘No bloody way.'

Perlman said, ‘It's easy to prove or disprove. I've got an eyewitness, Furfee. Let her take a good look at you and we can clear this up in a twinkling.'

BJ Quick said, ‘He's bullshitting, Furf. It's a scam.'

Perlman looked at Scullion. ‘Can we take Willie to the Royal, Inspector, and let our eyewitness look him over?'

‘Great idea.'

Perlman asked, ‘You don't object, Willie?'

Furfee said, ‘Telling you. I was nowhere near the Royal –'

‘Then you don't mind a quick ride over there, do you?'

‘Aye, well, as it happens –'

‘Willie. You can do it the nice civilized way. Or we can send for a van and some uniforms and they'll cuff you and we'll all go to hospital together. What do you say?'

Furfee looked stricken.

BJ Quick shouted, ‘You're under no
obligation
, Furf. None at all. These cretins don't have a legal leg to
stand
on.'

Furfee, an animal backed into a corner, stood as if petrified. It was clear to Perlman that the big man didn't know what to do; he was so accustomed to obeying the commands of BJ Quick he might have been the rockmeister's wooden-headed lap-dummy. His brain was probably scrambled by sheer indecision. He was listening for messages, and hearing only static.

‘Sandy, have you got your phone?'

Scullion took his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘I'll buzz Pitt Street. We can have an army here in less than ten minutes.'

Furfee had the razor in his hand and the blade open before Perlman even
registered
movement. He held the blade thrust outward. He lowered his shoulders and spread his legs. He went into pre-launch mode, tensed, muscles rigid, a big demon about to attack.

Quick said, ‘You fucking
tit
. Put the razor away.'

‘Good idea,' Perlman said. ‘Just close the blade and put it back in your pocket, Willie.'

‘The razor stays,' Furfee said.

Perlman stared at the blade. I keep truly dodgy company, he thought. Some hours ago he'd been looking at a lead pipe wielded by Moon Riley. And now this fine old-style open razor in the Peeler's hand. Sometimes you get days when all you run into are life-forms from the deepest dregs of the deepest stagnant pond, a place where pop-eyed tadpoles live among quivering black fronds and other unclassified species.

‘Downright stupid, Willie,' he said.

‘I'm out of here,' Furfee said. ‘Anybody tries to stop me,' and he made a gesture with the blade. Bright steel shimmered. ‘You. Put the phone down.'

Scullion set the phone on the floor. Perlman said, ‘Leave here, Willie, and it might as well be a signed confession.'

‘I'm confessing nothing.'

‘Fucking bampot,' Quick said. ‘Put the blade away, you big thick bastard.'

Perlman took a couple of steps forward, placing himself between Willie Furfee and the door. ‘You skedaddle, Willie, and you're sending us a message, and that message says you don't want to run the risk of being ID'd at the Royal, because you don't want me to know you took Dogue out of there last night. And why don't you want me to know that, Willie? The only answer I can come up with is that you killed Terry. I'm prepared to bet that blade in your hand matches Dogue's wound exactly. I bet the blade fits right into the slit in Terry's gullet.'

Quick made a moaning sound of disbelief and said, ‘Aw,
Jesus, Willie.
'