William McIlvanney - The Papers of Tony Veitch

‘There is something. Guthrie Hawkins is perhaps an example of the crossing of borders I was talking about. Tony Veitch once mentioned in tutorial that Guthrie had a brother in the criminal world.’

‘Do you know his first name?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Observatory Road,’ Laidlaw said as they came out into University Avenue. ‘That’s just round the corner. Off Byres Road. We may as well try it. The other address is in Hutchesontown.’

They got into the car. Laidlaw lit a cigarette. As usual, Harkness was driving.

‘You think Eck knew about Paddy’s death and had to be shut up?’ Harkness asked.

‘Could be, I suppose.’

‘Nice old man.’

‘Brave enough, too. When you think how near his heart the hemlock is.’

The peg-board in the window showed a couple of bright blouses and a sweatshirt with a lurex butterfly. The name painted across the glass in cursive red letters was ‘Overdrive’. Beneath it the black printing said: ‘If you like top gear, why not come into Overdrive?’ He went in.

He felt like a visitor from a spaceship, but an interested one. The piped music made him feel alien, as rock always did. His musical taste had stopped at Country amp; Western. The smell of what could have been incense annoyed him into wondering again what the hell teenagers were up to. The clothes didn’t help, racks of the kind of colours that suggested a dressing-room at a circus.

Besides the long racks and circular racks he noticed bright Indian-looking scarves tied from a beam. There was a display of thonged sandals, a section for beads he would have refused as a prize at a fairground. He heard a voice.

‘Try it on. I think you’ll see what I mean.’

He walked along a rack of dresses and a girl emerged at the other end. She was wearing a shocking-pink blouse with one shoulder and sleeve missing and leopard-skin trousers that would have fitted a gnat. She was doing everything but carry a megaphone. She smiled a smile that was twenty years ahead of its time and condescendingly acknowledged the awkwardness of his hulking invasion of her trendy world.

‘Yes, sir. Can I get you something?’

‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘Ah’m no’ holdin’ Hallowe’en this year.’

He looked casually past her at the slatted saloon doors that were the entrance to the two small fitting-rooms. Beneath one set of doors he could see a good pair of legs that were trying on a denim skirt.

‘But don’t mind me. Ah can wait.’

He looked back at her and enjoyed the way her face had lost its composure and was fumbling for the right reaction. She looked properly young again and her accent had got lost in the post.

‘Lusten, mister. Whit is it ye want?’

‘Well. Nane o’ these is quite ma colour. Could Ah see the manageress? Is Lynsey Farren in?’

‘Whit for?’

‘Hen, suddenly Ah’m in a hurry. Tell ’er.’

‘Whit for?’

He looked round and located a beaded curtain blocking a doorway. He walked towards it. Coming behind him, the girl called, ‘Miss Farren!’ The curtain was pulled aside and the face that looked past it renewed his interest of last night. It looked as if it had ordered the future, which would be coming along on a silver tray. The face took him in like passing traffic and referred itself to the girl.

‘Janice?’

Janice absorbed the accent like a refresher-course.

‘It’s this gentleman, Miss Farren. He says he wants to see you.’

‘Very good, Janice.’

Janice went back to her customer. Miss Farren came through the curtain. He appreciated the revelation.

‘Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘You wanted to see me.’

‘Yes. Ah enjoyed that. But Ah’d like to talk as well.’

‘What is this?’

And then she recognised him.

‘This is Mickey Ballater. A friend of Paddy Collins. Ah’d like a word with ye. In private.’

She handled it well, converting a flicker of panic in the eyes to instant boredom. She studied the wall beside him as if there were printed instructions there.

‘You’ve come at an awkward time. I’m afraid I’m rather busy.’

‘Times’ll likely get a helluva sight more awkward if you don’t speak to me right now.’

‘I can’t imagine what it could be about.’

‘Don’t waste yer time. Ah’ll tell ye. Paddy Collins. Tony Veitch. Dave McMaster. Cam Colvin.’

‘Are all of these names supposed to mean something to me?’

‘Naw. Ah got them out the telephone directory. Let’s go inside.’

A woman had come out of the fitting-room and was talking to Janice. Lynsey Farren hesitated, perhaps gauging how much more complicated it was going to be playing to two audiences. She turned and went through the curtain.

He followed her.

It wasn’t an exceptional back-shop, a table with an electric kettle on it, a couple of chairs, a small calor-gas heater, two cartons stacked one on the other, the top one spilling an opened cellophane pack of multi-coloured blouses — but she contrived to inhabit it as if it were fully furnished with antiques. She was quizzically amused, demonstrating what a clash of styles they were.

As she took a menthol cigarette from a packet, he lifted the slim metallic grey lighter from the table and lit her cigarette. He kept the lighter in his hand as he sat down, flicking it into flame two or three times. She sat easily against the table, crossing her legs. He fidgeted a moment with the big, empty metal waste-bin on the floor and looked up. She was still wondering what it was all about.

‘Paddy Collins is dead. You knew that?’

‘Is this a joke?’

‘Fourteen stab wounds? If it is, Paddy didny see it.’

She said nothing.

‘Where’s Tony Veitch?’

‘Who’s Tony Veitch?’

‘Money for me.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help.’

‘Oh well. Ah doubt Ah’m wastin’ ma time.’

‘It looks that way.’

‘Aye.’

He stood up, seemed nonplussed. He picked up one of the blouses from the cellophane and studied it. The label inside the neck said ‘Baumwolle Cotton’.

‘Nice that,’ he said.

‘It wouldn’t suit you.’

In one action he flicked the lighter, lit the blouse and dropped it into the waste-bin. In the tightness of the room it flared like an explosion, a quick geyser of flame the heat of which she felt. It brought her off her table, mouthing outrage that died as quickly as the fire.

‘What the hell? Do you. . I’ll get the police.’

Both understood what the quickness of her silence meant. He was looking at the lighter in his hand. He shook his head.

‘You don’t want the police,’ he said. ‘But this place could burn down very easy. Not the day. Maybe later.’ He looked at her. ‘Ye want to tell the wee lassie to go out? Ye could talk freer.’

She paused only briefly, putting down her cigarette. She lifted a blouse from the pile and went out into the shop. When she came back in, he was sitting down again. Sitting against the table, she took up the cigarette but it was no longer a prop. She dragged on it anxiously.

‘Janice is still in the shop,’ she said pointedly. ‘She’s changing the window.’

He nodded.

‘Lady Lynsey Farren. Don’t think Ah’ve spoken to an actual lady before. We weren’t trippin’ over them in Crown Street. It’s nice. But then ye’re not really any different, are ye, love? Paddy told me about you, ye see. The pair o’ ye seem tae have got up tae some very unladylike capers. That was before Dave McMaster came on the scene, wasn’t it? Ye know Cam Colvin apart from last night?’

She shook her head. He decided there was no way to know if she was telling the truth. She probably smiled by committee decision.