William McIlvanney - The Papers of Tony Veitch

Mr Veitch put his head in his hands again. He looked up slowly.

‘I’ll give you five minutes with Lynsey,’ he said.

‘Mr Veitch,’ Laidlaw said. ‘You’ll give me as long as I need. Your son’s dead and I care more about why and how he died than you do. That gives me rights. Go and get Lynsey, please. And if you really care about people, keep the old man through there. His head doesn’t need to try to cope with this.’

When she came through, she was fairly composed. The door had closed on the bedroom and she put down the lid on a suitcase as she passed and then sat down in one of the leather armchairs beside the electric fire. But what she hadn’t realised was that she had walked into Laidlaw’s obsession. The room was no more than a backdrop for his mood. He sat down across from her.

‘Tell me what happened,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Tell me the truth as far as you understand it.’

‘About what?’

‘About the national economy. What do you think? About Tony Veitch.’

‘I’ve told you what I know.’

‘You’ve told me nothing. I sat in this room and listened to your cabaret. All right. That was then. But now somebody you’re supposed to have cared about is dead. Take the make-up off. I want to know anything you can tell me that might help.’

‘I don’t know what might help.’

‘I’ll help you then. Who beat you up?’

‘That’s my affair.’

‘No, no. It’s not. You don’t understand. I saw Tony Veitch lying dead. Barbecued like a bit of butchermeat.’

She gasped and covered her eyes.

‘You could cry for a week, Miss Farren, and it wouldn’t count. That picture’s burned into my head. And I’m not carrying that for you. Or anybody. You have to turn up and take your part of it. You’re maybe sensitive but you’re not sensitive enough. What matters isn’t the effect it has on you, but what you do with the effect it has on you. You feel it bad, then turn up for the man you feel it for. A boy is dead. I don’t think he deserved to die.’

She was crying quietly.

‘So tell me now. Who gave you the bad time that night here?’

‘It-’ Her words were drowning in phlegm. ‘Paddy Collins.’

Laidlaw nodded, having established that she wanted to tell the truth.

‘You’d been with him before Dave McMaster. Was that why he got vicious? Because you had gone with Dave?’

She shook her head.

‘It wasn’t that.’

Laidlaw waited. It hurt him to look at her but it would have hurt him more to leave her alone. The way he felt, that other hurt could be terminal.

‘I had told him about Tony’s money. When Paddy and I were still together. That night he thought I knew where Tony was. He said. He said. If he couldn’t get me, he could at least cut his losses. He could make money from it. He wanted to know where Tony was. He was trying to make me tell him. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I’m glad I didn’t. He hurt me so badly I think I would have told him. But I didn’t know.’

‘Who knew about what Paddy did to you?’

‘Dave and Tony knew. That’s why Tony killed Paddy Collins. I know that’s why he killed him. Tony had always said, since we were small, he wouldn’t let anybody harm me. Tony could be wild. You’ve never seen anybody as wild as Tony could be.’

‘Maybe I have. Just possibly.’

‘No. You didn’t know him. No, you see. When you came the last time with the other man. I tried to protect Tony. I told you nothing because I didn’t want him hurt. I knew he had done it for me. He still loved me, you know. How could I do anything but protect him when he did it to protect me? He loved like an angel. That was his problem. I think I lost his letter because I was ashamed to keep it. He loved you so much you felt guilty at how much less your own love was. If you’d met him you’d know what I mean. Even when I realised he’d killed that sad old man, I could never have helped to turn him in. I don’t know why he did that. Maybe because the old man knew about Paddy Collins. He must have been desperate by that time. I found out from Alma where he was. And we tried to help him. But we were too late. I wish we could have been sooner. I wish we could have been sooner.’

Laidlaw was staring past her at the unconscious support she was giving to his own suspicions.

‘Who’s we?’

‘Dave and I.’

‘What did you do to help?’

‘We told Macey. So that he could tell the police.’

‘Why didn’t you tell the police yourselves?’

She hesitated. He found her discretion pathetically touching, as if she thought Laidlaw didn’t know.

‘Well, some of the people who know Dave wouldn’t have liked it.’

Laidlaw knew for sure now. It only remained to confirm it.

‘If only we’d been sooner,’ she said.

She sat staring into lost possibilities. Laidlaw wondered if there were people who would never get it right, regretting the wrong things, bestowing their compassion like a lead weight thrown to a drowning man. He stood up and crossed to the bedroom door. He knocked and pushed the door open. Mr Veitch was there before the door had opened half-way.

‘I think you should take her home now,’ Laidlaw said.

‘My God, thank you very much. You’re sure we have your permission?’

Laidlaw looked at him. Mr Veitch was sneering, his main concern to reinstate himself. The end of his nose was limbo. If he travelled beyond it he’d fall off the edge of the world. Laidlaw thought, not for the first time, that there must be those who, if a dying man told them the secret of all life and swore at them at the same time, would only remember that he swore.

‘You’re a deeply compassionate man,’ Laidlaw said.

‘Don’t you know that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?’

‘I don’t know,’ Laidlaw said. ‘I think maybe clichés are.’

He crossed towards the door. On the way he touched Lynsey Farren gently on the head.

‘Good luck with you,’ he said.

He let himself out, thinking that there was more pain ahead for her.

The Crib was closed. That was a strange fact, about as likely as the sun not turning up. Two men were standing staring at the shut door. One of them looked round bemusedly, then up at the sky, as if checking he had the right universe. As Laidlaw approached, they had started to move off. One of them was saying, ‘Mebbe they’ve drapped the bomb an’ we haveny noticed.’ Laidlaw let them go round the corner. He thumped on the door. Nothing happened. He did it again.

The door opened slightly, still on its chain. It was Charlie the barman, who used to work in the Gay Laddie. He knew who Laidlaw was.

‘Yes?’

His face was as welcoming as a turned back.

‘Charlie. I’m looking for somebody.’

‘Yes?’

‘Is there anybody in?’

They could both hear the voices from where they were. ‘Well.’ Charlie was trying lines inside his head. ‘There’s a wee staff-meeting on.’

Laidlaw wondered what was on the agenda: whose turn it was next week to pick up the bodies?

‘That’s why we’re not open yet. Who is it you’re lookin’ for?’

Laidlaw smiled, gave Charlie a look that told him not to be naughty.

‘I just can’t remember his name, Charlie. But I’d know him if I saw him. Any chance I get in?’

Charlie’s eyes stared over Laidlaw’s head. He looked distant, as if receiving telepathic messages.

‘Ye want tae wait a minute?’

‘Fair enough.’

Charlie disappeared behind the door to close it. Laidlaw’s hand rested casually in the gap of the open door. Charlie’s face reappeared, wondering.

‘Leave a fella a chink of hope, Charlie.’