The Quaker - Liam McIlvanney

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briefly in his folded arms.

      ‘Sorry, can I get this clear, Detective? You’re suggesting that DCI Cochrane is having improper sexual relations with a witness in a murder investigation? That’s your insinuation?’

      Goldie smiled slowly and shook his head, not meeting McCormack’s eye. ‘That’s in your mind. You’re the one who thought she was his wife.’

      McCormack took a pull on his mug, grimaced. The tea was scalding but he swallowed it down, savoured the pain. He was vexed with himself. It was his own innocent error that had opened the door for Goldie. He thought back to the scene in the car park, Cochrane helping a woman into the passenger seat of a squad car, closing the door solicitously and tapping the roof for the car to move off. It was the air of intimacy, the gentlemanly stoop of Cochrane’s shoulders. He ought to have known that she wasn’t his wife.

      McCormack looked round the office. The heads were all bent to their work but he felt that they were silently chalking this up, another facer for the turncoat, another round to Derek Goldie. He sat at his desk, spotting the files with sweat and watching the men ignore him, lean in close to mutter to one another. They were like a surly class with a strap-happy teacher.

      The canteen was worse. Even the uniforms knew to avoid him. When he took his tray to a table the others would finish up, drain their glasses, scrape to their feet. Three days of this and McCormack gave up. He took to lunching out, up Dumbarton Road to a small Italian place popular with university lecturers and doctors from the Western. On the third day of this he sat in his window seat and thought: I’m becoming a ghost. I’m fading away. The best I can hope is that they ignore me altogether, start acting as if I’m not there. They’re never going to connect with me unless I force them to.

      That was why he’d gone out on a tasking with Derek Goldie. It was time to act, try to break down the squad’s reserve. He’d seen enough of the Murder Room operations; now he needed to come out on a job. He chose Goldie, the malcontent, the troublemaker. Big, sneering, blond, cocksure Derek Goldie. The roster told him Goldie was on late shift, 6 p.m. till 2 a.m., tasked with chasing up known sex offenders, bringing them in for identity parades.

      And then Goldie had spent the whole shift winding him up, driving too fast, abusing suspects. It ended up with the beating he handed to the poor sap in the toilets of that shithole pub in Shettleston.

      McCormack winced at the memory. He’d made his choice, lied for Goldie, covered his back. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that this would make him Goldie’s best pal but shouldn’t it buy him a bit of goodwill? Fat chance. If anything, Goldie’s hostility rose. Goldie had taken his backing as a personal affront, as if McCormack lacked the courage to stand his ground, couldn’t even scab with proper conviction.

       7

      ‘It’s Jeff Arnold, Rider of the Range!’

      ‘Fuck off.’ Dazzle was laughing, he couldn’t keep the pistol straight. He dropped his arm and composed himself and raised it again, fired.

      Nothing. The others jeered.

      ‘It’s too low!’ Dazzle gestured with the gun. ‘You’d never target somebody at that height. What are you aiming for, his knackers?’

      Five big bottles of Bass, empty, stood in a line on top of a rock, thirty feet off, under a stand of silver birch.

      ‘Give us it here.’ Cursiter took the gun from Dazzle. He broke it open, dug a fistful of rounds from his jacket pocket and thumbed them home. He snapped the cylinder shut, planted his feet and sighted down his straight right arm and squeezed off six shots in quick succession.

      The bottles shone guilelessly in the dappled light. The men’s laughter rang round the clearing. Cursiter ran his tongue along his upper gum, shaking his head.

      Now it was Campbell’s turn, the new guy, the fifth man. Cursiter reloaded the pistol and held it out by the barrel. Campbell took the gun in both hands, turning it over as though it was an object whose precise purpose eluded him. He was younger than the others, early twenties, with long straight hair and bell-bottom cords that whispered when he walked. He shuffled over to where Cursiter had stood and squinted at the bottles. Holding the gun tight against his waist like a quick-draw artist he pulled the trigger.

      The middle of the five bottles burst with a bright pock, the glass dissolving in a silvery fizz. They all cheered and Campbell turned smiling, his hands spread in benediction, pistol dangling from his index finger.

      ‘House,’ Paton said. ‘Thank fuck.’ He was on his feet, dusting the seat of his jeans. He hadn’t been keen on this shooting lark to begin with. ‘Can we get some work done now?’

      Cursiter took the pistol and stowed it in his jacket and they moved off in a ragged group, five men, stretching and yawning, down towards the cottage at the lochside.

      Dazzle had booked it in a false name, collecting the key from the hotel in Rowardennan. They were supposed to be a party of hikers. They’d done a solid two hours’ planning in the cottage that morning before breaking for lunch and a spot of extempore target practice. Jenny McIndoe, Cursiter’s contact in the auctioneer’s, would be joining them that evening with the floor-plans of Glendinnings.

      The path narrowed for the final stretch and they marched in Indian file out of the trees. The white block of the cottage had swung into view when Dazzle, at the head of the file, gave a backhanded slap to Paton’s chest. They all bumped to a stop.

      ‘Is it Jenny? Is Jenny early?’

      A dark blue Rover 2000 was parked beside Stokes’s Zodiac on the apron of gravel in front of the cottage.

      ‘It’s not hers.’ Cursiter was frowning. ‘That’s not Jenny’s car.’

      They stared at the scene and a stout, bald-headed man in an orange cardigan came round the side of the cottage He stopped in his tracks when he saw the five men framed by the trees.

      They started forward, awkward, bumping each other, trying to look normal. Normal hikers. The man stepped out across the grass to meet them.

      ‘George Brodie,’ he said. ‘Landlord. You’ll be Mr Maxwell’s party.’

      ‘I’m Maxwell.’ Dazzle had his hand out. The landlord shook it. He took the others’ hands in turn. No one else ventured a name.

      ‘Right. Well. You’ve brought the weather anyway.’ Brodie had his hands on his hips, like a fitness instructor. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were settled all right. Had everything you need.’

      Dazzle nodded. ‘We’re fine, thanks.’

      ‘The shop in the village.’ Brodie jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘It shuts early. Catches people out. Anyway,’ he was moving towards the car, ‘I got some provisions.’ He hauled on the Rover’s passenger door, lifted two carrier bags from the footwell. ‘Just milk, bread. What have you.’

      Dazzle took the bags. ‘That’s very kind of you. Appreciate it.’

      Brodie shrugged, hands in his trouser pockets, thumbs out. ‘You’ll be off up the loch the morrow, then?’

      He was looking at their feet, Paton noticed. Dazzle was the only one wearing hiking boots. Three of them wore trainers; Stokes in bloody winkle-pickers.

      ‘That’s the plan.’ Dazzle was nodding again. ‘Up to Crianlarich. Take it from there.’

      ‘Right. Well, the weather should hold. If you believe the radio.’ Brodie scowled up, shading his eyes with the fat blade of his hand. They all stood around looking at the sky as if something was about to drop out of it.

      ‘So.’ Dazzle hoisted one of the bags. ‘Thanks again, Mr Brodie. Much obliged.’

      ‘Righto.’ Brodie gripped the roof of the Rover as he eased himself into the driver’s seat.

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