Jack in the box, p.19
Jack in the Box, page 19
‘If he does anything daft like switch off his lights and turn off somewhere, we won’t see him,’ Tait said.
‘Got a good reason to lift him then, don’t we?’
‘He’s slowing up . . . Christ, get the brakes on, eh?’ Tait said. He gripped the handle of the passenger door, and Slater briefly entertained the idea that he might leap out, action-movie style, and perform a forward roll on the roadside.
‘Calm yourself,’ he said, though he kept a close eye on the rear-view mirror as he braked, for fear someone would clobber them from behind.
‘He’s turning.’
‘I can see that, Columbo.’
The mist had thickened, and the red lights ahead took a sharp left into a side road concealed by tall trees whose nude branches reached out to each other across a hollow. Slater’s eyes widened; there was no sign of the van. He put on some speed, the car lurching over the uneven surface before he spotted a group of squat shapes in a clearing.
‘There he is,’ Tait pointed. Catching Slater’s look, he added, ‘Just in case you missed it. Don’t get tetchy.’
The van was parked in the centre of a ring of shipping containers, blue and white and yellow. Slater braked to a halt and killed the lights as the van door opened and Laybourn got out.
‘What the hell is he wearing?’ Tait asked. ‘Looks like a hazmat suit.’
‘That’s exactly what it is. Or a boiler suit, maybe . . . looks like he’s gone back to 1989 for a rave.’
They sat in silence for a while, watching him pull on a pair of gloves. For a second or two, he seemed to stare straight at Slater and Tait in the car, his hooded eyes unblinking. Then he fitted a surgical-style mask over his face and opened up the back of the van.
‘What the hell?’ Tait said, leaning forward to peer over the dashboard.
‘Something he doesn’t want to be touching, by the looks of it,’ Slater said, watching the white-clad figure with the black gloves struggling to lift out a box and then allowing it to crash to the ground. Laybourn pulled out a carpet knife from a zip pocket and cut the seals on the box, then tipped it up and stepped back fast.
‘Can’t see it,’ Tait said, nose almost touching the windscreen. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Hard to say cos of the mist. You’d think it was lava the way he jumped back.’
‘He’s going for another one.’
Laybourn heaved a much larger box from the back of the van, and subjected it to the same rough treatment. This time, it was clear what was inside.
Both men flinched as if Laybourn had indeed poured a torrent of lava from the reinforced cardboard. Tait actually lifted his feet from the floor.
Slater unbuckled his seatbelt. ‘I think it’s about time we had another wee chat.’
As they walked towards the site, Laybourn spotted them, dropped a third box and ran.
The lava stream of rats – tails, feet, moving fast – diverted around the detectives like water torrenting past rocks in a burn. Slater leapt aside, surprising himself with his reflexes. Tait foundered for a while, arms aloft like a high-wire act. Then Slater spotted some of the rodents scampering around their new playground, investigating the shipping containers, and cleared his throat. ‘When I used to go to my uncle’s house he had all these ancient paperbacks, you know? I was always trying to find dirty bits. Anyway, one of them had this big rat on the front, with horrible teeth, and the book was about rats eating people.’
Tait’s head swivelled slowly. ‘That wouldn’t have been The Rats, would it?’
‘That’s the one. Anyway, just came to mind.’
‘Right. So you don’t really mind rats.’
A dropped heartbeat. ‘What makes you say that?’
Tait nodded at Slater’s feet, and there was something in the seriousness – it was close to actual concern – that made Slater lurch even before he spotted the rat an inch away from his toe. He kicked it, with a near-perfect form and connection that would have had him purring had he done it at the five-a-sides. There was a clear impression of the rat in silhouette, its horrible human-like paws outstretched, tail slightly curving in the air, against the grey sky.
Slater cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, ‘Dan! Do us a favour, mate. We’re going to find you. Now show yourself, mate.’
There was a silence, apart from the bustle of tiny limbs, then a muffled voice said, ‘Nah.’
‘C’mon, mate,’ Slater said. ‘We need to talk. You can help us nail this Jack-in-the-Box character. I know it’s not you’ – Tait frowned but said nothing – ‘but maybe you know who it is. C’mon, it’s getting cold out here. We won’t bite.’
A head appeared above one of the shipping containers. It had a disembodied quality to it that made Slater laugh. Hysteria, he supposed.
‘Should I get hold of a lawyer?’
Slater gestured to the rats still scurrying over the ground. ‘Take your pick, pal.’
43
Tait drummed his fingers on the desktop in interview room one. ‘OK. Let’s start with an easy one. Explain the rats to us.’
Since they’d brought him in to give a formal statement, Laybourn’s demeanour had changed. He sat with his arms folded, but this was the only defensive thing about him. He seemed calm, relaxed, as he leaned back in his seat. ‘Not sure I want to talk about that, really.’
‘We were there,’ Tait snapped. ‘It looked to us as if you were tipping boxes filled with rats out on waste ground. That’s what it looked like.’
‘It can look like whatever you want it to,’ Laybourn said. He had a twinkle in his eye – not the kind the hash-heads got, in Slater’s experience, though you’d have bet your life on the man being one. It was the glint of the flyman, the guy who knows something and wants you to know he knows something, but won’t give it up without a wee carry-on first. Slater had a headache. He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘I dunno, Dan . . . you look a bit like the Pied Piper.’
Laybourn sniggered. ‘Aye, I do need a haircut.’
‘Suits you, mind. You know that actor Sam Elliott? Tombstone? You look a bit like him.’
‘Don’t know the guy, but I’ll take it as a compliment.’
‘C’mon, Dan. You’ve committed a crime – animal cruelty, for a start. The SSPCA are very interested in what you’re up to. Maybe more interested than we are.’
Laybourn’s shoulders came up. ‘Cruelty?’
Slater nodded. ‘Animal cruelty. They’ve got rights. You’re not cruel to animals, are you, Dan?’
‘Exact opposite, mate. Tell you that now.’
‘So tell us,’ Slater said. ‘Help us, we’ll help you.’
‘You feel a connection with living things. I feel a connection with living things, rather. Even if I’m just walking through the trees. Even if it’s only pollen in the air. Won’t be long before the light changes and we get the pollen, you know.’
The silence that followed was so unbearable that Laybourn’s lawyer looked as if he wanted to break it; he was practically bouncing on his seat.
‘Anyway, I was given this job,’ Laybourn went on. ‘Deliver some boxes. Bit like the dead guy. I don’t ask too many questions. I was asked to take these boxes to a house before it went up for sale. Or out for rent. Same difference. I let these cockroaches out. I knew it was dodgy, but the money was good.’
‘When was this?’ Tait asked.
‘Tail end of last year – October maybe.’
‘What was the house?’
‘New block of flats. Tanner Close, it was. Out Blairdardie way.’
‘I think I know where you are.’ Tait scribbled a note.
‘No security?’ Slater asked.
‘Not on that occasion. It was cockroaches, man . . . by the time I’d done what I was told I felt terrible.’
‘You didn’t try to sort it out?’ Tait asked.
Laybourn laughed. ‘Yeah, you try herding a couple of hundred cockroaches. Let me know how you get on.’
Tait’s scribbling sped up. ‘I meant, with the person who hired you.’
‘I don’t know who it was. Cash-in-hand job.’
‘Same as the body in the fridge?’ Slater asked.
‘I don’t think it was the same number or name . . . John, he called himself. Seemed like the same deal, though.’
‘And it was the same guy who hired you to pick up the rats?’
‘No, that was someone called Noel.’
‘You get a lot of these cash-in-hand jobs,’ Tait remarked.
‘I’m a small businessman.’
‘Doesn’t mean you should just take any job going though, does it?’
‘I’m a very cheap small businessman.’
‘So when did this Noel hire you?’
‘Two days ago. Just before you took my van off me. It’s costing me to hire one, you know. I can get mate’s rates at the plant hire place, but I need my van back.’
‘Your van’s connected to a murder – I wouldn’t bet on you getting it back any time soon,’ Tait said. ‘If you want it back at all, you need to start being honest with us.’
‘I am being honest with you,’ Laybourn sighed. ‘This is the thing I don’t like about the polis, if I can keep being honest with you. Implications. Insinuations. It’s like being back at school. They just want to keep you on your toes. You want to keep me on my toes.’
‘Where did you pick up the rats?’ Slater asked.
‘Same place I dropped them off. Those old shipping containers. Christ knows how they got there, or what was in them. I picked up the trailer. That was the job.’
Tait frowned. ‘So . . . you picked up the rats and went where?’
‘Well, I was due to drop them off at Killen House.’
Slater nodded, catching Tait’s eye. ‘New-build flats. Clydebank. I know where you are.’
‘That’s it. Well, I stopped off for a pee. As one does.’
Tait raised his eyebrows. Said nothing.
‘And when I was coming back to the van and passed the trailer, I heard the noise.’
‘You didn’t hear anything when you picked the trailer up?’
‘Nope. But when I’d stopped . . . well, it was obviously rats in the boxes. Lots of them. So I took a decision. I contacted the Noel guy. Said that I had got there, and the boxes were empty. Made it sound as if they’d got out, like. Then I drove back and let the rats go. Not sure what else to do with them.’
‘You could have called the SSPCA.’
‘I could have,’ Laybourn agreed. ‘Also, I’m not as daft as I look. Think I want the jail? Look, I didn’t want to transport the cockroaches. I did what I was told. I’m not proud of that. I took the money. I took the container to the flats. You know about that. But the rats . . . I drew the line at the rats. I mean, it was someone trying to infest the new flats, wasn’t it? I don’t know, though. Not for sure. Whatever they were meant for, I didn’t want anything to do with it. So I stiffed the guy.’
‘Have you been in contact with him again?’
‘Text message, aye. I think he said he was off to check it out.’
Slater got to his feet a second before Tait. He excused himself from the interview room to make a call. When he got back a few minutes later, he tried to appear at ease, with his usual lack of success.
‘Let’s talk about when you met Vincent Finch out on your walk.’
‘Aye . . . well,’ Laybourn said. ‘It was a bit weird. He was out bushwhacking, you know? Jungle warfare stuff. He didn’t like the look of me, told me to my face, as well. He’s seen me about. I walk the woods. You know that.’
‘You said he was looking for his drone.’
‘That’s what he said. Said someone had got his drones. Expensive ones. He blamed me – was questioning me, asking what I knew. I said I’d seen UFOs out here, but they weren’t like a drone. These were big ones. Actual UFOs, maybe. Who knows?’
‘You called it in,’ Slater said. ‘That’s weird.’
‘Weird how?’
‘Well, you’re not a grass. You didn’t grass anyone up for the cockroaches and rats. Why grass up Vincent Finch?’
Laybourn shrugged. ‘It was dodgy. Wasn’t it? About the lassie. I’m thinking of the lassie. What happened to her. That’s why I called you.’
44
Lomond took the underground. It was a little treat to himself. In terms of stations, he had no favourites, but he did feel a yearning whenever Hillhead zipped past the windows. It spoke to him of the West End, Kelvingrove Art Galleries and, on extremely rare occasions, beery summer Sunday nights in Ashton Lane. To admit to these things was of course to submit to ridicule, even among his own family. ‘Ashton Lane, is it?’ Slater had once brayed. ‘Tapas? Wee fancy coffees? You’re an epicurean, you.’
But Slater wasn’t here. Hardly anyone was here, in fact, as Lomond let the escalators take him down at forty-five degrees to St Enoch station, the biting cold of January suddenly changing as if enveloped in gentle hands.
The trains were new and beautiful, granted. But Lomond missed the colours of the old service. Bright orange was not normally something he gravitated to, for more than one reason, but down here its brash tones were muted. The seating in the old carriages had been brown and beige, like the flooring, and this had granted a sense of comfort. Now, the panelling on the walls was stark white, as was much of the décor. Yet there was still that cocooned feeling as you sat down. Taller people had to look lively, and some had to crouch: it was easy to bang your head if you stood up too fast. The adverts bore images of smiling, peach-complexioned young people promoting university courses and the promise of a folk festival at Kelvingrove bandstand, which Lomond thought sounded quite good, until he noticed that the poster was five months out of date.
Another reason Lomond liked the underground was that no one could phone him there. Signals were cut out. This was something he had come to recognise as a rare guilty pleasure, and also a brief dereliction of duty. They could wait until he got to Govan. Whatever turned up. A quick spin on the underground allowed him to drift, to think of nothing.
The train moved off with a mechanical shriek. A lightning flare of blue in the dark. Just Lomond, alone. In the dark tunnels he caught sight of himself in the window opposite. He looked depressed. He supposed he usually did.
Lomond thought of Kelvingrove and bright spring leaves, of a nice bitey pint out of Brel, dinner somewhere overpriced, maybe a film at the Grosvenor. It was sunny in his head, dark and cold and misty above. Once the stop came round – he had some company by this point: a couple of workmen and a few older ladies – he snapped out of it. Today was the day. Today Lomond would put it all together. He was sure of it.
*
Lomond arrived at Myrtlewood Crescent. He caught up on the phone calls he’d missed, with one particularly excited one from Slater about Daniel Laybourn, something about rats. This triggered a deep percussive sound in Lomond’s mind, but he only made a note and filed it away.
The crew came in. Heavy boots and overalls, gloves and hats. The site foreman, James, a man with husky-blue eyes and a brow like an ice shelf on the verge of collapse, seemed incredulous.
‘Everything?’
‘That’s what I said. Start with the patio. I want it all dug up. The walls pulled apart.’
‘You’ve not told us what we’re looking for.’
‘Anywhere there’s a space. Even if it doesn’t seem likely someone can squeeze in. I want access to the roof checked. Anywhere that doesn’t fit with the plans, that looks off the grid.’
The blue eyes widened. ‘The entire house? Seriously?’
Lomond met that stare, held it. ‘I’m in charge here, James. I want it done. What I need to know is how someone could creep into the house without unlocking the back door. There has to be a way. Down to the level of a tunnel. Some way of climbing up the walls like a lizard. Anything like that.’
The foreman sniffed. ‘This the place where the lassie was done in, eh?’
‘This is the place where the woman was murdered, yes.’
‘Hey, maybe he got delivered in the post? That’s his name, eh? Jack-in-the-Box?’
The man’s expression was so open, almost innocent, that Lomond quelled the impulse he had to butt it. ‘You trying to be funny?’
‘Seriously, that’s a better bet than anyone tunnelling in. I mean, Christ–’
‘Do what I’m asking you to do – and do it fast. There’s something not adding up.’
He watched them file in, listened to the sounds of industry. Curiously comforting. Just as he had on the tube, Lomond felt a wave of nostalgia. Proustian, that was the word. Lomond hadn’t read a word of the man’s books, but he knew the meaning of this one. He’d grown up near a yard. He’d heard chippies at work, hammering, sawing, singing, swearing. He’d heard timber fall, with no forest nearby. This was the same, except the work was destruction. Sledgehammers. Falling plaster. Meticulously painted sideboards, cracked and splintered. Shouts of warning, or merriment. Crumbling brickwork. And then, a blessed pause.
The foreman came out, on his face the greasepaint glow of white plaster in the places where he didn’t sweat. ‘Might be something,’ he mumbled.
Lomond followed him into the ruin. Chaos: holes in the wall, floorboards uprooted. Nothing unusual in the guts, but the guts were a mark of shame. He felt the dead woman’s presence. She’d been houseproud. She’d worked hard; the place had been spotless. This was a new desecration, insult upon injury. All Lomond’s fault.
‘Here,’ the foreman said. He indicated the space beneath the bed.
‘What am I looking at?’ Lomond said, irritated.
‘Think it’s a safe or something,’ the foreman said. ‘Not combi-locked, or anything. You might want to take a look . . .’
Lomond felt fear – imagining sexual paraphernalia, vintage porno, perhaps the black casing of hard drives, more sinister than any bright pink hues in magazines. But it was worse than that. Boxes of keepsakes. Precious things. A teddy bear reduced to a stump with button eyes and the stitching on the mouth pulled loose, maybe through too much kissing. A child’s white-bound leather bible and prayerbook. Birthday cards. Love letters bundled and squeezed tight by elastic bands. Framed pictures of parents and grandparents. All these things, these relics, that had outlived her.
