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.He’d go back to his sister’s and rest for a half-hour and he’d think of another approach, and maybe he’d go straight down to Force HQ and find a sympathetic ear for his story.Perlman’s ear.But he had to get it clear first.He had to be sure of his direction.And suddenly he was woozy.The margins of his vision were fogged.He moved into the hallway.Caskie stepped behind him.‘You also lied about Tommy Gurk,’ Eddie said.One more deceit: what did it matter?‘I was protecting confidential police records,’ Caskie said.‘Don’t tell me you haven’t done that once or twice in your life, Eddie.’I can’t remember, Eddie thought.Head blank.Whiteout.‘It’s pointless to talk with you,’ he said.‘I just don’t have the energy for it, Caskie.’He looked at the wax fruit and then raised his face to observe the slow-turning fan and the shadow it cast on the ceiling, and his eye was drawn beyond that to the stairway leading to the upper part of the house and he saw a figure in the dimming light at the top of the stairs, small and thin and wrapped in a robe six sizes too big for her, her short hair a mess, and he felt as if a hammer had been bludgeoned into the side of his head with such force that his brain emptied and his eyes failed.She said, ‘Eddie,’ and her voice came out of the blackness.49The streets around Central Station had been cordoned off: a no-go zone.So many cops, more than a hundred certainly; Perlman couldn’t remember when he’d last seen his colleagues out in such numbers except when they worked security at big football games.He had to push his way through the crowd of spectators constrained by a phalanx of uniforms and a barricade of patrol cars and police vans.Mounted horses were present, big steady beasts seemingly unperturbed by the mass of people.There were cops making announcements through a loudspeaker system, telling the crowds to disperse, everything was under control – the usual pabulum for the public.But crowd control was no simple choreography in this situation; apart from the sightseers and sensationalists, there was the added complication of huge numbers of people trying to make their way out of the station, and others desperate to enter because they had trains to catch.Madness, Perlman thought.Murder during rush hour.Commuter chaos.He was buffeted and elbowed as he pressed through to the Union Street exit where Scullion had told him to come.He wanted to say, Let’s make it fun, let’s turn it all into a bloody big outdoor fair, a massive fête, hotdog stands and barbecues and brass bands, games the kiddies can play, helter-skelter and merry-go-rounds and three-legged races.Why not? Do away with all this morbid vigilance and bring on the dancing girls.If the crowd wanted entertainment, give it to them.Bitterness, Perlman, he thought.Watch out for that.En garde.A young man dies – but not everyone in the crowd is a ghoul, there are those who want to get home to their families, and can you blame them for that? You solitary old fart.Been alone too long.You don’t remember what a family was like.He saw Sandy Scullion when he finally flashed his ID in front of a uniformed cop who ushered him through the throng.Scullion, in white shirt and red tie, raised a hand wearily.Perlman walked towards him.He was aware of Tay loitering in the background and a couple of other heavyweights from Force HQ – DCI Ralph Hannon, known as Ralph Cheeks because of his resemblance to a squirrel whose mouth was stuffed with crab apples, DCI Mary Gibson, a cheerful woman in her mid-forties who dressed like a woman in a Laura Ashley catalogue, and DCI Benjamin Bennet, sharp, a bachelor with a trim moustache and a ladykiller’s rep.They were out in numbers, showing the flag.The Force is with you, Perlman thought.Not always.Not for McWhinnie.Scullion said, ‘They tried to resuscitate him in the ambulance.But he wasn’t coming back, Lou.’‘Who shot him?’‘We’ve got some witnesses,’ Scullion said.‘The killer’s a light-skinned black, five-eight or nine, muscular, wore a hat that was either brown or black, hair in dreadlocks.’‘Dreadlocks?’‘A hairstyle, Lou.Rastafarians, reggae bands.Don’t tell me you don’t know.’‘I know, dammit, it just slipped my mind a minute.You think I don’t keep up with things?’‘You’re snapping, Lou.Don’t snap at me.I didn’t ask for this situation.’‘You’re right, Sandy.I apologize.Read my face.’ Perlman felt his breath catch at the back of his throat.He didn’t want to show emotion.Maybe later, when he was on his own.But not here, not now.You reserved a private table for your feelings and you said, Charlie, too bad it didn’t work out for you.I’m sorry and I’m sad.You had a few things to fix in your life, but you didn’t get your allotted span, son.You didn’t get your biblical quota of years.‘What else have we got?’ he asked.Scullion said, ‘The killer ran in the direction of St Vincent Street.’‘And then what.’Scullion shrugged.‘I don’t know.Jesus Christ, how damn difficult can it be to find a man with dreadlocks in Glasgow?’‘He won’t have the fucking dreadlocks now,’ Perlman said.He made scissors of his index and middle fingers.‘Snip snip.’Tay came towards them.He appeared uncomfortable, like a man whose shoes are too tight, or whose cummerbund is pinching him after a heavy formal dinner.‘This has been a private nightmare for years.I keep arguing the police shouldn’t carry guns, and then this happens and I wonder if I’m wrong, if my support of that policy’s addle-headed, and we ought to be toting those bloody Magnums like they do in America.’Irrelevant, Perlman thought [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]