White Rage by Campbell Armstrong Page B

him anything.’

12
    Perlman and Scullion met Detective-Sergeant Terry Bogan at Cottiers pub, formerly a Presbyterian church. It was a big untidy room, usually noisy, clientele young. This was why Bogan favoured the place: he could check out young women to his heart’s desire. An unlikely gigolo, Perlman thought. He looked more farmer than cop – beery red face, frizzled side-whiskers, brown tweed suit.
    Perlman said to Scullion, ‘Take a gander at this man, Inspector. He’s a Highlander. A teuchter . Even does farmyard impersonations. Cows. Ducks.’
    â€˜Only when I’m smashed,’ Bogan said. ‘Anybody want a wee drink?’
    â€˜A lemonade,’ Sandy said.
    â€˜Half a pint of lager for me,’ Perlman said.
    â€˜Still the hard-living Jewish playboy, eh?’
    â€˜I boogie from dusk to dawn,’ Perlman said.
    Bogan went to the bar and ordered drinks. Perlman checked out the room. Dear Christ, did he need to be confronted with so much ripe youth? So many fecund girls, with rich lustrous hair and slender bodies? A couple danced in a corner, although there was no audible music: Perlman wasn’t altogether sure it was dancing as he remembered it, more a voracious form of sexual prelude.
    â€˜Bogan comes here because he considers himself a ladies’ man,’ he said.
    â€˜Is he successful?’ Scullion asked.
    Perlman shrugged. ‘Lives with his mother. What does that tell you?’
    â€˜He’s saving on rent?’
    Bogan came back with drinks, which he set down on a table. The three men sat, tapped glasses together.
    â€˜Life treating you kindly?’ Lou asked.
    â€˜Smashing. See that redhead near the door? Don’t all look. She’d raise anybody’s spirits more than a notch.’
    â€˜You know her?’ Perlman asked. He squinted at the woman through his murky glasses; a tall beauty, legs to the moon.
    â€˜Advances have been made.’
    â€˜And rebuffed?’
    â€˜Rebuffed, my arse. See these whiskers? Like Velcro to women.’ Bogan stroked his steely fuzz. ‘She’s called Cynthia, she’s a nurse, and nurses don’t play tiddlywinks.’
    â€˜I’m impressed,’ Perlman said.
    Scullion looked at his watch. ‘This is all very jolly, but let’s get to the point … About your jumper, Terry.’
    â€˜The jumper, right, okay. That boy had everything to live for, according to what we’ve learned. Wealthy. Export business flying full speed. Top-of-the-line BMW. Expensive flat in Kelvin Court. Why end it all?’ Bogan sipped his dark stout.
    â€˜You have any reason to think he didn’t jump of his own free will?’ Scullion asked.
    Bogan shrugged. ‘My best guess is he had a bit of a daft moment and climbed on the ledge and slipped. He had a high alcohol level in his blood. Plus he’d been smoking reefer. Maybe he thought he could fly. One other thing. He’d had sex shortly before his death. But there was no woman at the scene and nobody saw one coming or going.’
    Perlman said, ‘Maybe she saw him fall, didn’t want to get her name involved, so she shot the craw.’
    â€˜Could be.’
    â€˜Or she shoved him.’
    â€˜Your imagination’s dark as ever, Lou.’
    â€˜But a push is possible,’ Perlman said.
    â€˜Aye. It’s also possible I could get my leg over Nicole Kidman.’
    â€˜You’re talking in the realm of a miracle now, Terry. You need to find this woman who was with young Gupta.’
    A white froth of stout adhered to Bogan’s upper lip. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and gazed in the direction of the redhead. He winked at her. He managed to make it suggestive, Perlman noticed. How had Bogan cultivated that trick? I wink, it looks like an eye infection.
    â€˜Why does this kid interest you anyway, Lou?’
    â€˜You’re not listening to the tom-toms of the city, Terry. He’s