The Papers of Tony Veitch by William McIlvanney Page A

described Eck to them and asked them if they had seen him lately. Harkness was beginning to get embarrassed.
    This wasn’t what they taught you in police college. This was as cute as walking naked down the street. And yet, in some odd way, it was working. Nobody got alarmed. Harkness reflected that in Glasgow openness is the only safe-conduct pass. Try to steal a march and they’ll ambush you from every close. They hate to be had. Come on honestly and their tolerance can be great.
    One man typified it. He was small, with a gammy leg. He was carrying what looked like a poke of rolls. When Laidlaw stopped him, he nodded with instant wisdom into his questions.
    â€˜Christ, aye. Big Tammy Adamson’s boay. No problem. Ah can tell ye exactly. When Big Tammy sellt the shoap in Govanhill, Alec went tae sea. The Merchant Navy. As far as Ah know, he’s still there yet. A nice big boay. Aboot six-feet two.’
    â€˜Naw,’ Laidlaw said. ‘Not the same fella.’
    â€˜Well. He sounds awfu’ like ’im. Good luck, anyway. It’s the only Eck Adamson Ah know.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ Laidlaw said.
    â€˜For what? Ah’ve enjoyed the chance tae rest ma leg. Cheers, boays.’
    In their travels, they found a few isolated groups of derelicts and talked to them. One group round a fire directed them tothe south side of the river. The information was probably as helpful as a wooden compass. But they had nothing else.
    They crossed the river by the Suspension Bridge. Nothing happened for a time. But after a lot more walking, they saw five people behind the Caledonia Road Church. It was a striking moment. They were four men and a woman in a difficult conspiracy. One man had a bottle and a deep argument was going on. Plato never had it harder.
    Against the backdrop of the church, they looked small and yet they put it in perspective. Burned in the sixties, the shell of the building remains a monument to nineteenth century confidence, an eroding certainty about what God’s like. They bickered stridently in its shadow like a rival sect.
    â€˜Hullo there,’ Laidlaw said, and for Harkness the remark turned the day into another wavelength. Laidlaw’s attempt at conversation with them was like trying to communicate with a ship sinking in mid-Atlantic when you’re on the shore.
    â€˜Furraff,’ one of them said, a small man whose face dereliction had made a gargoyle. ‘Furraff, is oors.’
    The woman giggled, an eerily coquettish sound that belonged behind a fan. She looked at the small man with roguish appreciation, as if he had just produced one of his better epigrams. The other three were still ignoring Laidlaw and Harkness.
    â€˜Furraff,’ the small man repeated.
    He moved towards Laidlaw in a way that was both threatening and touching, a vaguely remembered style still carried around like an unloaded gun.
    â€˜I just want to ask you something,’ Laidlaw said. ‘Did anybody here know Eck Adamson? I know you.’ Laidlaw pointed at the man with the bottle. ‘I’ve seen you with him.’
    They all paused. The man with the bottle stood swaying, drawing his dignity round him like an opera cloak. His irises had a furry look.
    â€˜Ah know all there is to know aboot boats,’ somebody said. ‘Can make a boat speak.’
    â€˜I beg your pardon, captain,’ the man with the bottle said. ‘You were addressing me?’
    The formal politeness was a bizarre anomaly in his state of savage ruin.
    â€˜Yes,’ Laidlaw said. ‘You knew Eck Adamson.’
    The man seemed to be leafing through a mental engagement-book of fair dimensions.
    â€˜I have that pleasure.’
    â€˜Had. He’s dead.’
    â€˜Greedy wee man,’ somebody said.
    â€˜Bereft,’ the man with the bottle said. ‘Bereft.’
    He took a drink and passed it to the woman. While the others drank, Laidlaw explained what had happened and asked the man