Crabbie shrugged, having no interest in the topic. As the saying goes, he liked both kinds of music: country and western. The day the music died for him was March 5th 1963 when Patsy Cline’s plane had gone down.
“Here’s a thought, gents. I know the weather’s not good but don’t you think it’s about time we went down to the Glasgow Rangers Supporters Club and asked a few questions? Last place Mr Deauville was seen alive. Probably should have gone there yesterday,” I said.
“It was a Saturday yesterday, they all would have been at the Rangers game in Scotland,” Crabbie said.
“Do they go to every game then?”
“Oh yes. Over on the ferry to Glasgow every Saturday,” Crabbie said.
“I suppose you’re a Celtic supporter, sir?” Lawson asked. An innocent enough question everywhere else in the world except for Belfast and Glasgow, where the wrong response could get you a punch in the face.
“I don’t give a shit about Scottish football, Lawson. As far as I’m concerned there’s only one football team in the world.”
Crabbie nodded in agreement. “Liverpool FC?” Lawson groaned.
I ruffled Lawson’s blond locks. “The kid has learned something under our tutelage. All right lads, let’s go, wrap up warm,” I said.
I didn’t trust the Beemer without snow tyres so we decided to hoof it. Exercise would do us good. Dr Havercamp would be proud of me. I’d been following his regimen fairly strictly. Asthma inhaler every morning. Cut down my smoking. Cut down my drinking. No pot. Stress was through the roof, though and that couldn’t be good: Beth taking Emma to her parents and the Belfast Telegraph trying to crucify me …
We walked out in the snow to the Glasgow Rangers Supporters Club which was located near the bird sanctuary between the railway lines and Carrick Leisure Centre. Lawson was wearing a parka, Crabbie and me were both in duffle coats.
Until a few years earlier this had been marshy wasteground but the local council had formed an artificial lake and now it was a mini birders’ paradise with quite the collection of ducks, kittiwakes, common gulls, crows, magpies, guillemots, fulmars, razorbills.
Not everyone was as enthused by our avian friends as I was.
“They make a bit of a racket, don’t they?” Crabbie said.
“A racket to the uninitiated, but to me—” I began and as I explained how to differentiate the different bird calls I saw Lawson put on his Walkman headphones and tune me out – the cheeky wee skitter.
It was pretty back here behind the leisure centre. I should take Emma here in her stroller, she’d like that, I thought. Emma. Didn’t Beth know what she was putting me through, taking her away from me?
If we separated now would I even get visitation rights? Family law, even in benighted medieval Northern Ireland, gave scant regard to the rights of the dad …
My conversation dried up and Crabbie wasn’t exactly a chatterbox.
We walked around the lake.
It was a Japanese woodblock print.
Us. The snow. The water.
Lawson’s Walkman, the sound of birds, and the soft airy snow falling onto the supine lake surface like a Basho poem.
We reached the Glasgow Rangers Club tucked behind the trees. This place was not from a woodblock print: a utilitarian breeze-block building bedecked with union jacks, Scottish saltires and painted representations of – presumably – famous Glasgow football players of the past. There were grilles on the windows to prevent petrol-bomb attacks and a heavy metal door.
I pounded on the door while Crabbie attempted to light his pipe and Lawson took his Walkman off.
“What were you listening to, Lawson?” I asked him.
“The usual.”
“Zeppelin, Floyd, Sabbath?”
Lawson gave a little half-smile to convey the fact that I’d committed yet another generational crime.
“Not exactly,” he said.
“Who then?”
“I just bought the Morrissey solo album, Viva Hate, not even out until next week, but I got an early release from KragTrax,” Lawson said.
“Morrissey? The Manky lad who pulled out of Wogan at the last minute?” McCrabban said, astounded.
“I think that’s Boy George,” I said.
“No that’s the one,” Lawson clarified.
“Is the record any good?”
“It’s not as good as the Smiths, but it’s pretty good.”
“Going back to our earlier conversation, don’t you think the 80s has sort of reached a musical nadir after the heady days of the 70s?”
The young detective constable shook his boyish head. “Totally disagree,” he said. “Popular music today is more interesting on nearly every front than the stuff that was being pumped out in the 70s. All that big boring corporate rock and—”
I pounded on the door again. “Open up in there!”
“Who is it?” a voice from within inquired.
“Inspector Duffy, Carrick RUC,” I said.
“The poliss?” the voice from within asked.