The crumpled duvet was sprawled over the sofa like a Dali watch, the pummelled pillows sat on an adjacent chair, Torquil’s suitcase lay open in the middle of the carpet, its soiled contents exposed like a particularly rebarbative pop-up book, three used ashtrays were perched on various surfaces and the kitchen required a ten-minute wipe-down. Some juggling with the ballcock in the lavatory cistern had finally permitted the flushing away of assorted Helvoir-Jayne turds. He decided to have a lock fitted to his bedroom door: Torquil appeared to have been through his cupboards and chest of drawers and there was a shirt missing. A swift bout of tidying and a whizz round with the hoover restored the place to something close to its normal state.
Then Torquil returned.
‘Disaster,’ he announced as he came through the door, striding towards the drinks table, where he poured himself three fingers of Scotch. ‘I’ve had it, Lorimer. I could have killed today, I had evil in my soul. If I could’ve got my fingers round that weasel lawyer’s throat.’
He had a cigarette going now and switched on the television. ‘Murder one, I tell you. I borrowed a shirt, hope you don’t mind. I’ve got to get my hands on some money. £1,500 this month, school fees due in two weeks. I’m totally fucked. What’s for supper?’
‘I’m going out,’ Lorimer invented, spontaneously.
‘Who’s that old bag downstairs? I could see her peering through the door at me.’
‘She’s called Lady Haigh. Extremely nice. Did you speak to her?’
‘I just said “Boo!” and she slammed the door pretty smartish, I tell you. I’ve got to get a job, Lorimer, a well-paid job, a.s.a.p. Where are you going?’
‘It’s a sleep therapy thing I go to. I’ll be out all night.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ he half-leered, then his own troubles crowded in on him again. ‘Think I’ll hit the phone tonight, call a few chums, get networking, yeah… Is there a decent Chinese in this neck of the woods?’
Lorimer frowned, shifting in his bed, wondering now what the effect of a Chinese takeaway would be in his neat and ordered kitchen. Yet Torquil was the least of his problems… He had taken the Toyota round to the rear of GGH where there were two parking spaces (one for Hogg and one for Rajiv) and a small loading bay. Rajiv had tut-tutted sympathetically at the state of the paintwork.
‘Nasty customers, eh, Lorimer? Leave this to me, we’ll get you a nice shiny new one.’
He went to see Hogg, who was wearing a black tie and sombre suit as if he had just come from a funeral, and told him about the blowtorching of his car.
‘How do you know it was Rintoul?’ Hogg said, bluntly. ‘Could have been vandals.’
‘He left a message on my answer machine threatening me, said “It wasn’t over yet.”’
‘Doesn’t sound much of threat to me. Anyone see anything, any witnesses?’
‘The car wasn’t parked in my street, no one would know it was mine.’
‘Out of the question,’ Hogg said, his hands searching his deep pockets.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t order an oiling on a vague hunch like that,’ Hogg said with unconvincing bluffness, slipping a peppermint retrieved from his pocket into his mouth. He rattled it around on his teeth, making a noise like a stick against railings. ‘Do you know what’s involved with an oiling? It’s a serious, not to say nefarious, business. We have to be absolutely certain it’s called for. And in this case, Sunny Jim, I’m not.’
‘You won’t oil Rintoul?’ Lorimer said, not able to conceal his incredulity.
‘You catch on fast, Lorimer. If you’re so worried, do your own, that’s my suggestion. Take responsibility: chop onions, fry onions.’
It had not ended there: later in the afternoon Rajiv called him.
‘Sorry, laddie, he won’t replace your car.’
‘Why not, for Christ’s sake? It’s insured, isn’t it?’
‘Ours not to reason why, Lorimer. Bye.’
So Lorimer had driven home in his toasted Toyota, his brain furious with activity, trying to pin down the cause of Hogg’s now overt and provocative hostility. He wondered if Hogg knew that Torquil was staying in his flat – and concluded he quite probably did, for Hogg seemed to know just about everything and he could see how, from Hogg’s point of view, Torquil’s proximity was a little compromising.
226. Lucid Dreams. Lucid dreams are dreams that the dreamer can control and influence. They are a phenomenon of the deeper levels of REM sleep and take place in what is called the D-state. D-state sleep occupies about twenty-five per cent