I drove back into town and parked the Atlantic in Buchanan Street where I could have a clear view of the Alpha Hotel’s main entrance. It was sixish when I parked and it was another half hour before Devereaux arrived back. He was dropped off by a marked police Wolseley: if Devereaux was a private detective and the City of Glasgow Police was extending him this kind of courtesy, then I decided it would be a good idea for me to change my brand of cologne. I certainly was doing something wrong.
Devereaux got out of the car and trotted into the hotel. I gave him a couple of minutes to get into his room then locked the Atlantic, crossed the street and walked into the lobby.
The desk clerk was a small dark man of about forty who smiled welcomingly at me despite the fact that he was small, forty and a desk clerk.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked, still smiling.
‘Yeah, you sure can,’ I grinned back. I hammed up my accent a bit. Generally Brits couldn’t tell me from an American, providing I avoided diphthongs. Americans pronounced diphthongs flatly; we positively yodelled them. Linguists called it Canadian Raising. The Americans just called it Canuck. ‘I’m looking for a buddy of mine,’ I said, dodging diphthongs. ‘Dex Devereaux from Vermont. He’s registered here I think.’
‘Yes sir. Do you want me to send a boy to his room to tell him you’re here?’
‘Before we do that, I just want to make sure I got the right Dex Devereaux. If it is he’ll have been booked into the hotel from Washington DC, is that right?’
The clerk continued to smile. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t give out that kind of information.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘I quite understand.’ I took three pound notes from my wallet and laid them on the reception desk, my fingers pinning them to the mahogany.
‘I believe you are correct,’ said the clerk, still smiling, and the notes were gone. ‘Shall I send a message?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said a voice from behind me. I turned and saw Devereaux standing behind me. He must have been waiting in the lobby. ‘Hey there, Johnny Canuck… Your surveillance skills stink,’ he said and looped a firm, guiding arm through mine. ‘Let’s take a walk.’
We headed out of the hotel and Devereaux suggested we take my car. As he did so he waved a hand vaguely in the Atlantic’s direction. My guess was that he had spotted it, or me, from the back of the police car that had dropped him off.
‘Where do you want to go?’ I asked.
‘Somewhere quiet,’ he replied, without letting the smile drop from his face. ‘Where we can talk.’
Ten minutes later we were parked beneath a sheltering arch of trees on Kelvin Way where it dissected Kelvingrove Park.
‘Nice day for a walk,’ said Devereaux as he got out of the car. I followed, locking up the doors. He led the way into the park and in the direction of the museum and art gallery until we found a tree-shaded bench. Devereaux was in a suit of exactly the same style and cut as he had worn the night he’d called at my flat with Jock Ferguson, except this time it was blue. Several shades too light a blue for a local ever to have worn. I imagined it would have looked okay in the swelter of a New York summer, but amongst the muted tones of tweed- and serge-bound Glasgow, it was the sartorial equivalent of a screeching jazz trumpet played through a loudspeaker.
‘So you thought you’d try to find out who booked my hotel room for me?’ he said, and placed the straw trilby on the bench next to him, exposing the precision engineering of his flat-top haircut. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and drew it across his brow before putting the trilby back on.
‘This is all very Graham Greene,’ I said. ‘Parleys in parks, that kind of thing.’
‘Did you think that was how to work out who had sent me here?’ Devereaux ignored my diversion. ‘My client?’
‘Your client?’ It came out almost a snort. ‘If you have a client, then their motto is Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity.’
Devereaux laughed and eyed me as if appraising me. There was a hint of respect in his gaze. Also a hint of the lion appraising the antelope.
‘Yep, Jock Ferguson was right,’ said Devereaux. ‘You are a smart cookie. Okay, you got me.’
‘So what do I call you?’ I asked. ‘ Special Agent Devereaux?’
‘Dex will still do just fine. And what we talked about the other night was all true.’
‘So what in hell’s name is so important about John Largo that the FBI send one of their finest on a tub all the way over to Glasgow.’
‘Actually I flew. To London. I took the train up here. And John Largo is that important. Seeing as you’re so all-fired curious about me, and seeing as you enjoy an interesting relationship with the local law enforcement, I thought it would be good for you and me to have a talk without Jock Ferguson present.’ Devereaux stood up and we started to walk through the park.
‘You don’t trust Jock?’ I asked.
‘I’m just cautious, that’s all.’
‘Yet you’re prepared to trust me?’
Devereaux laughed. ‘Now, there’s a question: do you trust a man who doesn’t really trust himself? Well, let me tell you, Lennox, you’re an interesting kind of guy. You’ll have guessed that I’ve been through everything that’s on file about you. War record. Post — war record. I know that you deal with crooks. I know that you’ve done the odd crooked thing yourself. And I know more than you might think I would know about everything that happened last year.’
I said nothing. He probably did know more than I’d like. More than Jock Ferguson knew; or was sure that he knew.
‘Like I said, I saw your war record. I know what it was like to have your kind of war. I was with the First Ranger Battalion. That’s one of the reasons I put myself forward to come over here… I know Scotland. I trained here with the British Commandos before Omaha Beach.’
Again, I said nothing. Everybody had a war story.
‘I also know about the…’ Devereaux paused, looking somewhere in the park’s trees for the right word. ‘… difficulties you got into towards the end of your war service. The accusations about black-market dealing. And I know all about your German associate ending up face down in Hamburg harbour.’ Devereaux stopped in the path and turned to me. ‘Do you know what I see, Lennox? I see a man who can be trusted for the best reason of them all. Money. I don’t know what schemes Ferguson has going. Maybe none. But it looks to me like every second cop in this city is on the take. I’d be pretty sure that Largo has a couple in his pocket. So here’s the deal: I’ll pay you for anything I can use to get Largo. You give me the goods that lead me to him and I’ll pay you a thousand dollars. That’s over and above anything you make on the side from the cases you’re investigating. It should also be enough to resolve any conflicts of interest, should they arise.’
‘That’s an interesting offer, Dex…’ All of a sudden I felt comfortable using his first name: promises of large sums of money tended to make me more amenable to widening my social circle. ‘But, to be honest, a lot of people have been paying me to find people. So far my batting average has been pretty lousy.’
‘You don’t need to find him, Lennox. Just get enough to point me in the right direction.’ He led on and I followed. A woman in a flared shirtwaister dress and winged sunglasses pushed a pram the size of a taxi past us. Devereaux lifted his hat to her and I followed suit. We were pretty elegant for a couple of New World Joes.
‘You still haven’t told me why he is so important,’ I said. ‘What did he do: steal George Washington’s wooden teeth from the Smithsonian?’
‘When we met at your apartment the other night, I told you how Largo has built up a chain of supply across three continents. It’s a very, very impressive operation. But what’s even more impressive is the vision behind it. You and I saw all kinds of hell in the war, I’d say, but John Largo has a vision of the future that would give us new nightmares. Have you heard of a narcotic called heroin?’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ I said. ‘It was used in the war instead of morphine. I’ve heard of people getting hooked on it, but it’s less addictive than morphine, I believe. That’s why they used it.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. That’s where everyone behind heroin got it wrong. It was created as a less addictive alternative but it actually creates a higher dependency among those who use it. That’s not been a problem. Here in England it’s still legal and a prescribed medicine. If your kid has a cough that won’t go away, the doctor will write you a script for a dose of heroin drops. In fact, the authorities here only started to keep a record of heroin addicts this year. There are just short of four hundred recorded addicts in Britain. Almost all are doctors or connected to the medical profession. You don’t have a problem here. But in the States we do, and it’s getting bigger. Heroin has been controlled since the Harrison Act and we made it completely illegal more than twenty years ago.’
He paused as a couple of young men in shabby business suits walked past.
‘I work out of the Bureau’s New York office. Last year, in Harlem, New York City, we saw a rapid spread of the illegal supply of heroin. This summer we have an epidemic on our hands… an epidemic of negroes injecting themselves with this stuff.’
‘So this is Largo’s business. He’s the one who’s supplying it to the blacks?’
Devereaux shook his head. ‘John Largo is supplying the people who supply the negroes. The Syndicate. But Largo’s not the only one supplying the Syndicate. Glasgow isn’t the main supply port, and Largo isn’t the only exporter.’
‘Who’s the competition?’ I asked.
‘Corsicans. Between you and me there’s a rumour that Uncle Sam did a deal with the Corsican Mafia to keep the commies out of Marseille. Uncle Sam in the form of the CIA. The flip-side of the deal is that the same Corsicans are running heroin from French Indochina to Turkey and into Marseille and supplying the stuff to the New York Syndicate. The story is that Largo uses a different route and the stuff ends up here in Glasgow. Then it’s shipped to the States.’
For a moment, I considered what Devereaux was saying. I leaned back on the bench, hooking my elbows over the back and tilting the brim of my Borsalino to let the sun bathe my face.
‘So why are you here and not in Marseille? Sounds to me like Largo is small fry in comparison to these Corsicans.’
‘He’s not. Anything but. Largo represents serious opposition, and the Corsicans don’t take kindly to opposition. Trust me, John Largo has more to fear from his swarthy islander competitors than he does from law enforcement. Fact is the Syndicate is largely made up of Neapolitan and Sicilian families. There’s some kind of animosity between the Italians and Corsicans. The Corsicans are the wrong type of Guinea or something, I guess. And Largo has been undercutting their prices. So, he’s slowly been carving out a bigger share of the US market.’
‘How did you find out about him?’
A couple of young women walked past and we again raised our hats. The girls laughed in a stupid way and walked on. No class, I thought. The one nearest to me had on a white linen skirt so lightweight that the sun shone through, outlining her thighs and hips. No class but nice ass.
‘Six months ago I got a lead,’ said Devereaux. ‘The Italians don’t talk because of their omerta, but they have to work with others. In the Syndicate and out of it. They’ve been setting up a network of coloured middlemen throughout Harlem. One of them was a guy called Jazzy Johnson, who also happened to be one of my snitches. Johnson wasn’t able to pass on information of any quality because they never told him anything more than the barest minimum he needed to know. But what made Jazzy a good snitch was the way he was all ears and he told me everything he could pick up. One of the things he overheard was a conversation about an overdue shipment that was coming from Glasgow, and the name John Largo was mentioned.’ Devereaux shrugged. ‘That’s it
… not much to go on, but at least I was able to put the name to a figure we knew was operating in Europe. Still not much information there except he was an ex-soldier…’
‘Ain’t we all?’ I interrupted.
‘Sure, but Largo is supposed to be some kind of ex-professional. You know, career-type soldier.’
‘Which army?’
‘Don’t know. US, Canadian… maybe even British. The start of the supply chain has to be out in the Far East and it could be that John Largo started out in some Brit colony like Hong Kong. Or fought the Japs rather than the Krauts. Wherever he did his fighting and whoever he did it for, the rumours are that he is one deadly son-of-a-gun. There’s been a lot of blood spilt across Asia and Europe just setting this thing up.’ Devereaux stopped again and looked around the park. ‘Say, do you think we could do this wet?’
I looked at my watch. ‘The pubs are open. I know a place near here
…’
There tends to be an architectural style or design vernacular that unites buildings used for a common, specific purpose. Glasgow bars seemed to be themed eternal gloom. Where there were windows, the glass was frosted or misted for the twin purposes of concealing the earnest business of Scottish drinking from the outside world and to attenuate any sunlight into an insipid milky-white bloom.
We didn’t speak further about Largo or the FBI all the way through the park and onto the main road. Instead, we talked about Vermont and New Brunswick. Different sides of the border but pretty much the same way of life and pretty much the same way of looking at life. A few heads had turned in our direction when we entered the gloom of the bar, but we were ignored once we had ordered a couple of whiskies and sat over at a corner table away from the smattering of other customers.
‘So your informant. Can’t he find out any more about Largo?’
‘He can’t find out anything about anything any more.’
I raised an eyebrow but Devereaux shook his head. ‘Bar fight. The same old crap… about a woman, or a spilt drink, or a remark. He took a knife in the ribs.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said, and a fleeting thought that Glasgow was maybe twinned with Harlem fleeted. ‘And you have no other leads?’
‘You got all I got.’ It was the first time I’d seen Devereaux close to gloomy. But it might just have been the pub.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘don’t get me wrong, I’m not haggling… but a thousand dollars isn’t much for the FBI to be offering for information leading them to someone as big, and someone who you have so few leads on, as John Largo.’
‘We have other priorities. Commies, mainly. Between Hoover and McCarthy we’ve spent the last five, six years chasing red spectres and letting the Syndicate get away with murder. Literally. The other thing is my bosses don’t put the same importance on Largo as I do. They see the French Connection, as they call it, as the biggest threat. And, to be honest, this problem isn’t a problem as far as a lot of my superiors are concerned so long as it’s in Harlem. Upper Manhattan or Nassau County and we’d have a task force set up with a million-dollar budget. But Harlem… it’s just niggers.’
I took a breath and let it go slowly. It all fitted. ‘You can keep the reward money,’ I said. ‘If I find anything out about Largo I’ll give it to you for free. Like I said, I’ve got a lot of people paying for my time to find people I can’t find.’
Devereaux stared at me as if he was unsure if I was serious. ‘Why, Lennox?’
‘You liked this coloured guy? Jazzy?’
‘He was a cheap hoodlum.’
‘You liked him though?’
‘I guess.’
‘The reason there’s only a thousand up for this reward is because it’s your money, isn’t it?’
‘No one else sees the big picture.’ Devereaux sighed. ‘These people are stuck in a shithole of a place and heroin gives them a holiday. It’s supposed to be the most incredible feeling, puts you in a different place a universe away from your troubles… but it turns your brain to mush and makes you its slave for the rest of your life. And that, my friend, means that it offers the criminal opportunity of the century. There’s no way that it’s going to stay in Harlem or Watts or Englewood. And even if it does, I didn’t join the FBI to watch people rot to death to make a buck for organized crime. Like I said, everything I told you in your apartment was true. My investigation here is private. Or semi-private. The Bureau agreed to pay my transport and accommodation and give me some kind of official sanction as far as the City of Glasgow Police are concerned. But if I don’t come up with the goods… literally come up with the goods, then I have a long and happy career in filing and archiving to look forward to.’
‘What do you mean “literally come up with the goods”?’
‘The New York Police Department have had to deal with all of the consequences of what’s happened in Harlem over the last two summers. Consequences on the street. It means that NYPD beat cops have become our best source of information. That information tells us that there’s been a hiccup in supply. About three weeks ago a shipment was supposed to arrive. It didn’t. There are a lot of itchy customers on the street as a result and, last I heard, it still hadn’t arrived. Which is why I’m here. There’s been some kind of wrinkle and I reckon that John Largo is here in Glasgow with iron in hand. Let’s just hope it’s a big wrinkle and I have enough time to find him.’
‘What about the movement of the stuff itself. Have you spoken to the port authority? There’s a chance you’d be able to track any iffy shipments. I have a contact…’
Devereaux held his hand up. ‘You’ve got this all wrong. This isn’t illegal gun shipments…’ He shot me a meaningful look: he really did know more than Jock Ferguson about what had happened last year. ‘What you’ve got to remember about this stuff is that you don’t need a freighter to bring it over. It’s small and it can be hidden anywhere and in anything. A suitcase of this stuff in its pure form would be worth a hundred thousand dollars.’
I thought about what he was saying for a moment. ‘Does the City of Glasgow Police know any of this?’
‘Some. They’re not that interested in the heroin. They’re just very keen to be seen to help Uncle Sam.’ Devereaux smiled wryly. ‘We just saved the world, you know.’
‘That you did,’ I said, leaving the bitter Scottish beer and sipping at the whisky chaser. ‘That you did…’ I looked at my watch and suddenly had an idea. ‘Do you have your FBI badge with you?’
‘Sure…’ Devereaux frowned. ‘I have it with me all the time. Why?’
‘Because you could make someone’s day for me.’
I gave Devereaux the lowdown on the way up to Blanefield. I told him about what had been happening with Kirkcaldy and the forthcoming fight with the German title holder. All of which was just background for why I had really brought him up there.
‘I really appreciate you doing this, Dex,’ I said, as we pulled up behind the bottle-green Rover. Sneddon was allowing it to be used as an almost permanent observation post. Davey Wallace took the early evenings, Twinkletoes until one in the morning, then Sneddon would provide another thug to watch the place until daybreak. Davey still approached his duties with fierce dedication, taking notes of absolutely anything and everything that happened. He had looked more than a little intimidated by Twinkletoes at their first meeting. However, Twinkletoes had been positively avuncular with Davey. Which had been even more scary.
I tapped on the window of the Rover and Davey swung open the door and stepped out. I half expected him to stand to attention.
‘How’s it going, Davey?’ I asked.
‘Fine, Mr Lennox, just fine,’ he said. He cast a glance across to Devereaux who stood beside me. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s really nothing to report. I’ve not taken my eyes off the place though. You can trust me on that, Mr Lennox.’
‘I know that, Davey. I’ve brought someone up to meet you. I’ve been telling Dex here about how you work for me part-time and what a great job you’ve been doing.’
‘Dex Devereaux…’ The American said earnestly, almost sternly, and before he shook Davey’s hand he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a leather wallet. He flipped it open and gold flashed in the evening light. ‘Special Agent Dex Devereaux, FBI.’
It took all of my willpower, but somehow I suppressed a smirk at Davey’s reaction. He stared at Devereaux’s FBI shield, eyes wide, open-mouthed, mesmerized. It seemed to take an eternity before he looked past the badge to Devereaux’s face. Devereaux pocketed the shield and shook Davey’s hand.
‘Mr Lennox has told me you’re doing a darned fine job for him here. Darned fine. It’s always good to meet a fellow investigator. Keep up the good work, Davey.’
‘Dex is over here carrying out an investigation for the FBI. But that’s strictly between us, Davey,’ I said as gravely as I could manage.
‘Oh, yes… I wouldn’t say a thing, Mr Devereaux…’ Davey spoke like a child giving his very best promise. It was the child-likeness of it that troubled me. He was only a kid. I was pretty sure I had placed him in no danger, but I couldn’t be absolutely sure. ‘You can trust me not to say anything,’ he said with the same boyish earnestness.
‘I know I can,’ said Devereaux. ‘We are colleagues, after all.’
‘I’m sure you have a lot of questions for Dex,’ I said, offering them both a cigarette before lighting one for myself. ‘Is Bobby Kirkcaldy in?’
‘Yes sir,’ said Davey. ‘He came back with his uncle from the gym about an hour and a half ago.’
‘Why don’t you two have a chat while I go and see if there’s anything else to report.’
As I left them chatting, I saw Devereaux take his shield out again and hand it to Davey. At the same time I liked Devereaux and resented him. He reminded me of some of the men I’d met in the war. Men who saw all kinds of shit yet somehow managed to keep their humanity and sense of honour intact. There hadn’t been many of them. And I hadn’t been one.
The door was answered again by Uncle Bert Soutar. He was his usual charming self and, after I said I wanted a word with Kirkcaldy, he turned his back on me and walked along the terracotta-tiled hallway.
Bobby Kirkcaldy wasn’t in the lounge this time. Soutar led me further along the hall until there was no hall to lead me along. He opened the door and a few steps took us down into what must have originally been intended as a built-in double garage and workshop. Instead it had been converted into a gymnasium: three benches; a rack of weights and some free dumbbells in one corner of the concrete floor; a couple of heavy punch bags hung like giant pendulous sausages from robust ceiling chains, and a speed ball on a wall bracket. Bobby Kirkcaldy was in the centre of the gym, dressed in what looked like longjohns with boxing trunks over them. The air was filled with the sound of it being sliced repeatedly by Kirkcaldy’s skipping rope. His feet made only the smallest of movements but looked as if they were not actually in contact with the ground at any time. He ignored me as I came down the steps, finishing his set before wiping his face with the towel he had wrapped around his neck.
‘Well?’ he asked unceremoniously, breathing hard. I was surprised at how out of breath he was: I’d seen him go the distance in the ring without breaking much of a sweat. I would have been surprised if he had neglected his fitness this close to a fight.
‘I just wanted to check that everything’s okay. As you know we’ve got someone watching the house most of-’
‘The kid?’ It was Soutar who interrupted me. Maybe that was how his face got the way it was — interrupting people. ‘What the fuck is he going to do if someone starts any shite? He looks about twelve.’
‘Oh no,’ I said in an offended tone. ‘I don’t hire anyone under thirteen unless it’s for chimney sweeping.’
Uncle Bert took a step closer to me.
‘Bert…’ said Kirkcaldy in a low tone, causing Soutar to check himself and allowing me once more to consider the ignominy of being beaten up by a pensioner. Kirkcaldy turned to me. ‘You can call him off. Nothing’s happened for weeks and I’m getting pissed off being under surveillance. If I needed that I’d’ve gone to the police.’
‘Listen, Mr Kirkcaldy, I’m just doing my job. Mr Sneddon has an interest in you and I’m just protecting that interest. If you say there’s been no more trouble, then fine… I’ll report back to Sneddon and take instructions from him. In the meantime, it’s a free country and if Mr Sneddon wants to park his car outside on the street and have someone look after it, then there’s nothing anybody can do.’
‘You done?’ There was no aggression in Kirkcaldy’s voice. He was cool. Always. That was what made him deadly in the ring.
‘Not quite. This is all very strange, if you don’t mind me saying so. You’ve been getting warnings and threats and you don’t tell anyone about it until your manager just happens along at the wrong time and sees it for himself. And since I first got involved in this, you’ve gone out of your way to make out that there’s nothing going on.’
‘There’s not. And I didn’t mention it because it means fuck all. It was obviously someone trying to put me off. It didn’t work. It was never going to work, and they’ve given up.’
‘What about you, Gramps?’ I turned to Soutar. Deep within the folds and creases and pads of puffed flesh, his eyes glittered hard and black. ‘What do you think? Do you think it’s someone trying to spook Mr Kirkcaldy? I mean, I’m asking you for your expert opinion.’
‘What the fuck is that meant to mean?’ he asked nasally.
‘I mean fight fixing. You know a thing or two about that. I was talking to an old amigo of yours… Jimmy MacSherry. He was reminiscing about the old days.’
‘Do you have a point?’ asked Kirkcaldy.
‘Just that Uncle Bert here has had a colourful past. Am I right in thinking that you were involved with a bookie? Rumours of fight fixing?’
‘You should mind your own business…’ Soutar hid the threat in his tone with the subtlety of a turd hidden in a teacup.
‘But it is true, isn’t it?’ I said, pushing my luck. ‘You got involved with a kid on the make. My guess is he became a bookie. Small Change MacFarlane?’
‘What the fuck has that got to do with anything?’ Kirkcaldy moved closer. It wasn’t a threat: he was preparing to stop old man Soutar in his tracks if he moved to have a go at me.
‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged. It was true. ‘Maybe nothing. MacFarlane’s dead and they’ve got his killer. But maybe something. And if there is, I’ll find out.’
I left them in the gym and made sure that I let myself out. There was something about the idea of taking the walk back along the hall with Soutar behind me that gave me an itch between the shoulder blades.
I walked back up to where the cars were parked. I could see Devereaux was still holding court with Davey, who continued to hang on every word.
‘Problem?’ asked Devereaux as I came up to them. He obviously had a talent for reading faces. Or minds. The FBI probably ran classes in it at Quantico.
‘Dissatisfied customer. I would appear to be over-delivering my service.’
We left Davey buzzing and I drove Devereaux back to his hotel.
‘Thanks for doing that, Dex,’ I said, as Devereaux got out of the car. ‘Davey’s got nothing. He’s stuck in a shitty home, with a shitty job with shitty prospects. You’ve made his year.’
‘You’re welcome, Lennox. He’s a good kid. But now you owe me.’
‘Anything I hear, you hear.’
‘Okay, Lennox. Look after yourself.’
I watched Devereaux, a huge man in a loud suit and a straw trilby, cross the street to the hotel. Whatever else the FBI taught its agents in Quantico, how not to be conspicuously American wasn’t part of the curriculum.
After I dropped Devereaux back at his Buchanan Street hotel, I parked and walked a few blocks to the Imperial Hotel. I wasn’t after another drink.
May Donaldson and I had an arrangement.
May was a divorcee. Glasgow was not New York or London high society and the Glaswegian view of divorce was less than sophisticated. It didn’t matter that she had been blameless: any divorce, for any reason, and in any class, placed a woman well and truly on the outside of Presbyterian respectability. May and I had done a few rounds together, it was true. But I liked to think that I had never actually used her. I also liked to think that Santa Claus really existed. I found May where I knew she would be, tending bar in the lounge of the Imperial Hotel. May had a knockout figure but a forgettable face, often wreathed with a kind of sadness or weariness. When I walked into the bar she was wearing a conservative white blouse and black skirt, the hotel’s required uniform. The aim was to put the title waitress rather than barmaid in the minds of patrons. May had poured me a bourbon before I reached the bar.
‘What’s up, Lennox? You got a job for me?’ she asked with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
‘Yep… but not the usual,’ I said. May did the odd job for me where she would turn up at a prearranged time and lie, fully clothed, beneath the covers in a hotel bedroom. Next to her would be a fully clothed middle-aged male. I would walk in with a member of the hotel staff and a couple of months later we would all speak of the event in a divorce courtroom as if it hadn’t really been the pantomimed sham that everyone knew it was. The British allowed divorce, but in a British way: bureaucratic, long-winded and more than a little shoddy. Which suited me fine. I had made a lot of money from staged infidelities to support divorce cases.
‘Oh?’ May looked at me with so much suspicion in her expression that she clearly thought I was going to offer to buy her mother for the white slave trade.
‘Don’t worry, nothing dodgy. I’m trying to contact a young woman who lives in one of the Corporation hostels. There’s a matron there who won’t let me in and I can’t park myself outside until she shows.’
May arched an already arched eyebrow.
‘It’s not what you think,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a missing person case and this girl is maybe the last one to see my guy before he disappeared. I’d like you to call on her and ask her to meet with me so I can ask her a few questions. If she can tell you where to find the guy then that’ll do just as well.’
‘When?’
‘When do you finish here?’
‘My shift ends at nine.’
I looked at my watch. It was eight-fifteen. Of course, I could have stayed and drunk my bourbon and chatted to May until her shift ended, but that would have been awkward for both of us. ‘Okay, I’ll pick you up then.’
I drank half the bourbon for appearances’ sake, paid for it, and headed back to my car. Considering May and I had been intimate on a number of occasions, I found something depressing about the sterile, businesslike exchange I’d just had with her. But then, when I thought about it, our intimacy had often been sterile and businesslike.
I tried Lorna again from a callbox at the corner of Bath Street. Still nothing. I looked at my watch again. I had this business with May and Sammy’s putative inamorata, Claire, to sort out. It would be ten before I could head out to Lorna’s.
I killed the half hour and went back to pick up May. She came out wearing a lightweight coat and smart black hat. They looked new but I’d seen them on her more times than I could remember. While the rest of society was coming out of austerity, a divorcee in Glasgow working behind a bar had to learn to stretch her wardrobe.
I put the radio on as we drove to Partick. Mel Torme was singing ‘Harlem Nocturne’ and it made me think of everything Devereaux had told me about his bosses, who were convinced that Devereaux’s particular Harlem nocturne wouldn’t play in Peoria. They were wrong and Devereaux was right.
The Velvet Fog sang, and saved both of us the effort of conversation. I don’t know what it was that was going on between May and me, but it was mutual. It was as if we were both on the brink of becoming other people. Putting a past behind us. And each represented an embarrassing reminder to the other of who they had been.
We were halfway to Partick when May confirmed my thesis. ‘I’ve met someone, Lennox,’ she said tentatively. ‘A widower. He’s older than me but he’s a good man. Kind. He’s got two children.’
‘Does he come from Glasgow?’ I asked. If she said no, I would know that the chump was a ticket out of the city. May had made it very clear in the past how much she hated Glasgow. In the past, in the pluperfect, and in the present perfect continuous.
‘No. He has a farm in Ayrshire. You know that my ex-husband was a farmer?’
‘You mentioned it,’ I said. Several drunken times, I thought. ‘Does he make you happy?’
‘He stops me being unhappy. That’s enough for me. We need each other. I get on well with his kids and they’re at an age where they need a mother.’
‘Okay…’ I smiled at her. ‘I’m happy for you, May. Really. I take it there’s a reason you’re telling me this?’
‘I can’t do any more work for you. After tonight, that’s it. George doesn’t know that I’ve done these divorce cases with you and he can’t find out. We’re going to make a clean break, get right away from the past.’
‘To Ayrshire?’ I couldn’t keep the puzzlement from my voice. ‘That is the past. To be specific it’s the eighteenth century.’
‘No,’ she said coldly. ‘Not Ayrshire. You’ll laugh at this…’
‘Okay, try me.’
‘Canada. We’re emigrating to Canada. They’re looking for farmers there.’
I didn’t laugh. In fact, I was surprised at my reaction. Something sharp and unpleasant bit me in the gut and I realized it was envy.
‘Where in Canada?’
‘Saskatchewan. Near Regina.’
We pulled up outside Craithie Court. I switched Torme off mid croon. ‘I really do wish you all the best.’
‘The other thing, Lennox… it would be best if you didn’t call round to the flat any more.’
I placed my hand on hers. She stifled the instinctive recoil, but not quickly enough for me not to sense the tensing of her fist to pull away.
‘It’s all right, May. I understand. I really hope it works out for you. We’ll make this our last job, okay? I won’t call round any more.’
She smiled. It would have been nice if her smile had been tinged with sadness, but the idea of not seeing me again seemed to cheer her up no end. I have that effect on some women. I went over with her again what to say to Claire Skinner and gave her Sammy Pollock’s name again. She got out of the car and went into the Hostel. When she didn’t come back immediately, I took it as a good sign.
It was half an hour before she re-emerged and got back into the car, her face flushed and her expression dark.
‘Drive around the corner,’ she said without looking at me. ‘She’s probably watching the car.’
I did what May told me. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked when we were parked again.
‘I don’t know, Lennox, but whatever it is, that girl in there is terrified. She said she wouldn’t come out to talk to you. She says she knows nothing about where Sammy Pollock is and she wouldn’t tell you if she did know. It’s not that she’s being tough about it, it’s just that she is so terrified.’ May frowned. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got involved with, Lennox, but you better be careful. Someone has that poor girl scared half to death.’
‘Okay… I guess I’ll have to wait until she has a spot at the Pacific Club and have another go at her then.’
‘You’ll be lucky. I get the feeling she’s keeping a low profile.’
‘You okay?’
May looked at me for a moment, sighed then smiled. ‘I’m fine. It’s just she was very… agitated. I thought she was going to go for me.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t think…’
‘Forget it… it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.’ Suddenly, May’s attention was drawn to something through the windscreen.
‘Look…’ she said.
‘Is that her?’
I followed May’s eyes to the junction about two hundred yards ahead, to where a young woman in her early twenties was hurrying across the street, coming from the direction of Craithie Court. From this distance she appeared to be quite attractive. My experience of Glaswegian women was that they were usually only ever attractive from a distance, or through bourbon-tinted glasses. The woman up ahead was not quite slim with a slight heaviness around the waist and ankles. She had a pale grey jacket draped over one blue-bloused arm and everything about her movements suggested urgency.
‘You haven’t seen her before?’ May seemed surprised. ‘Yes, that’s her.’
We watched as she made her way along the street towards the corner.
‘Can you drive, May?’ I asked. It was odd, but it was one of the thousands of things about May that I didn’t know.
She shook her head. I took out my wallet and handed her everything I had in it apart from a couple of one-pound notes. It amounted to just over thirty pounds and I thrust it into her hands.
‘That’s for helping me out tonight. I’ve got to go after her so that’s to cover your taxi fare home too. Thanks, May.’
‘That’s far too much, Lennox.’
‘Consider it a wedding gift,’ I said. I got out of the car and May followed. ‘I’m sorry that you have to get a cab home.’
‘That’s okay,’ she said.
I looked impatiently up the road to the corner around which Claire Skinner had just disappeared from view. I turned back to May. It was as if she was trying to frame a thought, put something into words.
‘It’s okay, May,’ I said. ‘See you around.’
She nodded in an odd way, her eyes avoiding mine, said ‘Thanks’ and ‘Bye’, turned abruptly, and walked briskly back down Thornwood Road towards Dumbarton Road and out of my life.
I jumped back into the Atlantic. The chances were that Claire Skinner hadn’t spotted my car outside the hostel. And my face was totally unknown to her. My fond farewell to May had cost me too much time to follow Claire on foot: I had too much distance to cover. And once I had covered it, things would get tricky: it’s never easy to follow by car someone who is on foot, without being detected. But I guessed that Claire would jump onto a bus or tram, or hail a taxi. I had no idea where she was going, but I was pretty sure whom she was going to see. I picked her up again when I turned the corner. Her trot had slowed to a brisk walk, still a determined effort on a muggy summer’s evening in Glasgow. I saw her check her watch, but I was pretty sure this was no prearranged appointment: she had been spurred into action by May’s unwelcome intervention.
I caught up with her and had to drive past her at normal speed. I decided to pull over farther up the street, dump the car, and hoof it. A car travelling at walking pace would be far too conspicuous. I pulled over to the kerb and did a quick check of where I was. Fairlie Park Drive. I was about to get out of my car when she walked briskly past without looking in my direction. There was a telephone booth at the corner with Crow Road and Claire stepped into it. She made a short call before stepping back out and waiting outside the ’phone box. I noticed her feet, small beneath the slightly too thick ankles and doing a little side to side dance step. I decided to sit tight. The mountain was maybe on its way to Mohammed. After about ten minutes, I saw her wave furiously at something. A black taxi pulled over and she jumped in. I waited until the cab passed me and put another car between us before I pulled out.
The taxi headed south out of the city. We passed through Pollokshields, reminding me that I’d have to return there later, then Pollokshaws, Giffnock and Newton Mearns. One of the things I could never get used to about Glasgow was the way it was this concentrated, dense knot of stone, brick and steel, factories and furnaces, tenements and bristling cranes; and then suddenly you were in open, almost empty countryside. We were on the main road south, a grey-black scar on a wrinkled blanket of green that stretched as far as I could see on either side. This was the main Carlisle road and it meant I was able to conceal myself in traffic: something that became more difficult when the taxi pulled off onto a B-road. Another turn took the cab onto an even narrower country road. This was a road to nowhere else and you needed a reason to have made that turning. I held back, allowing a gap to open up between the Atlantic and the cab. The road traced the edge of a flooded quarry that looked up at the sun like a mud-brown eye.
I had lost sight of the taxi around a bend. It didn’t concern me because there was nowhere for it to go. A little bit of acceleration and I could bring it back into view. But when I turned the bend I was suddenly faced with the rear of the cab, pulled into a farm gate. I drove on without looking in its direction and only once I was past did I see Claire Skinner disembark and hand some notes to the driver. Clearly not waiting for change, she turned, opened the gate, and headed up what looked to me like a farm track.
Bingo.
I continued along the road until I reached the next bend. In my rear-view mirror I saw the taxi struggle to make a three-point turn and head back in the direction of the main road. I drove around the next bend, a sharp turn to the left. A little further on there was a copse beside the road. Bumping the Atlantic onto the grass verge, the two driver’s side wheels still on the tarmac, I felt reasonably sure I had concealed my car from the farm track and presumably any buildings at the track’s end.
I made my way on foot through the clump of trees until I was at its edge and had a clear view across the fields. The sun was low and rich in the evening sky, softening edges and warming tones. I spotted Claire’s head for a second before it disappeared from view where the path dipped between its banks and I couldn’t see her — which meant she couldn’t see me. For how long, I didn’t know: the path could soon incline back to become level with the surrounding fields.
I broke out from the cover of the trees and ran across the field, angling my trajectory across the grass to aim for the field-height stretch of path behind the point at which I had last seen Claire Skinner. The lush green grass in the field was ankle height, but the ground beneath was reasonably firm, having been dried out of its normal sodden state by the recent atypical spell of sunshine. Siberia has permafrost; Scotland has permasog. My rush across the pasture was watched disinterestedly by a handful of black-faced, dead-eyed sheep. I wasn’t hurrying in order to catch up with Claire — my guess was that there would be only one destination at the end of the lane — but rather to keep out of her sight by getting to the path before she emerged from the hollow and had a view of the field.
Vaulting over the dry-stone wall, I dropped down onto the lane, a thin grey ribbon of dusty earth between grassy banks. There was something about the lane and the evening light that made me feel I should be in a collarless shirt, sleeves rolled up and with a scythe over my shoulder. But that wouldn’t really be me: as a character I always thought of myself as more Leslie Charteris than Thomas Hardy. Ruddy-cheeked farm girls and frothy ale weren’t my thing. Although I’d probably give the ruddy-cheeked farm girls a go.
I put these bucolic musings out of my head and made my way along the lane at a steady, unhurried pace. There was no sign of Claire Skinner until I came to a bend in the lane. I could see her up ahead, about a hundred yards distant. I ducked behind the cover of the grassy bank and watched as she headed towards a farm cottage tucked into a tangle of bramble and bush. Scotland’s latitude made for long summer evenings, but the sun was low now and I would have expected to see a light from inside the cottage. There was none. Claire knocked on the door and had to wait for a minute or so before someone unseen to me admitted her.
I watched the cottage for five full minutes, just to make sure it wasn’t going to be a flying visit. Seeing as Claire had dismissed the taxi at the lane’s end, and the fact that we were in the middle of nowhere, my guess was Claire had no plans to make the return journey to Glasgow that night.
I considered my options. I would have a long loiter if I waited until it got truly dark before approaching the cottage; but in any kind of light I would be visible on the path a hundred yards away. Time enough to put a party together and shout ‘surprise!’ when I came in through the front door. I didn’t know what I was dealing with and it would be best to check it out unseen first.
Backtracking up the farm lane, I climbed over another stone wall and took a long, wide sweep around to the side and rear of the cottage where I was sure I’d be obscured by the bushes and brambles. It was my only option, but I felt exposed up on an elevated field and silhouetted against a shield of sunset sky. It took me five minutes to get into position around the back of the cottage. As I drew close, I could see that this was a camp-out. Much of the glass in the windows was cracked or broken and what wasn’t was fogged with grime. What I guessed had been a small vegetable garden at the back was now waist-high overgrown and I gently had to scythe my way through it, pushing the vegetation as quietly as possible from my path. By the time I reached the back door, I could hear voices from inside — this was not somewhere you would feel the need to whisper. The voices were urgent. Two voices. One male, one female.
Edging along the rough stone wall, I reached one of the small, grimy windows and peered in. I snapped my head back immediately when I realized that Claire Skinner was sitting directly in front of the window, with her back to it. I wasn’t able to see where the man was, but I could hear him talking. Then I heard Claire saying exactly what I’d been waiting for her to say since I had first started to follow her.
The name ‘Sammy’.