Dead Men and Broken Hearts: A Lennox Thriller (Lennox 4) (5 page)

‘And in return you won’t have the police and the press sticking their noses into your business.’

‘Believe me, Lennox,’ Lynch chipped in. ‘The last thing we want to do is involve someone like you in our business either. We’ve tried to find Lang ourselves, but he’s disappeared without trace. This is something that’s outside the union’s expertise or resources. That’s why we contacted you. This is your kind of work, isn’t it?’

‘Sure …’ I nodded. ‘But the police have more and better resources than anyone. I know they’re not your favourite people, but I still don’t really understand why you are so reluctant to get them involved if a crime has been committed.’

‘You don’t know much about the union movement, do you, Mr Lennox?’ asked Connelly.

‘My usual clients tend not to be unionized.’ I smiled at the thought of what union affiliation would be held by some of the people I’d rubbed shoulders with in the recent past: Singer, Twinkletoes McBride or Hammer Murphy. The Association of Armed and Allied Thuggery Trades, probably. At least it would resolve demarcation issues about who should be ramming the shotgun in the teller’s ribs and who should be stuffing the cash from the safe into the duffle-bag.

Connelly stared at me with not much to read in the way of an expression. It was as if he wore the slightly livid, puffy flesh of his face as a mask to hide what was going on in the mind behind it – a skill probably honed throughout years of industrial confrontation and wage negotiation.

‘I’m not what you would call a political animal,’ I said, as much to fill the silence as anything. ‘Maybe a touch of classical liberal. Not much Marx about me, unless you count Groucho.’

‘There is a revolution going on in this country. A slow, quiet social revolution that has picked up pace since the end of the war,’ continued Connelly. ‘Any revolution, by its very nature, involves displacing the powers-that-be. And the powers-that-be in this nation will do their damnedest to stop that revolution in its tracks. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen the lengths the British Establishment will go to crush opposition. I stood alongside Manny Shinwell and Willie Gallacher during the Battle of George Square in Nineteen-Nineteen. I saw with my own eyes British tanks brought out onto the streets of Glasgow to crush legitimate protest.’

‘Before my time, I’m afraid,’ I said. But the truth was I knew all about Red Clydeside and the riots in Glasgow in 1919. The Coalition Government had thought that Glasgow was the kicking-off point for a Bolshevik revolution and had flooded the city with troops, machine-gun posts and tanks. I decided it wouldn’t be helpful to point out to Connelly that, as we sat there and chatted, his communist comrades were in the process of using the same tactics, but much more ruthlessly, in the streets of Budapest. Or that, just a few months before, good socialist soldiers in Poland had gunned down unarmed strikers in Poznan.

‘Well, take my word for it,’ continued Connelly. ‘This union is at the forefront of a social and political revolution. That means we come under the frequent and unwelcome scrutiny of the police and other government agencies. Believe me, they would just love an excuse to come in here and start poking around in our affairs. But we have to be seen to observe the law in its smallest detail, Mr Lennox, and that means eventually we will
have to contact the police and report the theft – unless someone finds Lang in the meantime and we can persuade him to return the stolen items. It would save me a lot of embarrassment and Frank Lang a prison term if you could find him. Will you take the job?’

‘Then I need to know what his work for the union entailed. Without that, no deal.’

Lynch looked to Connelly for guidance. The union boss gave a curt nod.

‘Lang is an ex-merchant navy man,’ said Lynch. ‘A member of the seaman’s union and active in a number of areas. I have to admit that he had some kind of shady past, but we didn’t ask too many questions about that.’

‘I see …’ I said, and wondered if I should apply for a fulltime job with the union. ‘What’s he got on you?’

‘What?’ asked Lynch irritably.

‘All of this discretion is one thing,’ I said, ‘but thirty-five-thousand is a lot to be discreet about. So what has he got on you? Is Lang blackmailing the union?’

‘No.’ Connelly sighed impatiently. ‘But if Lang hands the ledger over to the wrong hands, then people are going to suffer. Mr Lennox, will you take this job on?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Connelly. This sounds all very political and, like I say, politics aren’t my thing.’

‘The politics don’t concern you, Lennox,’ said Lynch. ‘This is a simple theft and recovery case, as far as you’re concerned.’

‘I have to tell you that I don’t charge union rates …’

Connelly took an envelope from his drawer and held it out to me. I left it hanging in his hand.

‘There is a hundred and fifty pounds in there. In advance. This also contains all of the information you will need.’

A hundred and fifty pounds. I suddenly became filled with the warm glow of solidarity with the working man. Deciding the weight of the package was causing Connelly discomfort, I reached across the desk and relieved him of it.

I spent the next couple of days getting stuff sorted out. I had taken on two jobs, both of which would need a lot of man hours. And if the Ellis job became a full-blown divorce case, it would involve a lot of paperwork. The problem I had was the Friday bank run. It was a two-man job and Archie always rode shotgun for me. Or at least he sat in the van’s passenger seat with a fifteen-inch police truncheon on his lap. I decided that I would need to take on some extra casual help; someone handy enough with their fists, or a police truncheon, to sit in the van next to Archie and ensure the wages run was completed without incident.

It said a lot about my life up till then that finding someone with those skills would not present much of a problem.

Twinkletoes McBride showed up at my office on the Tuesday morning at eleven a.m. sharp, just as I had asked him to. I told him to take a seat. Twinkletoes was someone you wanted to sit, because when he stood he filled the room and made the furniture look like it belonged in a doll’s house. He certainly had a primeval, backward-evolved sort of presence about him. If Charles Darwin had ever met Twinkle, he probably would have tossed the manuscript of
On the Origin of Species
into the fire.
Twinkle was a big lad – he would have made it to six-foot-six if he hadn’t wanted for a forehead – and he was as bulky as he was tall. Sadly, his physical presence was not, it had to be said, matched by much of an intellectual one. More like an absence.

‘I brung them letters of reference you asked for, Mr Lennox,’ Twinkletoes said in a polite baritone that made the floor vibrate. He handed me two envelopes as he sat down and I half expected to hear the splintering of wood.

‘Thanks, Twinkle,’ I said, and read through them.

‘They okay, Mr Lennox?’ he asked earnestly, frowning as much as his lack of forehead would allow.

‘Twinkle, you know these are for me to show the bank?’

‘Yes, Mr Lennox.’

‘Well, the one from Willie Sneddon is fine, but the other one is no good.’

‘That’s from Mr Frazer, what used to be my manager when I was in the fight game, like. He says I was a good employee with a lot of heart, he says.’

‘I can see that, Twinkle. It’s a glowing reference and it would be fine, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s written it on paper that’s headed HM Prison Barlinnie.’

‘Mr Frazer’s had some bad luck,’ said Twinkletoes dolefully.

‘Yeah … I heard,’ I said, but didn’t mention that the three men he’d had beaten into comas had been a tad unluckier.

‘I think we’ll shelve this one, Twinkle. Like I said, Mr Sneddon’s should be fine.’ Willie Sneddon was still one of the Three Kings, but he’d worked a public relations miracle and become a reasonably respected figure in the world of legitimate Glasgow business, if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms.

‘Now, you do understand that you’re there to make sure nobody robs the van, don’t you?’

‘Oh yes, Mr L. I
app-ree-shee-ate
that,’ he said with syllabic precision. Twinkletoes might not have been one of Nature’s great thinkers or scholars but he had to be commended on his efforts to improve his mind – and there was immense room for improvement. McBride devoted hours each day to reading. Sometimes as many as two pages in one day. The
Reader’s Digest, Boy’s Own
and
The Hotspur
were his favoured tomes from the literary canon. He had once confided in me that he sought to learn a new word every day.

‘This is a great
pre-village
for me. It being a straight job, and that. I hope them bank people know that I’ll not let any bastard put a finger on their money when I’m looking after it. Nobody’s gonna be better than me at spotting a robbery about to kick off … you know, with me knowing what it’s like from the other —’

‘I think we should keep details of your relevant experience to ourselves,’ I said, cutting him off. He nodded gravely.

I had known Twinkletoes on and off for the last five years and, apart from one painful run-in for which he had apologized profusely, I had not been on the receiving end of his professional abilities. Especially those abilities that had earned him his nickname. ‘Twinkletoes’ derived from his means – his very effective means – of extracting either information or unpaid debts from the recalcitrant on behalf of Willie Sneddon. It was a method that involved bolt cutters and Twinkle’s recitation of
This little Piggy …

‘And remember that your gaffer on this job is Archie McClelland,’ I said. ‘And Archie is ex-police. It would
not
be a good idea for you to share camp-fire stories.’ Twinkle attempted a frown again and I could see he was trying to work out where camp fires fitted into the job. ‘What I mean is don’t talk about
the stuff you’ve done for Willie Sneddon. A copper is a copper. Ex or not.’

‘Got you, Mr L.’

I smiled, but somehow did not feel reassured. When Sneddon had switched to using a five-iron for its intended purpose on a golf course, rather than as a weapon, it had left Twinkletoes and Singer, his fellow thug, at something of a loose end. Sneddon kept them around and on the payroll, but more to keep them out of sight than anything, so I had had to clear it with Sneddon first before approaching Twinkletoes about the job. It would only be once a week, after all, and it would leave me free to pursue other work.

Employing a hardened thug with a criminal record as a security guard on a wages run may have been a risk, but anyone in Glasgow who ever sawed off the barrels of a shotgun or pulled a stocking over their heads would know who Twinkletoes was. And that he was connected to Willie Sneddon. My logic was that that would be enough to set toes itching before anyone thought about holding up my wages run.

At least, that was what I kept telling myself as I sent a happy and gainfully employed Twinkletoes McBride on his way.

I read through the information that Connelly and Lynch had given me on their missing comrade. Frank Lang had been a cook and union shop steward, working on cargo ships. He was a member of all the right associations and labour bodies. There wasn’t a lot of background in the information, but enough for me to feel the draught of a red flag being vigorously waved.

The supplied picture of Lang was some kind of official photograph taken for records. From the picture it looked to me like Lang was in his middle thirties, with a long narrow face and a
round chin. Even in the black-and-white photograph it was clear that the hair was a very light blond and the eyes were a very pale shade of grey or blue. He wasn’t particularly handsome, or otherwise remarkable-looking, but there was something about his face that looked vaguely aristocratic. For no good reason, I found myself taking out the picture Pamela Ellis had given me of her errant husband and placed it next to Lang’s. They were, of course, totally different in appearance and just about every other way, but it just seemed strange to me that I was involved with two men who, each in his own way, was some kind of outsider. Ellis by dint of his foreign heritage and Lang because … because why? What was it about the picture of this thirty-seven-year-old union official that screamed out at me that he was a misfit. A square peg.

Maybe, I thought, it takes one to know one.

It was just after ten the following day when I parked outside a row of terraced houses in Drumchapel. It was a working-class district, all right, but this particular area was the domain of the new working class. These houses were less than two years old and were part of the Corporation’s initiative to replace the unsanitary conditions of the tenements with brand new, twentieth-century homes. As I stood there, the carbolic odour of The Future reaching through the damp late-autumn air, I wondered if Andrew Ellis’s company had blasted away the past to clear the site on which these new dwellings stood. There were four units to a block and Lang’s had a house on either side. There was no access to the back of the house that I could see without going around one of the ends, which would be less than inconspicuous. Added to which I had noticed the twitching of lace in the window next door and I spotted a woman walking her
dog up the street, in my direction. A little impromptu burglary, which I had had in mind, was clearly not going to be an option.

Pausing to light a cigarette killed enough time to allow the woman walking the dog to pass me, but the ugly little pug paused himself to raise a hind leg and take a leak against the wheel arch of the Atlantic. I looked from the dog to his owner, who scowled back at me. She was a squat woman in her late forties with a headscarf-framed face to sink a thousand ships, wearing a coat of a material that could have served equally well for carpeting and whose legs were as thick at the ankles as at the knees.

Miss Scotland walked on, still scowling at the world, and I swung open the metal gate that still gleamed new, walked up the short path and rang the doorbell for appearances’ sake. Stranger things had happened than for a supposedly missing shop steward to answer his own front door. But, in this case, they didn’t. There was a small, fence-edged rectangle of well-kept grass to my right and I stepped onto it to peer through the window.