Dead Men and Broken Hearts: A Lennox Thriller (Lennox 4) (6 page)

‘Can I help you?’

I turned to see a woman of about thirty standing at the neighbouring door, leaning against the jamb with her arms crossed. I worked out that she must have been the curtain-twitcher.

‘Oh … I didn’t see you there …’ I smiled at her disarmingly. She was worth smiling at. Dark blonde hair demi-waved and short, not too much make-up for town but too much for housework. Not knock-out but well constructed. She was wearing a pink woollen sweater that did a lot of good clinging and deep pink slacks.

‘Well, I saw you. What are you up to?’

‘I’m looking for Frank Lang,’ I said. ‘I’ve been sent by the union.’

‘You don’t look like a union type to me,’ she said, looking in the direction of the car, then back to me. Her expression was full of suspicion but not fear or unease. She could look after herself.

‘Can you tell me when you last saw Mr Lang?’ I asked. Still smiling.

‘You look more like a salesman,’ she said. ‘Are you a salesman?’

‘No, ma’am,’ I said. My cheeks were beginning to ache. ‘Like I said, I’ve been asked by the union to find Mr Lang. Urgent business. Could you tell me when you last saw him?’

‘What about those other men?’ she asked. ‘Weren’t they from the union?’

‘What other men?’

‘The ones he went away with. Weren’t they union people?’

I stopped smiling. ‘No, I don’t think they could have been. When did this happen?’

She looked me up and down then straightened up from her door jamb lean with a sigh. ‘You better come in, then …’

I sat in the small front room – they had front rooms in Drumchapel and not lounges, like they had in Bearsden – and took in my surroundings.

Everything was new: a patterned three-piece suite that still smelled of the showroom; the same geometric patterns on the linoleum floor reversed on the hearth rug; a sideboard against one wall; a matching kidney-shaped coffee table with a chunky red glass ashtray looking like a splash of lava on the teak veneer, a chrome sunburst wall clock above the mantelpiece. It was as if they had asked for the store window display to be shipped “as is” direct into their brand-new council home.

The thing that most caught my attention was the sixty-quid
Bush television set that stood in one corner: one of the new jobs with the big seventeen-inch screens. I knew the price because I had been doing a bit of window shopping myself, playing with the idea that I could maybe get a new and bigger TV for Fiona and the girls for Christmas. I had built up a fair bit of cash over the last few years but had no one to spend it on other than myself. And except for my taste for expensive tailoring, my needs were pretty minimal. The only thing that had held me back from buying a set was my uncertainty about how it would go down with Fiona.

‘Nice place you have here,’ I said amiably when Lang’s neighbour came back from her kitchen, tea tray in hand.

‘Aye …’ she said, almost as if bored with the thought. ‘Better than our last place.’

‘Do you mind if I ask how much your TV cost you? I’m thinking about getting something similar.’

She shrugged. ‘Don’t know. It’s from RentaSet.’

‘I see,’ I said, and wondered how much of the Brave New World around me was on HP terms. ‘My name’s Lennox, by the way.’

‘Sylvia …’ she said. ‘Sylvia Dewar.’

‘You said Frank Lang went off with some men. When was this?’ I took the duck egg blue cup and saucer she handed me. Melamine, not china.

‘A week ago. No … nine days ago. Last Wednesday morning. About ten, ten-thirty.’ There was a change of wind and the cloud of suspicion drifted back over her expression. ‘What’s this all about? Like I said, you’re no union man.’

I laid a business card on the coffee table in front of her. ‘I’m an enquiry agent, Mrs Dewar. But I
am
working on the union’s behalf. Frank Lang has … well, he hasn’t exactly gone missing.
Not yet, anyway, not officially … but the union have been trying to reach him and they are concerned about him.’

‘Oh … I see.’ She thought for a moment, pursing her lips. I noticed the lipstick was fresher than it had been when she went into the kitchen. ‘So you think these men he went with came and took him away against his will?’

‘I don’t know, Mrs Dewar —’

‘Sylvia. You can call me Sylvia.’

‘I don’t know, Sylvia. You saw them. You saw Lang go with them. Did it look to you like he was unwilling to go?’

‘No. Not at all. He clearly knew them and they were chatting as they went to the car. And they certainly didn’t look like union men, either. They came in a big car. Expensive-looking.’

‘Do you know the make?’

She laughed. ‘I don’t know one car from the other. All I know is it wasn’t the type you usually see around here. And that it was dark red or brown.’

‘I see. Have there been any other odd comings and goings, recently?’

‘Not really. Frank Lang keeps himself to himself and is hardly ever at home. No wife, no family. The only time we know he’s there is when we smell his cooking.’

‘His cooking?’

‘I think he cooks fancy stuff. French, or something else foreign. That’s what it smells like, anyway. And he keeps all of these spices and things in his cupboards. Other than that I couldn’t say – my husband has more to do with him than me. He gets the impression that Frank spends most of his time attending meetings and talks, that kind of thing. Although I think he likes to dance.’

‘Dance?’

‘He went out every Saturday night. Always in a nice suit. A
friend of mine said she saw him at the Palais. He was very good, she said.’

‘I see …’

‘Do you like to dance, Mr Lennox? I like to dance.’ The wistful expression gave way to bitterness. ‘Tom – that’s my husband – Tom doesn’t dance.’

‘Would it be worthwhile me coming back to talk to your husband? I mean if he had more to do with Mr Lang?’

Something frosted in her expression. ‘No … I don’t think that would do anyone any good. Tom does have more to do with Frank than I do, but not that much more. Anyway, there’s not much point talking to my husband about anything. He gets lots of stupid ideas in his head.’ Sylvia paused and eyed me. ‘Tom’s at work at the moment. He won’t be back until six tonight.’

‘The union told me that they had carried out a few enquiries of their own,’ I said, ignoring the invitation in ten-foot high neon. ‘Has anyone else been here to talk to you?’

‘No,’ she kept me held in her gaze. ‘Only you.’

I stood up. ‘Well, thanks for your time, Sylvia. If anything else occurs to you, please give me a ring. Obviously, I’d appreciate it if you got in touch right away if and when Mr Lang returns home next door. My number’s on the card.’

‘You haven’t finished your tea …’ she protested.

‘It was fine, thanks, but I have to go. Thanks for your help.’

‘You could stay for a while longer, couldn’t you?’

She got up from the sofa, stepped around the table and stood close to me. Too close. She couldn’t have signalled her meaning more clearly if she had been waving semaphore flags at me from two feet away.

‘Sorry …’ I smiled and put on my hat. ‘I’ve got to go.’

* * *

As I made my way back to the car, two thoughts struck me. The first struck me like a shovel across the back of the head: I had just declined a chance of guilt-free, no-complications sex. Something I would never have turned down before. But since Fiona had come on the scene, of course, it wouldn’t have been guilt-free.

The second thought was more of a nagger, like an eyelash in your eye: if Sylvia Dewar had nothing to do with Frank Lang, how come she knew what he kept in his cupboards.

The following night I took Fiona and the girls to Cranston’s Cinema de Lux on Renfield Street to see
The Ten Commandments
. I had suggested we go to see
The Searchers
, but the girls would not have gotten in so, in the absence of a babysitter, I sat and watched an American-accented Moses argue the toss with a Russian-accented Pharaoh while a Max Factored Nefretiri smouldered. I was maybe getting paranoid, but as Chuck Heston climbed down the mountain with commandments in hand, I couldn’t help wondering if it was a ploy by Fiona to remind me just how many of them I had broken.

But I had more to bother me that night. When I had come home from work and tapped on Fiona’s door to remind her of the time of our date, I could tell there was something wrong. Her face was pale to the point of being ashen and there was something distracted about her manner, as if something massive and heavy was sitting in the path of her concentration. I asked her what was wrong but she dismissed the question, saying that she hadn’t slept too well the night before, that was all. But I knew there was more to it. Much more. She had become increasingly distant over the last month.

When I had called again to pick up her and the kids to take them to the picture house, Fiona looked better and sounded
cheery at the prospect of watching the movie. But there wasn’t really a block that I hadn’t been round several times and I recognized the deceit of her good cheer.

Chuck parted the Red Sea for the Chosen and I cast a glance at Fiona. It did nothing to reassure me. Whatever her thousand-yard-stare was focused on, it wasn’t the screen or the peril of the Israelites. I rested my hand on her forearm and felt it tense, as if she had stifled a start. She turned to me and smiled.

‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ she said, and turned back to the screen.

After the movie, we stopped off at Giacomo’s to get the girls an ice cream. I had a coffee from one of those machines that hissed like a steam train but Fiona had nothing.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ I asked and rested my hand on hers. She pulled her hand away as if scalded and cast a meaningful look at the girls. I had broken the cardinal rule: no shows of affection, or any other kind of behaviour that might suggest a romantic involvement, in front of Elspeth and Margaret.

‘I’m fine,’ she said through her teeth, then, with the same ersatz jollity as before, started to talk to the girls about the movie.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

I had intended to push Fiona for a truthful answer about what was going on when we got home, but she used the girls as a shield, saying that she needed to get them to bed. I got no invitation to come in for a drink or a cup of coffee and Fiona kept me on the threshold.

‘That was a great night out, thanks, Lennox. If you don’t mind I’m just going to turn in. Like I said, I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘Fiona, I don’t know what’s going — ’

I was cut off by the ringing of the wall ‘phone in the hall. Fiona squeezed past me to answer it.

‘Yes, he’s here …’ she said and held the receiver out to me to take. It looked large and heavy in her small, slender hand.

‘Hello, Mr Lennox?’ I recognized the voice instantly.

‘Hello, Mrs Ellis, what can I do for you?’

‘You told me to telephone you if Andrew went out unexpectedly. Well he has, he’s just getting into his car now.’

‘At this time?’ I looked at my watch. It was five after ten.

‘He got a ’phone call just a minute ago,’ she explained. ‘Same as always, very short.’

‘Did you hear the word “Tanglewood” mentioned this time?’

‘I couldn’t hear much of anything, I was in the lounge and the radio was on, but I don’t think so. He just seemed to keep saying “yes” then he hung up. It’s almost like someone’s telling him what to do. As if Andrew is being given orders or instructions or something. I have to tell you, Mr Lennox, there’s something about this frightens me.’

‘He hasn’t given you any idea where he’s going?’

‘Just the usual “I have to go out, something’s come up with a customer”.’

‘And how was he? His demeanour, I mean?’

‘He didn’t seem anything in particular. He tried to make out he was annoyed at being disturbed … but whatever was going through his head, that wasn’t it.’

I thanked her and said that I had better go and see if I could pick up his trail.

‘I’ve got to go out. Sorry,’ I said to Fiona, who shrugged, went into her flat and closed the door. Normally I would have expected to sense her annoyance, but all I picked up this time was relief.

I drove too fast to Maryhill Road, trying to close a distance
greater than Ellis had to travel. I took the turning Ellis had taken before, just around the corner from where my Teddy Boy Scouts had helped me get the Atlantic started again, and swung the car around to face back out towards the junction where I could see passing traffic on Maryhill Road.

I switched the engine off and waited five minutes before deciding to give up, working out that Ellis must have already passed by, or had taken another route. The Atlantic conked out on me again and it took me a couple of expletive-urged turns to get her started. It was not a good night for hunting, anyway: the darkness was starting to tinge greenish as smog began to turn the air grainy. I would be lucky to see anything ten feet in front of me – which was exactly the distance I was from the glossy claret flank of Ellis’s Daimler as it sleeked past the road junction.

Startled, I clunked the lever into first, offering a silent prayer that the Atlantic didn’t stall again, and swung out onto Maryhill Road behind him, sticking close to his tail. The fog-turning-to-smog was getting thicker and I worked out that it was maybe drifting in from the North, which meant it had slowed Ellis’s drive into town while mine had been unimpeded. I decided to leave the dentistry of this particular gift horse unexamined and focused on keeping Ellis in sight.

There was a tried and tested habit in the Glasgow smog of playing follow-my-leader, leaving the driver in front to work for you by keeping the kerb in sight, so I knew that Ellis would not suspect the lights in his rear-view were anything other than an innocent fellow traveller navigating the miasma. Fortunately, one of the many things to have failed recently on the Atlantic was the central headlamp; if Ellis
had
seen me the first evening I had tailed him, then tonight the Atlantic would not be showing its distinctive three lamps in his mirror.

Progress became painfully slow as Glasgow’s night air took on the consistency of broth. Travelling little faster than walking pace, Ellis led me – and three cars behind me – through the city and out to the West End. A couple of turnings and I lost both the entourage of cars and my bearings. Mine being the only other car following Ellis’s made me more conspicuous, and I eased back until the Daimler’s tail lights reduced to faint red smudges in the gloom. It was practically impossible to get any kind of idea of where we were in the smog, but I reckoned we were somewhere in the Garnethill district of the city. Driving through smog demands total focus and I wasn’t able to look out for some kind of landmark or street sign to become visible, but I knew I would need something if I wanted to find my way back in the daylight.