The Long Glasgow Kiss (16 page)

Davey’s grin when he walked into the office was impossibly broad and gleeful, making me wonder if I had done the right thing in bringing him in. He was just a kid. And a good kid at that. But it was his choice.

‘Now you’re clear on what you’re doing? And more importantly on what you’re not doing?’

‘I got it, Mr Lennox. I won’t let you down.’

I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out a coarse linen bag. It was heavy, filled with pennies. I tipped some out onto the desk.

‘Take this bag with you. You’ve got enough coppers there to ’phone Australia. If anything happens, call the numbers I gave you and they’ll get a message to me as soon as they can.’ I tossed the bag in my palm a couple of times, assessing the weight. ‘And keep the drawstrings pulled tight when you’re not taking money out. This cash bag won’t break and it makes one hell of a cosh if you run into trouble. You got that?’

‘I got it, Mr Lennox.’

‘But I don’t want you to take any risks, Davey. Just keep an eye on the Kirkcaldy place and let me know if anything happens. And remember … note down times and descriptions of anyone you see coming or going.’

I went back into my desk drawer and tossed a black reporter’s notebook over to him. He caught the notebook and then stared at it, wide-eyed, as if I’d just handed him the Keys to the Kingdom.

I drove up to Blanefield and parked the Atlantic along the street from Kirkcaldy’s place. It was difficult not to be conspicu -ous, but the car was far enough away and still had a clear enough view of the entrance to the Kirkcaldy residence. I gave Davey a couple of quid, a packet of cigarettes and a lamppost to lean on. He took the duty so seriously that, when I left him, I found myself worrying that he might not blink until I returned.

I left the car where I’d parked it, giving Davey the keys so that he could take shelter if it started raining. The weather had now definitely reverted to type and the milky sky periodically darkened into a glower: I didn’t want to be responsible for Davey contracting pneumonia or trench foot, both of which were possibilities in the West of Scotland climate. Before I left him on sentry duty, I called at Kirkcaldy’s house. The boxer wasn’t in, but Uncle Bert Soutar answered the door. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that exposed arms writhing with tattoos, some of which had unhelpful suggestions for the Pope. If dourness could be measured on a scale, then Soutar was a bass baritone. He nodded glumly and closed the door when I told him that the youth at the corner was with me and not connected to whoever had been carrying out the vandalism.

I knew of course that there would be nothing significant for Davey to report that afternoon. The kind of shenanigans that had been going on with Kirkcaldy were the kind of shenanigans you got up to under cover of darkness.

While Davey was earnestly leaning and diligently watching the Kirkcaldy place, I went to ’Pherson’s on Byre’s Road for a trim and shave. Old man ’Pherson knew his stuff and I came out with my face tingling and with a parting that made Moses’ Red Sea work look sloppy. Afterwards I took a tram back into town and made a few fruitless ’phone calls from my office in pursuit of Largo.

Maybe it was because Jock Ferguson’s name had come up in conversation with my tame copper chum Donald Taylor, but, almost on an impulse, I picked up the ’phone and dialled the number for St. Andrew’s Square headquarters. Obviously, Detective Inspector John Ferguson knew nothing of my ‘accommodation’ with one of his junior officers and he sounded surprised to hear from me all right. Surprised and maybe a little distrustful. I have no idea why I bring that out in some people, especially coppers. He did concede he was free at lunchtime and we agreed to meet up at the Horsehead Bar. Ferguson and I hadn’t spoken much in nearly a year.

It was one-thirty by the time I got to the Horsehead and the lunchtime crowd had already smoked the atmosphere into a density you could cut with a knife. If I were to describe the ambience of the Horsehead, I would say it was eclectic. There were clerks, uniformed in regulation pinstripe, shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar with workmen in flat caps and Wellington boots. It has to be said that no one could accuse Glaswegians of not being fashion-conscious, and a few of the workies had rolled their Wellies down from calf- to ankle-length as a concession to the warm weather.

I spotted a man in his late thirties over by the bar. He had his back to me but I recognized his tall, angular frame and the dull grey suit he always seemed to wear, year round. Some policemen need a uniform, even after they’ve transferred to CID. I understand it in a way: the need to take off your job when you got home. I squeezed shoulder first into the bar next to Ferguson. The man who had been standing next to him eyed me with that casual, disinterested hostility that you only seem to find in Glasgow hostelries. I smiled at him then turned to Ferguson.

‘Hello, Jock.’

Ferguson turned dull grey eyes that matched his suit on me. Jock Ferguson had anything but an expressive face: it was practically impossible to work out what was going on in his head. I’d seen more than a few men come out of the war with the same absence on their faces. And I somehow had always known that Jock Ferguson had a similar kind of war to mine.

‘Long time no see,’ he said, without smiling. And without offering me a drink. We were going through the preliminaries. ‘Where have you been keeping yourself?’

‘You know, keeping my head down. Divorce cases, company thefts, that kind of thing.’

‘Still doing work for Glasgow’s disreputable element?’

‘Now and again. Not as much as before. Things aren’t what they used to be, Jock. Gangsters have embraced the free market. I can’t compete with the rates your colleagues charge.’

Something set harder in Ferguson’s face, but he clearly decided to let it go. Before, he would have laughed off a jibe like that because he knew I was referring to coppers other than him. But this was not before.

‘I heard you were asking a few questions about me, Lennox. After that business last year. I could be accused of being paranoid, but that would suggest to me that you think I had something to do with all that shite. Is that what you think?’

I shrugged. ‘I just got to chatting with a couple of your colleagues. Are you telling me that you didn’t have anything to do with it?’

He held my gaze. Neither of us wished to define what it was that had happened. The truth is that he shouldn’t have even known about the events in a dockside warehouse that ended with me having a bullet in my side and someone very special to me lying dead at my feet, her face blown off. Events that would not have taken place if information hadn’t been leaked by a copper.

‘Anything that happened had nothing to do with me. That’s what I’m saying, yes.’

‘Okay. If that’s what you’re saying, then I believe you, Jock.’ It was a lie. We both knew it was a lie but it was a form of words that allowed us to move on. For the moment. ‘So … how are things?’

‘Busy. McNab has dumped this train death on me. And he’s piling on the pressure. This new smart-arse pathologist has got him farting fire. You know McNab, shite killing shite doesn’t interest him unless it’s all straightforward and easy, which it usually is.’

I nodded sympathetically. The idea of working for a wroth McNab was a frightening thought. For a second I felt the weight of his hand on my chest. ‘So how’s the investigation going? Any leads?’

Ferguson snorted. ‘Sweet Fanny Adams. We’ve nothing to go on except the body. And you could carry that around in a couple of buckets. Anyway, you didn’t ask to see me to enquire about my level of job satisfaction. What do you want, Lennox? You’re always after something.’

Before answering, I nodded over to the barman and ordered a couple of whiskies. He wasn’t a barman I knew so I decided not to confuse him by asking for a Canadian Club.

‘You know this big fight that’s coming up? Bobby Kirkcaldy and the German?’

‘Of course. What about it?’

‘Well, Kirkcaldy’s been getting some unwanted attention. Crap dumped on his doorstep, veiled threats, that kind of thing.’

‘Has he contacted us?’

‘No. In fact I’ve only been hired by one of his backers because Kirkcaldy’s manager happened to find out about it. Kirkcaldy is doing his best to draw attention away from it.’

‘One of his “backers”, did you say?’ Ferguson raised an eyebrow.

‘The point is that something about it stinks. There’s this old guy who hangs around Kirkcaldy. A sort of bodyguard-cum-trainer. Like I said, old, but as hard as nails. Goes by the name of Bert Soutar. I was wondering if you could …?’

Ferguson sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But
quid pro quo
, Lennox. I might want something from you in the future.’

‘My pleasure.’ I smiled and ordered a couple of pies. They were handed to us on bleakly white plates that were crazed with spidery grey cracks beneath the glaze. It looked like the same kind of porcelain they made urinals from. The pies themselves lay on what the French would call a
jus
of liquefied fat. I had lost weight since I’d first arrived in Glasgow. The presentation didn’t seem to put Ferguson off and he squelched into the pie, dabbing the grease from his chin with the paper napkin.

‘Was that all?’

‘Yeah,’ I said and sipped the whisky. ‘I believe old Soutar used to be handy with a razor. Bridgeton Billy Boys, that kind of thing. Anything you could find out would be really useful.’

‘I can do better …’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a non-regulation notebook and pencil. He scribbled something down, tore the page out and handed it to me. ‘That’s the address of Jimmy MacSherry. He’s an old man now but was a real hard bastard in the Twenties and Thirties. Fought the Sillitoe Cossacks, put a couple of police in hospital. Got ten years and the birch for his trouble. He was a Billy Boy and knows anyone who’s anyone in that circle. But be careful how you handle him. And it’ll cost you a few quid.’

‘Thanks, Jock. I appreciate it.’ I pocketed the note. Then a thought occurred to me. ‘Oh there’s maybe one other thing. Nobody else seems to know this guy, but it’s worth a try. Have you ever heard of someone called Largo?’

Like I said, Jock Ferguson did not have the most expressive face, but something crossed it that looked as if it had been powered by the national grid.

‘What do you know about John Largo?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all, that’s why I’m asking. Who is he?’

‘Where did you hear the name? You must have heard the name somewhere.’

I looked at Ferguson. He had turned towards me, straightening up from the bar. All of a sudden he became all copper and no acquaintance. After all the asking around, I had in that split second doubled my knowledge about Largo. I now had a full name for him. But every alarm bell that could ring was now ringing. It was clear that knowing the name John Largo was enough to get me the kind of police attention I so studiously avoided. I decided it was best to deliver the goods.

‘Okay, Jock, I can see that I’ve hit pay dirt. But you obviously think I know something I shouldn’t. Well, I don’t. All I have is the name Largo. I’m investigating a missing person case. It’s turned into two missing persons: Paul Costello, Jimmy Costello’s son, has also dropped out of sight. But before he did, our paths crossed. He thought to start with I was one of your mob, then he asked me if
Largo
had sent me. That’s all of it. I’ve been asking all around town if anyone knows Largo and nobody I asked did. Until now. So who is John Largo?’

‘Now see that … See that right there … what you just asked… if I were you that’s a question I would never ask again. John Largo is someone you don’t want to know anything about. If ever I’ve told you anything worthwhile, Lennox, it’s this: John Largo doesn’t exist. Hear it, accept it and get on with your life. Otherwise you might not have a life to get on with.’

‘Oh now wait a minute, Jock. You can’t …’

‘I’ve got to go. I’ll see if I can find anything out about Soutar for you. In the meantime try Jimmy MacSherry.’

Before I could say anything he was gone. I leaned against the bar and looked down at the half-full whisky glass he had left. I knew this was big, big stuff. When a Scotsman leaves a free drink unfinished, you know it’s serious.

Bridgeton was the kind of place you felt overdressed if you wore shoes. It seemed that footwear was optional until age twelve; thereafter you were expected to wear heavy work boots with soles studded with metal
segs
that made a seven-stone youth sound like a Nazi division marching down the street. Like ninety-nine per cent of the population of Bridgeton, Jimmy MacSherry wasn’t on the ’phone. So I decided the best thing to do was to go down and do some door knocking. I made sure I had my sap with me. Bridgeton was the kind of place you would feel naked without some kind of means of injuring another human being.

I got a call from Davey before I took the tram down to Bridgeton. There was, as expected, nothing to report other than Kirkcaldy had left for his afternoon session at the Maryhill gym he had always trained in. I had told Davey to stay on the house, not on Kirkcaldy and that’s what he had done. I could tell he was worried that I would be disappointed that he had nothing to report, but I reassured him he was doing just fine and he rang off as eager as when I had left him there.

For the rest of the world, a Glaswegian was a Glaswegian was a Glaswegian. They all looked the same, spoke with the same impenetrable patois, worked in the same industrial sweatshop of shipyard, factory or steelworks; they all lived in the same kind of slum. They also shared the same schizoid tendency to be the warmest, friendliest people you could meet while, at the same time, displaying a propensity for the most psychopathic violence. Sometimes simultaneously. Within Glasgow, however, lay a chasm that divided its working class. On the surface it was a religious divide: Protestant versus Catholic. The truth is the divide was ethnic: Scottish Glaswegians versus Irish-descent Glaswegians. And the focus for the biblical hatred between the two communities were the football teams, Rangers and Celtic.

Bridgeton was part of the city’s fringes. And it looked pretty much like all the other parts of Glasgow’s fringes. The streets were lined with tenements or four-storey apartment buildings. The building material of choice in Bridgeton had been red rather than blond sandstone or red brick, but it was all pretty academic as all the buildings had been grime-darkened, like every other structure in Glasgow. Occasionally an ember of the underlying colour would glow through the soot, giving a tenement the look of a dark, rusting hulk looming into the sky. Like other parts of the city, the worst of the slums were gradually being cleared to make way for new blocks of flats. The spirit of the Atomic Age had reached Glasgow and soon all of its denizens would enjoy the very latest modern amenities. Like flushing inside toilets.