The Long Glasgow Kiss (30 page)

‘Come on, Lennox.’ Devereaux laughed. ‘Paul Costello’s body is found half a mile away from a break-in and they don’t even think to see if it’s connected. Do you know the kind of beating you’d get if these guys found out you tapped that uniform?’

‘If you’re so convinced I did, why don’t you tell them?’

‘Listen, Lennox, if you get antsy with me, I might do just that. But I’m not interested in giving them you. I’m interested in you giving me Largo.’

‘I don’t have him to give,’ I said. We were on a quiet street and I pulled over to the kerb.

‘Yet,’ said Devereaux.

‘Yet.’ I sighed and rested my wrists in the basin of the steering wheel.

‘But you’re getting close. And you should have told me about Barnier.’

‘You seem pretty well informed without my help.’

‘Ferguson told me about the break-in. Actually, he was being a gripey pain in the ass about it. He said it was a French importer with an office in Marseille who got broken into. You see, it’s difficult for these guys to hold two thoughts in their head concurrently …’

‘They need a lie-down if they hold them consecutively,’ I said.

‘Well, the only thing they’ve got stuck in their heads is that a uniformed cop got cracked across the head. This town isn’t so different to the States. There’s a blood price to be paid if a cop gets hurt. But, like I say, they can’t see past that. No one is asking why the hell someone would break into an importer’s office where there’s nothing to steal except paperwork … in the middle of a bonded warehouse area filled with whisky, luxury goods, cars and god knows what else.’

‘Maybe they’d run out of paper clips and the stationers was closed.’

‘Cut the crap, Lennox, or I might just begin to feel the need to pay some professional courtesy to my Glasgow colleagues. What have you got on Alain Barnier?’

‘I think he’s a front for your boy. Or at the very least he’s behind the murder of Paul Costello, directly or indirectly. Costello and Sammy Pollock have stolen at least one of a consignment of twelve jade statuettes. My guess is that each statuette is packed with happy snow for your Harlem negroes.’

‘How did you find out about the statuettes?’

I told Devereaux about my trip to the disused farm cottage, the jade demon and somebody, probably the recently deceased Paul Costello, putting the lights out for me.

‘That’s why I turned over Barnier’s office, and I was right. I found the manifest for twelve Vietnamese jade demons.’

‘Vietnamese?’ Devereaux turned in his seat, pivoting his shoulders around.

‘Yeah. So what?’

‘Indochina is the source of the heroin that’s turning up on the streets. It could be that your frog Barnier doesn’t know what he’s shipping. It’s likely the heroin’s been packed into statuettes at source. Maybe Barnier has just been asked to ship these things, not knowing what’s inside them.’

‘I’d like to think that,’ I said. ‘But, for a wine merchant-cum-curio importer, Alain Barnier is pretty handy in a fight.’ I told Devereaux about what had happened outside the Merchants’ Carvery. ‘I’ve been following him for the last day or two.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. The only thing remotely illicit I’ve caught him doing is visiting a married woman in Bearsden while her husband’s at work.’

Devereaux sat quietly for a moment. ‘You say he has a history of importing from Indochina?’

‘As far as I know, yes.’

‘Then he must have strong connections and contacts there. The place is a mess. The French have fucked up good. Dien Bien Phu has been a disaster. A turning point. The French are going to clear on out of it, you know.’

‘I guess.’

‘And when they do, the Commies will take over. The French are going to leave the back door wide open for them.’

‘It’s a long way away, Dex,’ I said. ‘It’s a French colonial problem.’

‘Not now. Now it’s our problem. There’s going to be another Korea out there, take my word for it. In the meantime, it’s chaos. And chaos is the best environment for someone like John Largo to operate in.’

‘But you don’t think Barnier’s directly involved?’

‘I didn’t say that. It
could
be that he doesn’t know what he’s shipping. Or it could be that, for all we know, Alain Barnier
is
John Largo.’

‘It’s unlikely,’ I said. ‘Barnier is established here. The other thing is he looks too much like an international criminal mastermind. The sharp clothes, the French accent and the goatee beard … I think John Largo would keep a lower profile.’

‘So don’t I,’ said Devereaux, then grinned at my puzzled expression. ‘You’ll have to learn Vermontese. It’s what we say when we mean “so do I”. You know the other thing it could be … maybe John Largo is like Robin Hood. A kind of
composite
character. Maybe John Largo is more an organization than a criminal. Maybe Barnier is
part
of John Largo.’

‘He has a partner. A guy called Claude Clement. Here …’ I took my notebook from the side pocket of my dinner jacket and copied the addresses onto a blank page, tore it out and handed it to Devereaux. ‘I found that when I was stealing paper clips. Maybe Barnier and Clement are in this together. So what now?’

‘I’ll get onto Washington, see if we’ve got anything on Barnier or this other guy. In the meantime I suggest you keep tabs on him. I also suggest you give me everything you get, as soon as you get it. Otherwise I might just offer McNab or Ferguson my professional insight into who clobbered their beat boy. And, remember, I’ve still got a thousand dollars if you lead me to Largo. Don’t hold out on me again, Lennox.’

‘There is one more thing,’ I said. I had just remembered it myself. Taking out my notebook again, I scribbled a second note and handed it to Devereaux. ‘That’s the address in New York the jade demons are being sent:
Santorno Antiques and Curios
.’

‘Thanks.’ He took the note and put it in his pocket without looking at it.

We didn’t talk much after that. I drove him back to his hotel and waited to make sure he got in; it was three in the morning and it took an age before an elderly night porter opened up for him. Devereaux turned and gave me a half wave, half salute and disappeared into the hotel. I sat for a moment, staring at the closed oak door. I had given Devereaux everything. Almost everything. I hadn’t mentioned the visit to the Free French naval monument. It probably wasn’t anything, but I needed to check it out for myself first. I was deep tired. Tired to the bone. There were so many thoughts buzzing about my head but my brain had pulled the shutters down and turned the sign around on the door.

Thinking would have to wait until morning.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

First thing the next morning, I made another trip to the Mitchell Library. This time it wasn’t to meet with anyone. I was looking for a very specific piece of information.

I was aided in my search by a rather accommodating librarian who fell for my helpless hunk act. She was a brunette, about thirty, and was dressed in a vaguely bohemian way, or as bohemian as the formality of the city library would allow, with her dark hair loose. I had spotted her from across the main library. She had been supporting an impressive array of heavy reference books in her arms and in turn supporting an equally impressive bust on the books. She looked to me like a free-thinking type: I found an open-minded attitude an asset in a woman. We hit it off right away. It could, of course have been our shared bibliophilia, but my guess was it was more likely to be my very obvious and profound appreciation of her best assets.

In any case, her cooperation made my search faster and more efficient than if I’d stumbled around myself. It took me forty-five minutes to compile the newspaper articles, service reports and casualty lists that I needed. Of course, there were details that I couldn’t get to: Britain was a secretive state, and nearly ten years after the end of the war there were details of the conflict that remained locked away in Whitehall basements, where they would remain for another eighty years at least. But I found enough to be getting along with; I also managed to get the home address of my brunette research partner as well as very specific times I could call: along with the vaguely bohemian dress, she wore a wedding band on her left hand. I guessed her husband was neither bohemian nor open-minded.

She left me at one of the desks with all of my research materials. I was focussed on one event and I spent two hours going through newspaper accounts and official reports on the disaster. But it was the casualty lists and service lists that interested me most. Finally, I found what I was looking for: Alain Barnier had been a junior officer on the
Maillé-Brézé
. It would explain the Frenchman’s attachment to this part of the world. It would also explain his visits to the memorial on Lyle Hill.

But, as I looked at Barnier’s name on the page, it left more unexplained than explained.

I read through back issues of the
Greenock Telegraph
, covering the earlier years of the war. There had been a lot of French sailors stationed in the area during the war and I scanned every mention of the French forces. They were mainly the usual flag-waving,
forget-Napoleon-we’re-all-pals-now
pieces. The Scots had a very different relationship with the French than the English had: there had been the
Auld Alliance
, the Franco-Scottish–Norwegian treaty that had preceded the British Act of Union, and to which the Scots romantically attached great importance. The relationship between the French sailors and the locals had been generally positive. There was certainly not going to be anything negative said about it in the wartime press.

But I did find something significant in the court records. Three Greenock dockyard workers, exempt from military service because of their reserved occupation, had appeared in the town’s sheriff court charged with breach of the peace, assault and police assault. Apparently the three locals had been involved in a melee in the town. The local police, and provosts of the
Gendarmerie Maritime
had had to break up a major brawl that had spilled out of a Greenock bar and into the streets. The date was significant: 5 July, 1940 – two days after the British Royal Navy had attacked the French fleet at Mers-el-Kébir to stop the ships falling into German hands. Ten ships had been sunk and nearly 1300 French sailors killed. It had been a diplomatic disaster and had left the French asking ‘with friends like these …’

It didn’t take massive skills of deduction to work out that tensions had been high and some loudmouth must have said something to get a fight started between the French sailors and the locals. Of course, it didn’t need to be that. In the West of Scotland you didn’t need much of a reason for a fight, and seeing as many of the local girls had earned, with much enthusiasm, the epithet of
matelots’ mattresses
, the good old standards of sexual jealousy and booze were always available for the potentially pugnacious.

I was about to move on when a statement by one of the witnesses drew me back into the report. A group of French sailors had found themselves surrounded by a mob of locals. They were rescued by a group of local police and French naval provosts made up of naval gendarmes and
Fusiliers Marins
. The witness’s statement described how some of the French provosts had used ‘some kind of fancy foot-fighting’ to drive back the crowd.

I asked my librarian if she could photostat the report for me and, after a little gentle persuasion and much Lennox charm, she agreed. But I would have to pay for the materials and call back for the prints.

It was nearly lunchtime and I made my daily trip to see Davey at the hospital. His face was becoming slightly more recognizable but, if anything, he seemed less chipper than he had been right after the attack. After you’ve taken a beating, it takes a while for the pain to settle itself in, to find the little corners it wants to occupy; to soak itself deep into your muscle and bone. Usually it invites shock and depression as roommates. It was clear that young Davey Wallace’s broken body was now fully let.

It suddenly occurred to me that I had been so obsessed with what had happened immediately before the attack on him that I hadn’t asked Davey if anything unusual had happened earlier in the day, during his watch.

‘Did you find my notebook, Mr Lennox?’ Davey asked through his cage of wired-shut teeth – that was another thing to dampen your spirit a week or so after a beating, having to be fed through a tube because your teeth are wired shut. Whoever had done this to Davey had opened an account with me and I was due them a lot of interest.

‘No, Davey,’ I said. ‘There was no sign of it where the car was parked.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that notebook, Mr Lennox. I have a lot of time to think, here. I don’t lose things. I’m very careful that way. Even with what happened to me, in all of that confusion. That notebook was in my jacket pocket. It should still be there and it’s gone now. Whoever duffed me up took it. I think I saw something or someone that I didn’t take seriously and they thought I’d made a note of it.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve been racking my brains about it. It’s been doing my head in.’ Davey paused to wince. Some pain, somewhere inside, had moved about a bit, just to remind him of its tenancy. ‘Like I said, I’ve had lots of time to think about it. But nothing special happened that day. The only thing that came to me was the car that I saw.’

‘Someone who went into Kirkcaldy’s place?’ I asked. I lit a cigarette and held it to his lips.

‘No. Two people in the car, but I didn’t really get a look at them. Just a glimpse of the driver as he passed. I thought they were going to park and go into Mr Kirkcaldy’s house, but the car drove on by. I know it’s daft, like, but I got the idea that they maybes saw me parked and watching the house and decided not to stop.’

‘It’s not daft, Davey. It’s instinct. If Dex Devereaux was here he would tell you that every detective, every FBI man needs it. Did you see what make of car it was?’

‘I don’t know much about cars,’ said Davey melancholically, again as if he had let me down. ‘Makes and that. But that’s why I was asking about the notebook. I wrote down the registration number. It was a big car, but. Fancy, like.’

‘What colour was the car?’

‘Red,’ said Davey. ‘Deep red. A sort of winey colour?’

‘Burgundy?’

‘Sorry, I don’t know … is that winey colour?’

‘Do you know what a Lanchester looks like? Or a Daimler Conquest?’

‘Sorry, Mr Lennox, like I said, I don’t really know anything about cars.’

‘That’s okay, Davey. You’ve done fine. Just fine. I have a hunch about who it might have been in the car. And it
is
important. Thanks, you’ve been a big help.’

I left Davey, his mood lightened by my praise. I dialled Lorna from a pay ’phone in the hospital. Her tone remained distant and cool, but I tried to sound as chatty and informal as possible, hiding the real reason for my call: a casual question camouflaged in the deep foliage of small talk.

‘No,’ she said in reply. ‘Jack isn’t here at the moment. He doesn’t spend
all
his time here you know.’

‘Have you any idea where he might be?’

‘I don’t know. At work, probably. He has an office above the boxing gym in Maryhill. Why? What’s the sudden interest in Jack?’

‘Nothing,’ I bluffed. I wondered for a second how many boxing gyms there could be in Maryhill. ‘I just wanted to talk to him about the fight last night.’

I moved the conversation on to how she was and if she wanted me to come up to see her that night. She said she was having an early night: the doctor had given her something to help her sleep. Maybe that explained, I thought, why Lorna had begun to sound so distant. But her coolness was more than pharmaceutical. Maybe I was losing my touch. How women, once exposed to my charms, could then go on to resist them had always dumbfounded me. But, somehow, they seemed to manage just fine.

It’s odd how things just seem to come together: red ribbons tied to a gypsy vardo wagon, an off-the-cuff remark made by Tony the Pole, the colour of a car remembered by Davey Wallace, a reference to a
Fusiliers Marins
officer in a Greenock court report, a guardedness in Lorna’s answer.

I was spreading myself too thin working two cases at the same time, both of which had grown into something much bigger than it had first appeared. To start with, I had thought that finding Sammy Pollock was going to be a straightforward job and not interfere with my getting to the bottom of the Bobby Kirkcaldy thing. But I should have known that nothing in this life is straightforward. The truth was that I had suspected for a while that there had been some kind of connection between them. There was an oddly coincidental chronology here. Sammy Pollock’s disappearance had been coincidental with two things: the theft of one or more of Alain Barnier’s jade
Ky-lan
demons and the untimely demise of Small Change MacFarlane.

Willie Sneddon was the kind of man my dad would have described as ‘so crooked they’ll dig his grave with a corkscrew’, and I still had reason to doubt that Sneddon had told me all there was to tell about his involvement with Bobby Kirkcaldy. But I had no reason to doubt the truth of what he
had
told me. And that included the fact that somebody or something had terrified Small Change MacFarlane immediately before Sneddon had met with him that day.

Now, for me, a coincidence was kind of like Socialism: a nice idea, looks good from a distance, but when you get up good and close you can’t really bring yourself to believe in it. I was pretty convinced that MacFarlane’s murder was connected to at least one of the cases. MacFarlane was a backroom player, a money man with his finger in almost as many pies as Sneddon. But, unlike Sneddon, MacFarlane could get his fingers burned. There was a picture coming together in my head. Like a Picasso it was pretty ugly, jumbled, and didn’t make any sense to me.

My immediate and main problem was how to keep tabs on two pilgrims at the same time: Alain Barnier and Jack Collins. Then I had an idea, but first I needed to speak to Collins.

It was basically two small offices on the upper floor of a two-storey building, the lower floor devoted to a boxing gym. It was an older building that was crumbling a bit around the edges. I passed the door to the gym and climbed the stairs to the offices.

When I walked in I was greeted by a secretary who I guessed hadn’t been hired for her shorthand skills. Her hair was the kind of blonde that comes out of a bottle and her figure was the kind that comes out of a teenager’s wet dream. She parted crimson lips and flashed white teeth at me and showed me into the inner office.

Jack Collins sat behind a desk and a dense screen of blue-grey cigarette haze. When I went in, he had been running a finger down a ledger column and yanking at the crank handle of an adding machine. He was in shirtsleeves, his cuffs kept clear of ink and paper by arm garters positioned above his elbows and just beneath his biceps. Seeing Jack Collins close confirmed my first impression of him: he was smooth, expensively tailored, and groomed to an exceptional degree for a city where
panache
was defined by beating the coal dust from your flat cap before you took a girl up a darkened alley. He was a lean man, his face long, and his features elegant if a little too fine. His thick black hair was immaculately combed back from a broad, tanned brow, and he sported a pencil moustache that was so neat that he must have trimmed it on the hour.

‘Someone to see you, Jacky,’ said the blonde secretary over my shoulder.

‘Senga,’ he said wearily, looking past me. ‘How many times have I told you to get their names first?’

‘I’m Lennox,’ I said helpfully.

‘I know,’ he replied, looking back to ‘Senga’ and making an impatient gesture of dismissal. ‘It’s okay, you go back to whatever it is you have to do. Close the door behind you.’

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I’m training her up at the moment.’

‘I can imagine that would be taxing,’ I said, and sat down opposite him. He stubbed out a cigarette and lit another immediately. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and pushed the packet towards me. ‘Help yourself.’

‘No thanks,’ I said, and took my cigarette case out and lit one of my own. ‘I don’t smoke filters. They’re French, aren’t they?’ I nodded to the ashtray bristling with filter stubs. Each had two bands of gold around them.

‘Yes. Montpelliers. I don’t usually smoke them but I got a job lot from an importer friend of mine. You’re the chap who’s been seeing Lorna, aren’t you?’

‘Your half-sister … yes.’

He stared evenly at me. Cool and unruffled. ‘You know about that?’