The Low Road (13 page)

“No, he meant ‘across,' ” Mary said. “The island of Cumbrae in the Firth of Clyde has a marine biology station in the only town there—Millport. Across—he means by ferry.”

“Of course!” He felt stupid for forgetting. “But why Millport?”

“Maybe he knows someone there. Maybe he thinks he'll be safe hiding in plain sight amongst the holidaymakers. The Fair Fortnight is their busiest weeks.”

“A few times, on Fair Fortnights, when my wee brother and my dad were alive, we went to Millport. Lots of families in the fire brigade did. One time Gerry and his dad came with us.”

“Your brother?”

“Long story.”

She looked at him, saw he was not going to elaborate, and didn't push. Mary Ballantyne was certain she would find out. One
day. “Right. Let's go. It's probably too late to catch the last ferry across, but first thing in the morning . . .”

“You can't come.”

“And who's going to stop me?” She stood. She slung her bag over her shoulder. “I'm off to work. You go get the train tickets for Largs. First class. It's holiday time so the train will be booked out.”

“Not first class to Largs it won't.”

“There's a big race meeting tomorrow. All the trains to Ayrshire will be busy. Or have you forgotten everything about your homeland?” She was grinning as she left, waving cheerio to Marco. And she left McAllister with the bill.

Racing at Ayr. That reminded him of Don McLeod, a horse-racing fanatic. And Joanne. He must phone. He must call before evening or he'd miss Don. If not he'd have to phone home and answer to an eleven-and-a-half-year-old.

First the train tickets, then I'll call
.

He didn't. When he got to the
Herald,
return tickets safely in his wallet, the breaking story blew everything out of his mind.

“The boxing coach was alive when the firemen reached him. He died of multiple burns,” Mary told him as he came into the newsroom.

The brutal way she said this he recognized as distress. “So it's murder.”

“Aye. It's murder.” She squinted up at him, the unnatural blue of her eyes bright with anger. “So we're still on for tonight?” She saw him stare. “A tour of the boxing clubs? Or is it too dangerous for you?”

He laughed out loud. He needed her levity to take away the horror of death by fire. Some heads turned towards them, saw it was Mary, and went back to their task of keeping the citizens informed of the dark side. “I'm up for it if you are.”

“I'm going. With or without you.”

And he knew she was stating nothing but the whole truth.

McAllister sat at his borrowed desk keeping out of the way of the well-oiled machine that was a large daily newspaper. It would flow flawlessly, one edition to the next—unless another story broke minutes before deadline. Then it would be controlled panic.

Tomorrow's headline would declare the death murder. The article would remind readers of the horror of the fire, pontificate about the scourge of the gangs, and ask what the authorities were doing to control them.

There would be the usual comments from the police saying as little as possible, and the journalists attempting to write between the lines of what they knew and what they could write. Any comments from the Lord Provost's office would be full of all the usual platitudes about crime and punishment, and the safety of the citizens being paramount. And letters to the editor from “Outraged, Bearsden,” or “Major (retired), Milngavie,” would harp on about the iniquities of the heathen city, the solution being to bring back hanging for everything from theft to adultery.

McAllister used the time to make the call to Don McLeod.

“A week?” Don asked, a none-too-disguised reprimand in his voice. “You're the editor. Your decision.”

McAllister knew Don was right. The
Gazette
could spare him, it was the silly season, after all, but he should not be taking a week away from home. Not now.

“I'm about to call Joanne. I know she has a lot of support, but would you keep an eye on her?”

“There's no need to ask.” Don was clearly offended.

“I know, but . . .”

“Jenny McPhee was asking for you.”

“I have a lead as to Jimmy's whereabouts, that's why I'm staying on. I don't want to get her hopes up, so best not say anything yet.”

“Call me when you have information, then I'll let her know.”

“I will.” There was no more to be said, so they said their goodbyes.

McAllister took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and gave the operator the number.

Granny Ross answered. “Joanne's asleep,” she said. She listened as McAllister stumbled through his explanation before replying, “Aye, well, it can't be helped. Don't worry; we'll look after the lass. Telephone again later, but not too late.”

He heard her sigh before she hung up, and could imagine her shaking her head, muttering one of her catchphrases—
Whatever next
? He felt like dashing to the station and booking the first train to the Highlands. But knew he wouldn't.

The phone rang not two minutes after he had hung up.

“Mr. McAllister?” It was the switchboard operator. “I have a trunk call for you. Putting you through.”

It was Jenny McPhee. “Have you heard from Jimmy?”

“He sent me a message. I think he's in Millport—it's an island in the Firth of Clyde.”

“I know where Millport is.”

Now McAllister was attentive. Jenny McPhee knowing Millport, an obscure place except to Glaswegians, alerted him.

“I could be wrong,” she said, “but there was this gagie living there, a friend o' ma late husband's, no' a tinker, but he came to all the horse fairs. He kept a horse or two, an' ponies . . . I think he's still alive.”

“We're on the train first thing tomorrow, I'll find him . . .”

“We?”

“A crime reporter from the
Herald
who has a lot of contacts in Glasgow is helping.”

“And helping hersel' to a good story an' all.”

He was surprised Jenny knew it was a “she,” then remembered Jenny McPhee never missed much.
She must be following the story in the
Herald.

And with that remark she was gone. No cheerio. No “look after yerself.” No thank-you. But he expected none, as he had achieved nothing. Yet.

E
very gym McAllister had ever visited cried out poverty. Whether it was in Glasgow, or the east end of London, or one memorably seedy place in Berlin four years after the war had ended, they all smelled the same: disinfectant, iodine, and the sour smell of sweat-soaked ropes, punching bags, medicine balls, head protectors, and mitts. Overlaying the sweat was the faint stench of urine, whether from the lavatory or fear he didn't want to speculate.

And all the gyms he had ever visited were all painted the same institution-green, a color also favored by mental asylums and mortuaries. Disappointment and menace hung in the air like an early-morning haar over the North Sea. Posters lining the walls showing past and present champions who had never trained in boxing clubs as low down the evolutionary scale as this one were there to give hope to the hopeless.

Boxing, football, the army, or becoming a mercenary in whichever army would have Glasgow men—notoriously short in stature—were all the hope open to the boys of this city. Fighting was part of the streets and the alleys and back greens and schoolyards. Fighting was bred in the bone.

Mary was looking around for someone to talk to. Everyone in the place was watching her, openly staring, particularly the two troglodytes guarding an office with a glass window. The glass looked tinted, but was more likely unwashed since the place had
been built, in the twenties, and was speckled in one corner with a spray pattern that might have been sweat or blood.

“What do youse want?” Gog, or was it Magog, asked.

“The boss,” Mary answered as fast as the fist of the man pummeling the punching bag in the corner.

“He's no' here,” the second creature told them.

She and McAllister had already visited four boxing gyms that evening and had almost given up hope of finding anyone who would talk. Mary turned to peer through the office window when the twins, or brothers, or siblings hatched from the same shell, stepped in front of her.

She stepped back, hands help up in submission, when she noticed one particular poster. “Hey, McAllister. See this one? This was one of the matches my father took me to—before my mother found out and barred me from going to the boxing. It was a real ding-dong of a fight. But him here, he won fair and square even though his opponent was a total bruiser well above the supposed weight. The crowd went mental. The bookies were furious. My dad was delighted, he won quite a bit on that match.”

“Did he now?” An old man, or a man who had been in too many fights—McAllister couldn't tell which—stepped out of the office. “And who might you be?”

“Mary Ballantyne. And this is McAllister.”

“No' Colonel Ballantyne's lass?”

“Aye. Pleased to meet you.” She stepped towards him holding out her hand. It was like a child greeting an ancient toothless bear, who seemed harmless if you were stupid enough to be fooled by his face.

There was a lull in the background noise of the gym as people paused to see what this novel encounter was about.

“Fancy a dram?” This time the question was addressed at McAllister.

“Seldom known to refuse,” he said.

They went into the office. It was surprisingly neat and smelled more of surgical spirits than sweat. A first-aid cabinet was placed prominently on one wall. The back wall held a cabinet full of silverware: cups, trophies, and ribboned medals. A silver belt in the center had pride of place. It was then McAllister knew who this man was. And knew who the belt belonged to: Jimmy McPhee.

The whisky bottle appeared, then clean glasses. Mary declined water. None was offered to McAllister—only sissies and foreigners diluted the “water of life.” They saluted each other.

“
Slaínte,
” McAllister toasted.

“Here's tae us,” the man who was known as Slugger, his second name being Slevin, saluted them.

Mary said nothing, only raised her glass in return, took a good sip, then put it down carefully; this was rotgut of the cheapest variety, and she was proud she hadn't choked.

McAllister sat back, giving Mary the floor. This was her show.

“My colleague here, he's from Dennistoun, but lives in the Highlands,” she began. “He has an obligation to a man from up there—and the man's mother. Even though it's not his fight, he's honor bound to help.”

McAllister watched the old man listening, showing nothing, except his eyes, which were alert, sizing up the challenge. He also noticed that Mary, for once, was asking no questions.
Telling it like it is,
he thought.

“See, the other night, late, I was still at work when the call came through . . .” She had an extensive network of firemen and policemen and ambulance staff on her list of contacts—even though it was illegal. She also had an informant in the mortuary. “Anyhow, when I got there the fire was all but over, it was that fierce. But my . . . friend, he helped rescue the body before it was
burned to a crisp, and the victim . . .” Using the man's name was too personal, but she knew Mr. Slevin was well aware who the person she was talking about was. Maybe he'd been a friend. “He was tied up, he had fingers missing. Later I found out he had no teeth, and it seems he had a few left before the fire. He was alive when the fire was lit. And his death was horrible.”

She left out the stench of burning flesh, the way the ambulance men, hardened from years of service during the wartime bombing, had to look away at the sight of the corpse. She left out the two shadowy figures hovering at the edge of the small crowd of onlookers, men gone before she could identify them.

“As for me”—she looked straight at the former boxer—“my interest is in getting a good story. I want to show those jumped-up snooty auld farts in the newspaper that a lassie can be as good as any man. I'll fight to get my story . . .”

“Like father, like daughter.” Slevin was nodding.

“. . . And if I destroy some evil bastards in the process, all the better,” she finished.

“Another?” Slevin held up the bottle.

Mary covered her glass. McAllister held his out.

A sip or two later, McAllister took his turn. “I was admiring thon belt in the cabinet.” His voice thickened to his pre-scholarship, pre-cadetship native Glasgow accent.

“Aye, one o' the stars o' Scotland.” The old man was nodding but still not giving anything away. “Could've won a national title, no' just a Scottish one, if the war hadn't got in the way.”

“Spoiled a great many things, the war,” McAllister agreed. “The owner o' thon belt, I'd like to shake his hand. Or at least let his ma know the state o' things. After the fire an' that, she's worried.”