The Quiet Death of Thomas Quaid: Lennox 5 (29 page)

‘And a lot of good it did him,’ Cohen had said.

*

As we drove through Paisley, I exercised the same kind of caution that Davey had taken when making his weekly grocery deliveries, taking lots of unnecessary detours to make sure we hadn’t been tailed. The cottage was on the south side of the town.

Paisley was famed as Scotland’s biggest ‘town’, not having had its official status elevated to that of a city. Part of the reason had been its sudden and unexpected growth.

Personally I could never see the appeal of Paisley pattern, although I guessed that in Scotland it had a special utility: a fabric design singularly suited to hiding drink and vomit stains. But when fat little Queen Victoria had decided to start wrapping herself in Paisley pattern, there had been an explosion in worldwide trade in Paisley shawls. Although named after the town, Paisley pattern was basically an Indian design; but one of the boons of having had an empire was that you could steal without consequence anything you had a mind to, including intellectual property.

Traditional cottage weavers couldn’t keep up with sudden, unexpected demand for the shawls and new mills had been hurriedly built, workers had flooded in, and the town had swelled. A hundred years or so on, just as suddenly, mass shawl production was out and mass unemployment was in, and the town had gone into steep decline.

Any hopes of revival had been kicked into touch after the war with the arrival of new synthetic materials from abroad: the final death knell for many of Paisley’s mills had been rung with a pull on a nylon rope.

Commercial history wasn’t something that was usually at the front of my mind, but when we arrived at the cottage, Paisley’s rise and fall were writ large right there in front of me.

The small cottage Davey had rented for his brother, set a little back from a B-road, was timeworn dark, but well maintained. Low roofed, small windowed and stone built, it was clearly more than a century old and I guessed it had originally been both home and workplace to a weaver when the industry had been cottage based.

But it was the small house’s backdrop that provided the starkest reminder of Paisley’s unfulfilled ambition. The lane that led to the cottage from the road continued on past it until sealed off by heavy, galvanized steel gates. Beyond the padlocked gates sat the corpse of a vast mill building: a former thread works, Davey told me. The mock-Italianate grandeur of the high, square tower, the high chimney and the cantilever-roofed halls was fading fast: the walls scabbed where the white paint had flaked from the masonry; the windows shattered to black sockets – probably with stones hurled by locals in bitter spite of a pledge broken.

The mill spoke of the end of a story, a future promised but unfulfilled – it was exactly the same story I saw coming to an end at the foundry in Possilpark and the shipyards in Govan: factories, steelworks, mills and mines built to supply an empire that wasn’t there any more. It had been all so predictable but no one seemed to have been able to predict it. I decided I’d suggest to the tourist board that they use the mill scene for a postcard, along with the slogan:
Welcome to Scotland; the place is fucked.

To be out of sight of the road, I parked on the small square of garden at the back of the cottage.

*

Jimmy Wilson didn’t look much like his brother. He was small and dark but did have something of the same wiry build, although in Jimmy’s case it tended to the slight. His complexion was noticeably pale – which, in Scotland, was saying something – accentuated by unruly dark hair that was in need of a cut and the blueing of his unshaven jaw. He had an infectious nervous energy about him: his movements spasmodic, his eyes continually darting, his thin fingers continually twitching. It made him look like some kind of prey animal constantly watchful for predators.

Which, of course, was exactly what he was.

I knew Davey had 'phoned his brother to tell him we were on our way, but I had expected Jimmy Wilson to be alarmed by my presence; to be mistrustful or suspicious. He was none of these things. If anything, he seemed relieved, almost grateful to see me.

‘Tommy Quaid told me about you,’ he said smiling and shaking my hand. His handshake was weak, his hand soft and slightly damp. Everything about him seemed a little wraith-like and it disturbed me, as if there was already the touch of death on him.

‘He did?’

‘He told me that you were the one person I could trust . . . other than Davey here. He said that if anything happened to him, that I was to get in touch with you.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ I asked.

‘I was scared. I knew they’d come after me too and I had to get away as quickly as I could. I holed up in a lodging house in Edinburgh for a week while Davey got this place sorted out for me. It isn’t the first time I’ve had to lie low, but I couldn’t use any of my usual places. I couldn’t get in touch with you without coming back to Glasgow and I knew if I did that I’d be putting myself back out in the open.’

He led us into the small, low-ceilinged kitchen, filled a kettle from an ancient brass tap and placed it on the gas stove. Davey and I sat at a wooden table so scarred by time that, if it had been round, I would have said King Arthur had held his weekly get-togethers around it. The whole cottage was like a speck of eighteenth-century dust missed in the sweep of industry that had brought its larger, now abandoned, neighbour. Jimmy brought the tea over to us, his acts of hospitality carried out with the same twitchy nervousness.

‘For you to be so scared,’ I said, ‘I guess you don’t believe what happened to Tommy was an accident?’

‘I know it wasn’t. I know it has something to do with the job we did together.’

I nodded. ‘Tommy didn’t fall off that roof. Someone broke his neck and threw him off. Tell me about this job you did with Tommy.’

‘It was this big house in Hyndland. Huge place – must’ve belonged to someone minted. Tommy knew it was going to be empty, but needed someone to watch his back and help with the alarm. I did my time as an electrician in the shipyards, so that’s my speciality: alarms.’ He said it with the same pride he would if he’d just announced he was an Olympic athlete. ‘I wasn’t in it for a cut, just a straight fee. That way I got paid whether or not we came up trumps. Tommy was always fair to deal with. If it was a good haul he would give me a bonus, even though we’d already agreed the fee. He was always good to me that way, Tommy was.’

‘Whose house was it?’

‘Tommy didn’t say – he just told me he knew it would be empty and that he had good info that there would be a lot of cash and probably a decent haul of jewellery, which there was. But I don’t know who owned it. Sorry.’

‘That’s all right, Jimmy. I think I know whose house it was. Can you remember the address?’

‘No’ the number, but it was in Langdyke Avenue. Big Victorian place on the corner. It has a huge garden with one of them weird trees in the corner. You know, what do you call them? . . . Aye, a monkey puzzle tree, that’s it. The only one in the street.’

‘So you dealt with the alarm and you and Tommy broke in . . . but the cash and the jewellery weren’t all he found, were they?’

‘No.’ Jimmy frowned. ‘There was a safe, hidden behind a dummy bookcase. You wouldn’t have found it if you didn’t know it was there – but Tommy went straight for it.’

‘How did he know where it was?’

‘Tommy didn’t share trade secrets. But however he found out, I don’t think anyone told him – or knew they had told him, if you know what I mean. He swore blind to me that only him and me knew we was doing the job. He was an expert at getting information on jobs without anyone knowing. That was one of the reasons he was hardly ever caught.’

‘So what was in the safe, other than the cash?’

‘There were these documents. Two ledgers and a leather case thing – like a big writing case or wallet. Tommy decided to take them to look at later.’

‘
Two
ledgers?’ I asked.

‘Aye. And the leather document wallet.’

‘Did you see what was in the document case?’

‘No. We didn’t have time. Tommy had a rucksack with him and stuffed everything into it. He was working to a timetable, you see. He told me he knew exactly when the owner was likely to be back.’

‘You’re sure there were
two
ledgers?’

‘Aye – I remember one was fancy. Bound in red leather. All fancy.’

‘And you never saw what was inside the document case?’

‘No. Like I say, Tommy didn’t look in it at the time either. It wasn’t until the next day that he got in touch. He told me to meet him on Glasgow Green, which was an odd place for him to pick but he said we shouldn’t be seen together or meet in any of the usual places. When I did meet him I could see right away something was wrong – that he was really upset about something. And you knew Tommy – he was never usually up or down.’

‘Did he say why he was taking precautions?’ I asked.

‘He said that there had been something terrible in that case we’d robbed and that we could be in trouble – real danger – because of it. He said there were people would do anything to get it back. But he told me not to panic – no one knew we was involved and if it stayed like that we’d be okay. I could tell he was worried though and really upset, like I said. It was then that he told me that I should lie low for a while – and if anything happened to him, I was to make myself really scarce. Make sure no one could find me.’

‘And get in touch with me?’

‘And get in touch with you . . . He said you would know what to do.’

I sighed, wishing I shared Tommy’s confidence in me.

‘He also said I was to give you this . . . I’ve been hanging on to it since.’ Jimmy held out a white dish of a palm; in it was a Yale key with a blue tab exactly like the other one I’d had. This time there was nothing written on the tab.

‘Do you know what it’s for?’ asked Jimmy.

‘Yep.’ I took the key and looked at it. ‘I already had one. It’s for Tommy’s lock-up where he stashed the stuff. Burned to the ground now. Thanks anyway.’ I bounced the key in my hand then put it in my pocket. ‘I know you didn’t see the contents, but did Tommy tell you – I mean when you met him the next day – did he tell you what was in the document folder?’

‘No. I asked him, but he said it would be much better for me if I didn’t know. Safer. Whatever it was, I’ve never seen Tommy so wound up. Even on a job he was always calm – but whatever he’d seen in that wallet had shaken him right up. When I met him he looked like he hadn’t slept since the job. But he just wouldn’t tell me what was in the wallet. He did say that it had a lot to do with high-ups – you know, people in power. Do you know what was in it?’

I nodded, trying to block the images that flashed across my brain. ‘I’ve seen it. Consider yourself lucky you haven’t. But whoever it was stolen from has it back.’

‘What was it, Mr Lennox? Government secrets?’

I gave a bitter laugh. ‘You could say that – but not in the way you think. Anyway, Tommy was right, you’re best not knowing.’

‘That’s what I don’t understand,’ he said, pleadingly. ‘I don’t know nothing about what Tommy pinched from that safe. I don’t have it and I don’t know what it was. All I had was that key – and you say they’ve got back whatever it was in Tommy’s lock-up anyway – so why are they still after me?’

‘You said there were two ledgers. I found where Tommy had stashed the stuff, but there was only one ledger along with the document folder. That’s why they’re still after you . . . they think you must have the other ledger. The one you said had a red leather binding.’

‘Is that what all this shite’s about?’ asked Davey, incredulously. ‘Everything that happened in the garage? The reason poor Jimmy is having to hide? Because of some fucking book?’

‘I’m afraid it is,’ I said. ‘What I saw that night in Tommy’s lock-up was bad. The kind of thing once you’ve seen you can’t unsee. It and whatever is in that missing ledger are worth more than people’s lives. And who we’re up against hold people’s lives pretty cheap.’

We sat at the ancient table and drank our tea, Jimmy’s thin fingers dancing on the rough wooden table top. I felt frustrated: I had hoped that Jimmy could have given me more, but at least he had confirmed a few suspicions.

‘Jimmy, there’s this guy, an ex-officer type with damage to one side of his face, like his cheeks don’t match up. Davey’s met him. Calls himself McNaught, but that won’t be his real name. Is that anyone you’ve come across or heard tell of?’

‘Sorry, Mr Lennox.’

‘Did Tommy ever say anything to you about his time in the commandos? Did he ever mention anyone called Jack Tarnish, or Dave Baines?’

He thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Never heard of either of them. And Tommy never talked about the war or what he did during it. You know what he was like – a closed book.’

While we drank tea, the conversation drifted.

‘I think it would be a good idea if you followed Tommy’s advice to the letter,’ I said. ‘Have you thought about where you’re going to go? I mean, Paisley is hardly a stretch.’

‘You’re Canadian, aren’t you, Mr Lennox?’ asked Jimmy.

‘That’s right.’

‘I always wanted to go to Canada. Emigrate. If I could, that’s where I would go: Canada. Away from all this shite. I’d go straight as well.’

‘So what’s stopping you?’ I asked.

‘My record. I’ve got three convictions and the Canadians won’t let me in. I thought that everyone there had grandparents who were convicts . . .’

‘That’s Australia, Jimmy,’ I said. ‘I’m sure once your convictions are time-barred you’d be allowed into Canada. You just have to keep your nose clean.’

‘It’d take too long,’ he said gloomily. ‘I’d be too old, by then. Anyway, I need to find somewhere now, no’ in five or ten years’ time. Why do you stay here? Why don’t you go back? I would if I was you. Glasgow’s fucked. This whole country is fucked.’

‘I will probably go back, one day,’ I said, putting out of my head that he was stealing my best lines for the tourist board. ‘I’ve got a few of my own sins that I’m waiting to become time-barred.’ I drained my cup and stood up to go. ‘Jimmy, did you get your fee from Tommy?’