Murder in the Merchant City

by Angus McAllister

  Praise for Close Quarters:

  ‘[Walter Bain is] a classic creation . . . [It’s McAllister’s] experience of tenements, and his affection for them, despite all the drawbacks, that really animates Close Quarters. There will be few city-dwellers who don’t recognise some of their own lives here’

  The Herald

  ‘The author re-imagines the Glasgow tenement lifestyle, fuelled by his own experiences of living in flats. There’s a touch of humour but there’s also an element of crime, the combination of which makes excellent reading’

  The Scots Magazine

  ‘Close Quarters isn’t, oddly, really a crime novel, it’s far more a gentle satire about Glasgow and some of its denizens. The murder of Walter Bain is certainly central to the plot, but finding out who committed the crime turns out to be almost incidental to what follows, and to the considerable enjoyment this book gives the reader’

  Undiscovered Scotland

  ‘A refreshing and well-written read’

  That’s Books and Entertainment

  ‘Close Quarters has a cosy, farcical, stage-like quality that I really enjoyed . . . funny and poignant’

  Mystery People

  ‘Some laugh-out-loud moments . . . a comedy wrapped around a whodunnit . . . will be enjoyed especially by anyone familiar with the West End’

  The Westender Magazine

  ‘Tenement life gains a whole new perspective in Angus McAllister’s recently published murder mystery, and it’s a local novel that has particularly appealed to Glasgow’s bibliophiles . . . Full of witty observations about tenement life, this is a whodunnit with a decidedly Glaswegian twist’ Rachel Walker, Scottish Writers’ Centre, Books Set in Glasgow

  A note on the author

  Angus McAllister worked as a solicitor and university professor, and is now retired. For many years he wrote academic books and articles, as well as fiction. He is the author of The Krugg Syndrome, The Canongate Strangler, The Cyber Puppets and the bestselling Close Quarters, and he lives in Glasgow. See www.angusmcallister.co.uk for more information.

  Murder

  in the

  Merchant City

  Angus McAllister

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd,

  West Newington House,

  10 Newington Road,

  Edinburgh

  EH9 1QS

  www.polygonbooks.co.uk

  1

  Copyright © Angus McAllister, 2019

  A short story entitled ‘The List’, which included material from this book, was published in the online version of The Strand Magazine in 2017.

  The right of Angus McAllister to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978 1 84697 471 7

  eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 174 9

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

  Typeset by 3btype.com, Rosyth

  Contents

  1 A Night Vigil

  2 Another Day

  3 The Merchant City Health Centre

  4 The Centre of the Universe

  5 The Most Beautiful Girl in the World

  6 Special Delivery

  7 Life Goes On

  8 A Work of Art

  9 An Interesting Day

  10 A Stranger in Town

  11 Justine

  12 Out to Lunch

  13 How to Clean Up in the Sex Business

  14 The Way Ahead

  15 The Subplot Thickens . . .

  16 . . . And Thickens

  17 Citizen Kane

  18 Consequences

  19 A Quiet Night on the Western Front

  20 Best of Three

  21 The Talk of the Steam Room

  22 Forebodings

  23 Next on the List?

  24 Hitting the Fan

  25 Some Expert Views

  26 Diversification

  27 A Suspect?

  28 Becoming Restless

  29 A Return Visit

  30 Another Return Visit

  31 Room Service

  32 Room 123

  33 Helping with Inquiries

  34 Claudia’s Vault

  35 Sex and Violins

  36 Four Jacks

  37 Insufficient Evidence

  38 Sufficient Evidence

  39 The Moral of the Story?

  40 Visiting Time

  Acknowledgements

  ‘For the wages of sin is death’

  —Romans 6: 23

  Author’s note

  The events in this book take place in and near Glasgow sometime in the 1990s.

  1

  A Night Vigil

  It’s eight o’clock and I’ve been waiting over an hour. As I stand in the doorway, holding up my coat collar against the wind and spitting rain, I think how easy it would be to give up and go home. But justice demands otherwise, as do weeks of patience and careful preparation.

  And the night is perfect. It’s dark and there’s no one around.

  I check my tools again. One large claw hammer and one kitchen knife, freshly sharpened. Common household items, and innocent enough, as long as they remain in the house. Carried inside your coat on a dark winter evening, they acquire a more sinister significance.

  A man walks past, the first for several minutes. He glances briefly across at me, but pays me little attention. I don’t recognise him, but note as much about him as I can, in case he is a new candidate for my list. Tall, mid-thirties maybe, wearing glasses. Colour of hair? Difficult to tell under this street lighting.

  Then it becomes irrelevant as he carries on up the street, without slowing for a second.

  I relax again, but only for a moment. The street is empty when he appears at last.

  I ease back slightly within my doorway, then walk boldly forward, as if I’m coming out of the building. From the corner of my eye I can see him walking towards me and that the street behind him is still clear. Then I turn my back on him and walk quickly along the pavement, about fifteen yards ahead of him. The street in front of me is also empty. I know where he’s going because I know where his car is parked. I take a right turning and carry on walking, then slow down and stop, appearing uncertain, as if I’m suddenly unsure of my way. As planned, I’m opposite an empty piece of ground, a derelict site between two buildings. It’s separated from the pavement by a high wooden fence, part of which has been knocked flat.

  He has almost caught up with me as I turn. ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Yes?’ He looks slightly startled, but not at all alarmed. I don’t present a very threatening figure after all, hardly the stereotype of a mugger. I get a good look at him as he faces me. He’s not particularly tall, about the same height as me. About fifty, overweight and not too fit. All to the good. He has coarse, ill-proportioned features unappealingly arranged around a wide, flat nose; his receding grey hair is hidden by a hat and his poor complexion is less obvious in the bad light, but even under cover of night he is a very ugly man.

  I ask him for directions to a nearby street and he gives me the information.

  ‘That’s great. Thanks very much.’

  ‘No problem.’

  As soon as his back is turned, I bring out my hammer. Moving quickly, I simultaneously flick off his hat with my
left hand and, with all my strength, bring down the hammer on the back of his head. As he stumbles and falls, I leap forward and batter him twice more. He hits the ground and lies still. He’s unconscious, maybe already dead, but I’ve got to make sure. I look quickly around. No one’s there. He hardly made a sound.

  I grab him by the ankles and haul him, by stages, into the empty site. He’s very heavy, but in my triumph I seem to have extra strength. He doesn’t stir as his head bumps over the slats of the flattened fence, across the rubble and weeds. As soon as we’re well hidden from the road, I completely let go and unleash my fury. I stab him in the back, again and again, haul him round on his face and renew my attack. Bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard . . .

  I hear footsteps in the street. I stop and hold my breath. A figure passes the gap in the fence and walks on.

  When the footsteps have receded into the distance, I check that the street is empty and return to my car, parked only a few yards away. My planning has paid off. It’s just as well: though I knew there would be blood, it was much messier than I’d anticipated. The worst of it is on my coat, so I bring out a black bin bag from the boot and put my coat in it, as well as the hammer and knife. No knowing when I might need them for some household task. I put the bag back in the boot, lock it, and clean myself as best I can. Can’t leave stains in the car. I’ll have to check it carefully when I get home.

  The street is still empty as I drive away.

  It’s a long time since I’ve felt so pleased with myself, so content and full of peace. I know it won’t last, but it’s good just the same. With my new-found calmness, I realise that this business of street killing, though exhilarating, is far too dangerous. In time, my luck may run out.

  Next time I’ll need to think of something more original.

  2

  Another Day

  When her radio alarm switched on at seven a.m., Annette had the usual impulse to turn it off again and go back to sleep. But there would be little point. The alarm had been designed for people like her and the radio would switch on again after ten minutes. Instead she compromised by leaving it on and turning on her other side.

  She eased herself gradually from the desire to sleep on, while half listening to a news bulletin, a pop song, the inane patter of the DJ. There was no need to get up for another twenty minutes. She had deliberately set the alarm early in order to give herself this space.

  When she finally got out of bed, she checked on the children. Lisa was still asleep but Andrew was awake, fortunately showing no desire to get out of bed just yet. With any luck she would have time to get showered and dressed before they were under her feet.

  An hour later, they were definitely under her feet, but she had almost completed the process of getting them washed, dressed, breakfasted and ready for school. By the time she was driving off, with the children safely locked in at the back, she felt as if she’d already done a day’s work. This was one respect in which she sometimes missed her former husband David. While they’d been together she hadn’t had to do all of the work in the morning, only most of it. This was probably the only thing about him that she ever missed.

  Just before nine, she dropped the children outside the school. It wasn’t too far from her house and, with enough time, she could easily have walked them there. But they never seemed to have enough time. She kissed them both and pointed them in the right direction.

  ‘Are you coming for us today, Mummy?’ Lisa asked.

  ‘No,’ said Annette. ‘Linda’s picking you up.’

  ‘Why can’t you come for us?’

  ‘I told you before. I’m working.’

  ‘Looking after the sick people?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ll be home at six o’clock.’

  ‘She told you before,’ said Andrew. He took his young sister by the hand and pulled her towards the school gate. At least, Annette thought, he was beginning to assume some protective responsibility without having to be told. She sat watching until they had entered the school building together.

  She drove back home and parked her car outside the house. On the way in, she stopped to have a look at the garden. The house was at the end of a terrace, giving her more ground than any of her neighbours. This had been David’s idea. From the limited choice the council had offered them, he had gone for the house with the biggest garden. He had been full of ideas about developing it: it was simultaneously to be a floral showpiece, a market garden supplying half of their food needs and a leisure area for them and the children. In the end, after his neglect had brought complaints from the neighbours and a warning from the council, it was Annette who had got to work with the lawnmower and shears. She had concentrated on preserving the more modest achievements of the former tenants; usually she just kept the grass cut and the hedge trimmed, and dabbled with the rest when she had time.

  In some parts of the council estate it wouldn’t have mattered. But this was one of the better areas. Annette had good neighbours, ones who tended their gardens, didn’t make too much noise and kept their children under reasonable control. Drug taking and violence were mainly confined to other parts of the estate, those furthest away from the town centre. Several of her neighbours, like Annette, had even bought their house from the council.

  She was still examining the front garden when she paid the penalty for lingering. Norah appeared from the house next door. Norah had more time on her hands than Annette: her children had grown up and left home, and her job as a shop assistant was only part-time.

  ‘Forget about it,’ said Norah. ‘It’ll be OK till the spring.’

  ‘No, it won’t. There’s so much of it, there’s always something needing done. I’m thinking about getting a garage. It would fill up half the side garden. I could even put my car in it.’

  ‘A garage? You’re really givin’ that man of yours a showin’ up.’

  ‘He can do that well enough on his own.’

  Norah didn’t respond. She came from a generation that thought you should make more effort to preserve a marriage. When her husband went off to the pub on his own, she simply dropped in on Annette for company.

  ‘Are the weans safely delivered then?’

  ‘No, I just left them on the main road to play with the motors.’ Norah laughed. ‘Have you time for a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d better not. I’m working today.’

  ‘Oh aye, you cannae keep your patients waitin’. No’ when you’re doin’ so well out of them. Buyin’ your own house, and now a garage as well.’

  ‘One of these days I’ll go back to the health service,’ said Annette, not having time for an argument. She brought the conversation to an end and got safely into the house.

  She left again at ten fifteen. One advantage of shift work was being able to avoid the rush hour. Without too much delay, she made her way across Paisley and on to the motorway for Glasgow. The road was still busy, but at least the Kingston Bridge queue had dispersed. Soon she was parking her car in a side street only a short walk from her work.

  She was sharing her shift with Miranda and Sylvia. By ten past eleven they had all assembled, dressed in their white medical coats, waiting for the day’s work to begin. Typically, Miranda was saying very little and Sylvia was making up for it.

  ‘I was lucky to get here in time. Charlie wouldnae let me go. Get me this, get me that. He’d had a hard night.’

  ‘Poor guy,’ said Annette in a sarcastic tone.

  ‘I’m no’ kiddin’. He was in a bad way. I didnae like to leave him.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. As long as you left him enough money for opening time. Or was he in withdrawal from something different?’

  ‘I’ve nae idea what you’re talkin’ about. We were in the pub last night and he brought home a carry-out. I didnae want any, so he drank it all himself.’

  ‘That was good of him.’

  ‘He’s like a wee kid sometimes. I never know what to say to him.�
��

  ‘You only need two words,’ said Annette. ‘I’ll give you a clue. The second one’s “off”.’

  ‘Is that what you told your man?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Eventually. With a couple of boots up the bum to help him on his way. If he’d left right away it might have seemed like decisive action.’

  ‘I’m no’ sure,’ said Sylvia. ‘What do you think, Miranda?’

  Miranda had remained silent during the exchange, a faint smile on her face. A smile of superiority? Mockery? Annette found it difficult to tell. It might even be her way of trying to be friendly. You could never be sure what Miranda was thinking. ‘I don’t really know,’ she told Sylvia. ‘It’s up to you.’

  Annette found it hard to like Miranda, and she knew the other girls felt the same. It was difficult not to be a little jealous of her supermodel looks, but there was more to it than that. She was always perfectly pleasant and friendly, but somehow remote. She never poured out the details of her private life like Sylvia and some of the others, though Annette didn’t do that either, preferring to keep her home life separate. But in Miranda’s case, Annette sensed that the barrier she put up wasn’t just for the benefit of her colleagues; she suspected that it stood between Miranda and the whole world.

  As they waited for the first arrival, they drank coffee and Sylvia chain-smoked. She never seemed to relax; not at work anyway and, Annette guessed, not at home either.

  The first two customers arrived and the day’s work began for Miranda and Annette.

  Annette didn’t recognise the man, and was fairly sure that she hadn’t seen him before. He was young, quiet, and seemed a little nervous. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, but not all that repulsive either. She took him to the cabin, relieved him of his robe and got him to lie face down on the table. She massaged the back of his body with oil for some time, then asked him to turn over. She looked down on his naked front. ‘Was there something else you were wanting?’