by Bill Daly
‘I like living in Glasgow – and I’d hate to get transferred to Edinburgh.’
‘You mark my words. As long as you stay in Glasgow, you’ll have to suffer a succession of useless pillocks getting promoted ahead of you, just because their faithers are high up in the Lodge.’
‘What are you two blethering about?’ Dympna asked as she came into the living room carrying a tray stacked high with salmon sandwiches, fairy cakes and chocolate biscuits.
Charlie Anderson turned the key in his front door. ‘It’s just me, love!’ he called up the stairs. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
Kay appeared at the top of the staircase in her dressing gown and slippers; a petite figure with fine, chiselled features, the narrowness of her face giving emphasis to her large, turquoise eyes and long eyelashes. She walked down the stairs and, even standing on the bottom step, she had to stand on tiptoe to give Charlie a peck on the cheek. ‘As I knew you were meeting Bert, I made stovies. I left yours in the oven. Are you hungry?’
‘Famished.’
‘I’m off to bed. Mind you don’t burn yourself – and don’t forget to turn the oven off.’
Charlie put on the kettle and made himself a pot of strong tea, which he used to wash down a large helping of stovies. When he’d finished eating, he went through to the lounge and switched on the top light. He crossed to the drinks cabinet to pour himself a hefty belt of Glenmorangie and carried his drink across to his favourite armchair in front of the unlit fire.
Blakey stirred in his basket. Standing up and stretching out all four paws, he padded across the room and jumped up onto the arm of the chair. From there, he stepped delicately onto Charlie’s knees and turned in a full circle before curling up in Charlie’s lap. Charlie took a sip of whisky as he scratched gently at the top of the cat’s jet-black head. When he closed his eyes, Charlie’s mind filled with the image of the amputated hand. He tried to think of all the people, over the years, who could be bearing a grudge against him. After a few minutes his tired brain gave up – there were too many possibilities.
When he’d finished his drink, he put his glass down on the coffee table and struggled to his feet, cradling Blakey in both arms. He carried the limp cat across the room and placed him down gently in his basket. Switching off the light, he tiptoed up the staircase and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he eased open the bedroom door, he saw his bedside lamp was on. ‘Are you still awake?’ His whispered question was louder than he’d intended.
‘Mmm…’ the drowsy voice drawled.
Charlie stripped off his clothes and draped them over the chair at the bottom of the bed. Feeling under the pillow for his pyjamas, he pulled them on and got into bed. ‘How was your day?’ he asked quietly.
Kay rolled over onto her back and peered through half-open slits. ‘I went across to Sue’s place this afternoon and stocked up her fridge.’
‘That was a nice idea.’
‘I had a long chat with her on the phone this evening. Her flight’s due in at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I offered to meet her and Jamie off the plane, but she insisted on getting a taxi to go home and drop off their cases, then she and Jamie are coming across here for dinner, so do try to get home at a respectable hour tomorrow, Charlie.’
‘Nothing will get in the way of that.’
‘How was work today?’
Charlie hesitated. ‘So-so.’
‘Did you manage to avoid getting involved in the Port Glasgow murder?’ Charlie was on the point of responding, but the words died on his lips. He had never held back anything from Kay with regard to his work, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to tell her about the amputated hand sent to him. ‘Did you?’ Kay said, yawning as she rolled over on her side to face the window.
‘Not exactly, love. I’ll tell you about it in the morning.’ Charlie leaned across to switch off his bedside lamp. As soon as he closed his eyes, the image of an amputated hand filled his consciousness. It was floating in mid-air, blood spurting in all directions from the severed wrist. A nine of diamonds, attached to a blood-stained shoe box, was pulsing like a living organ in the background – and the bright-yellow smiley attached to the card was laughing its head off.
CHAPTER 3
In his heroin-induced dream, Pete Johnston was lying face down in the jungle, just beyond a clearing, his eyes tightly closed, his cheek pressing into the stinging, dank vegetation. His arms were stretched out above his head, his sweaty left palm grasping the barrel of a semi-automatic rifle while the index finger of his right hand twitched against the trigger. Excited, high-pitched voices were getting closer and he could hear what he assumed to be instructions being called out, although he couldn’t understand the language. The perspiration of raw fear was streaming down his face. He bit hard into his bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears welling up in his eyes. The rhythmic slashing of the undergrowth being hacked away was pounding in his eardrums, getting louder and louder, closer and closer. When a swinging machete blade sliced through his left leg he let out an agonised scream. His bloodshot eyes jerked wide open. The room was in pitch darkness. He sat bolt upright on the settee, his head spinning, his heart thumping crazily against his rib cage.
It took Johnston a few moments to orient himself. He got to his feet slowly and limped to the bathroom to splash cold water onto his face. When he came back to the lounge, he switched on the top light and struck a match to light a cigarette. He picked the sheet of paper up from the floor and forced himself to concentrate on committing the information to memory. Sucking hard on the cigarette, he read the instructions three times, then closed his eyes and repeated them out loud. He struck another match and set the sheet of paper alight, holding it by the corner between thumb and forefinger until he felt the flames licking at his knuckles. He dropped the charred remnants into an ashtray and watched as the paper slowly curled and disintegrated.
Johnston stubbed his cigarette out among the black ashes and slapped his face hard with the palm of his hand. Tugging at the string on the brown-paper parcel, he burst the package open. Inside he found a thin, red anorak and a torch. He tried on the anorak. It fitted adequately, although the sleeves were too long, coming down almost to his fingertips. He bunched the sleeves up his arms and picked up the rail and ferry tickets from the settee, examining them to confirm they matched the instructions. He flicked on the flashlight to check it was working, the powerful beam reflecting glaringly from the low ceiling. Switching off the torch, he thrust it into the side pocket of the anorak.
Wednesday 22 June
Harry Brady pushed open his shop door and looked around the store disconsolately. The discussion with Jack Williams last night hadn’t gone well. There was no way Jack was going to go to the police – and several whiskies in the The Halt Bar had done nothing to change his mind.
McKay and Hunter would be here on Saturday, demanding their five hundred quid – and the sum total of his takings so far this week was less than a hundred. Remembering what had happened to Jim McHugh, he knew he would have to do something.
As he was hanging up his jacket in the back shop, his eye caught the old cassette recorder on the top shelf. An idea suddenly came to him. He hadn’t used the recorder in years. Was it still working? He lifted it down and checked that there was a cassette inside. When he pressed ‘play’, the tape didn’t move. He flipped it over and opened the battery case. It was empty. He hurried through to the shop to get a pack of batteries. When he inserted them and pressed ‘play’, he heard the sounds of drunken singing at a long-forgotten party. He quickly rewound the cassette and depressed ‘record’, then counted from one to ten into the microphone. When he rewound the tape it played back perfectly. He took the cassette player across to the counter and placed it under the shelf. Depressing ‘record’, he walked to the other side of the shop and counted from eleven to twenty. That also played back clearly.
Harry broke out in a cold sweat at the thought of what McKay and Hunter would do to him if they sus
sed what he was up to. But he was going to get a kicking in any case when he didn’t pay up, and if he managed to record what they said to him, it could be used in evidence. He realised he would be taking a hell of a risk, but if it resulted in those two bastards getting sent down, it would be worth it.
The tall, loose-limbed figure, dressed from head to toe in black – cord jacket, polo-neck sweater, cavalry twill trousers and casual shoes – slouched in the shop doorway opposite Pete Johnston’s apartment block, his eyes fixed on the main entrance. A spent matchstick was in permanent motion as his tongue flicked it continuously from one side of his mouth to the other. The matchstick froze when he saw Johnston emerge from the building. He remained in the shadow of the doorway for a few moments before moving off in the same direction, on the opposite side of the street. The matchstick started flicking back and forth again rhythmically. He rarely glanced across, but he appreciated Johnston’s red anorak – it made the task of following him a whole lot easier.
The morning rush hour had slackened off and the tube station was relatively quiet by the time Johnston descended to the platform. He boarded the train when it arrived, then changed to the Metropolitan line at Finchley Road. Alighting at Euston Square, he walked briskly to the main-line railway station. When he looked up at the station clock he saw he had fifteen minutes to spare before the Glasgow train was due to leave. He went across to a kiosk and bought a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes. Scanning the departures board, he found his platform number. He checked his ticket for his carriage number before climbing on board the train and making his way up the aisle until he came to his window seat.
The figure in black stood at the end of the platform and pulled out his mobile phone, clicking onto a number in his contacts’ list. His call was answered on the first ring.
‘It’s Farrell.’ He spoke urgently. ‘I followed Johnston to Euston Station and he’s got on the Glasgow train. What do you want me to do?’ Chewing hard on his matchstick, he tapped his foot impatiently on the ground while he waited for instructions.
‘Stay with him.’
Snapping his phone closed, Farrell hurried to board the train. He sought out the ticket collector and explained he hadn’t had time to go to the ticket office to buy a ticket. He paid for his fare to Glasgow in cash.
As soon as the train was clear of the station, Johnston left his seat and made his way to the buffet car where he sat down at a narrow table. He started drinking heavily, alternating between miniatures of whisky and cans of lager. The combination of the alcohol and the rocking motion of the train made him feel drowsy. After two hours in the buffet car, he returned to his seat where he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Grey, lowering clouds were scudding across the heavy sky, driven by a gusting westerly wind. Sergeant Jerry Condron gnawed at the ragged quick of his thumbnail as he waited patiently for the tug to manoeuvre the stricken fishing boat onto its moorings.
The policeman glanced up when heard the Tobermory town hall clock chime noon. He used the back of his hand to wipe the stinging salt spray from his lips, then pulled his raincoat belt tight around his waist. Turning up his jacket collar to shield his neck from the wind, he watched while two coiled ropes were thrown ashore and lashed securely around the capstans. Condron tried, without success, to decipher the washed-out, Cyrillic script on the bow of the vessel bobbing low in the water.
As soon as the boat had been tied fast, a gangplank was swung into position and Condron weaved his way across, steadying himself on the rope handrail. A tall figure in green oilskins and wearing a black sou’wester was waiting to meet him.
Condron spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Speaking English – just a little.’
Condron took out his notebook. ‘Are you the captain?’
He nodded. ‘Captain?’ he said, pointing to his chest. ‘Yes. Me Captain.’
‘What is your nationality?’ The question was met with a puzzled frown. ‘What country are you from?’
The captain gave a toothy grin. ‘Russia,’ he proclaimed proudly, indicating the shredded flag wrapped tightly round the flagpole.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Bespalov – Roman Timofeivitch Bespalov.’
Not a lot of point in asking him to spell it, Condron thought to himself as he jotted down a rough approximation in his notebook. ‘What brought you to these waters?’
Bespalov looked perplexed. ‘Please?’
‘Why are you here?’ Condron spoke louder, pausing between words and directing each syllable directly at the captain’s face, hoping volume and lip reading might aid comprehension. ‘Why are you in Mull?’ he mouthed slowly.
Bespalov nodded his understanding. ‘Problem – engine.’ To amplify his statement he pointed towards the hold with his left hand while drawing the horizontal fingers of his right hand sharply across his throat. ‘Engine kaput!’ he shouted dramatically. ‘Mayday – yesterday night.’
‘How many people on board?’ Bespalov hesitated again. ‘The crew? How many men?’ Condron pointed towards a sailor and held up a hand as he counted out on his fingers. ‘One… two… three… four…?’
Bespalov held up six fingers. ‘Me – and five men,’ he said. He waved towards the four sailors standing sullenly in line along the far side of the boat, then jabbed his thumb in the direction of the solitary figure leaning against the bulkhead.
‘Papers? Do you have papers?’
‘Papers, yes. Have papers.’
Condron waved towards the crew. ‘Do any of them speak English?’
Bespalov shook his head and grinned, sticking out his chest proudly. ‘Speak English – only me.’
‘Okay. Now listen to me very carefully, captain. Everyone stays on board and I’ll send someone to check your engines. Do you understand what I’m saying? No one’s allowed to go ashore.’
‘Stay here – fix engine – yes?’
Condron nodded. ‘That’s the ticket. I’ll come back and see you later on when we know how serious the problem is.’
‘Stay here – fix engine,’ Bespalov repeated. ‘I understand.’
As Condron turned to make his way back across the gangplank an animated babble of Russian broke out behind him.
Tony O’Sullivan was sitting at his desk, writing out a cheque, when Charlie Anderson wandered across.
‘What are you doing for lunch?’ Charlie asked.
‘I’m going out,’ Tony said, putting the cheque into a white envelope and sealing it before slipping it into his inside jacket pocket.
‘Anywhere in particular?’
Tony hesitated. ‘I was thinking of nipping across to Òran Mór.’
‘I’ve never been there. I hear it’s good. Okay if I join you?’
‘Er… fine…’
‘We can take my car.’
Charlie found a parking place in the middle of Dowanside Road and they walked from there, along Byres Road, past the multitude of coffee shops and delicatessens, to the junction with Great Western Road. Òran Mór stood on the corner, a modern pub occupying the building that had once been Kelvinside Parish Church
‘They’ve done a nice job with the conversion,’ Charlie commented as they climbed the stone steps and walked through the pub door.
‘Probably not the kind of conversion the Church of Scotland had in mind when they had the place built,’ Tony said. ‘Do you think there’s any chance the idea might catch on?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How many churches do you reckon there are in Glasgow?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’ Charlie scratched at the back of his bald head. ‘There must be dozens of them.’
‘Just imagine it – dozens of new pubs. All spacious – with plenty of room for discos. What is there not to like about that? I must remember to mention the idea to the Glasgow tourist board.’
‘I’m looking forward to you selling the concept to the Wee Frees.’
Tony crossed to th
e bar while Charlie wandered across to look at the stained glass windows in one of the alcoves. Tony waved to the red-headed barmaid at the far end of the long counter. ‘Hi, Kylie.’
Kylie came hurrying down, greeting Tony with a beaming smile. ‘What will it be, Tony?’
‘Before we order, would it be okay if we go upstairs for a minute? I’m with my boss’, Tony said, indicating Charlie, who was still studying the stained glass windows. ‘This is the first time he’s been in and I’d like him to see the ceiling.’
‘Go ahead. There’s nothing going on upstairs right now.’
Tony waved Charlie across and led the way up the spiral staircase to the Auditorium. ‘What do you think of that?’ he asked, stepping aside to give Charlie a clear view of the roof.
‘I’ve heard about this,’ Charlie said, gazing up at the stunning depiction of the night sky. ‘I’ve seen photographs of it in magazines, but they don’t begin to do it justice. It’s by Alasdair Gray, isn’t it?’ Tony nodded. Charlie gazed up at the questions and statements interwoven into the design.
Where Are We From?
Rooted in Death’s Republic.
What Are We?
Animals Who Want More Than We Need.
Where Are We Going?
Our Seed returns To Death.
‘The man has an incredible talent,’ Charlie said. ‘They say Lanark is a classic. Apparently it took him more than thirty years to write it. I reckon it would take me at least that long to read it. I tried it a couple of times, but I could never get into it.’
‘I started it a few years back, but I soon gave up,’ Tony said. ‘It was way beyond me.’
Tony led the way back down the staircase to the bar. ‘I’ll get them in,’ he said. ‘What are you for?’
