Dead Men and Broken Hearts: A Lennox Thriller (Lennox 4)

by Craig Russell

  We shook hands and walked along the quayside a little without speaking until eventually we came to some iron railings. Hunching his camel-coated shoulders against the cold damp, Cohen leaned his forearms on the railings, interlocked his pigskin-gloved fingers and looked out across to the dry dock.

  ‘Okay, what is this all about?’

  ‘That’s quite some beast you’ve got there.’ I nodded to where he had parked the Bentley. ‘A pretty conspicuous set of wheels. Are you sure you weren’t followed?’

  ‘Why would I be followed?’ he asked.

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘Now tell me what the hell this is all about.’

  ‘You know I’ve been trying to go one hundred percent legit, don’t you, Jonny?’

  ‘Yeah … I guessed that from the way I’ve been dropped from your Christmas list.’

  ‘Nothing personal,’ I said. ‘It’s just that I’ve been trying to keep a low-profile and turn an honest buck. But I owe you big time and that’s the only reason I’m here. I need your word that you’ll never let on to anyone that this came from me …’

  ‘Okay, Lennox, you’ve got my word. Now what’s this all about?’

  ‘I needed you to make sure you weren’t followed because the police are probably keeping a close watch on you.’

  ‘And why would they do that?’ His tone darkened.

  ‘Let’s put it this way, they’re maybe looking to pick up some bargains for Christmas. Jewellery for the wife, that kind of thing.’

  Cohen said nothing, his expression opaque. It was the same empty face I guessed he would show the coppers when they came knocking on his door. The silence was broken by more ringing echoes of metal clanging over in the dry dock.

  ‘They maybe think you could offer them bargain-basement prices and undercut, say, the jewellery stores in the Argyle Arcade.’

  ‘Now where,’ said Cohen, with deliberate slowness, ‘would they have got an idea like that?’

  ‘I get the impression it came from someone close to you. Maybe someone who’s visited a jeweller’s with you. Recently. Maybe last month, say.’

  ‘You don’t have a name?’

  ‘My police contact is looking for payment for that information, but he needs someone in the middle and I’ve told him I’m not that kind of girl any more.’

  ‘I need a name, Lennox. I’ll pay for the name. Tell your copper that.’

  ‘No can do, Jonny. And it’s best for you if you have no dealings with him. If this ends the way I think it will, then he’s the kind to get scared and blab. Anyway, you don’t need the name, Jonny. All you need to know is that a link in your chain is about to break. I’m guessing that, in this case, it’s a pretty short chain. And like the proverb says, it’s always the weakest link. I reckon you can work it out from there.’

  He nodded without taking his eyes off the hulk across the dock. ‘Maybe you’re right at that. Thanks, Lennox. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Jonny?’

  ‘Yes …’ He turned to face me, still leaning one elbow on the railings.

  ‘Do me a favour. I really don’t want anyone to come to … permanent … grief because of what I’ve just told you.’

  ‘I can’t promise you that. You know that. It’s best you don’t ask any more.’

  It was my turn to be quiet. I’d spent more than a year house-cleaning my life, sweeping out the shadows and cobwebs of dodgy dealings, and I had just condemned a faceless man to a few hours in a darkened room with a torturer. Once they were convinced he’d told them exactly how much he’d passed to the police, they would give him something to ease the pain. Permanently.

  ‘You know I appreciate this, Lennox. If there’s anything I can do …’

  ‘I didn’t do this for a quid-pro-quo, Jonny,’ I said. ‘I would much rather have had nothing to do with it. It was information I wish I never had. But I did, and I had to tell you.’

  ‘Well, if there’s anything …’

  A thought struck me. ‘There is maybe something. If I gave you a photograph, could you have it copied and passed around your people? It’s a missing person I’m looking for. I’ve been given the idea that he enjoys a dance and he’s maybe been a face at one of the dance halls you own. His name is Frank Lang.’

  ‘Sure. It’s the least I can do.’

  ‘There’s a chance, maybe a good chance, that Lang isn’t his real name. I don’t know for sure what his game is, but he could be into blackmail and extortion. So maybe someone will recognize him in a professional capacity.’

  ‘Get me the picture and I’ll ask around. Personally. That means I’ll get answers.’

  ‘I should warn you that there is a chance that there’s a political element to this. Lang’s a Lefty. Or purports to be. Like I say, he might just be a con man and the politico crap is just part of his cover, but it’s best to keep it discreet.’

  Jonny nodded. I could have asked him for anything and he would have given it me. I had just saved him from spending most of the rest of his life behind bars.

  And it had come at a small price: a man’s life.

  It was my day for clandestine meetings. Taylor, the semi-crooked copper on the cusp of becoming fully bent, had made a ’phone call to my office and told me he had something on the names I’d given him. I thanked him without mentioning that I had passed on for nothing everything he had told me about there being a snitch in Cohen’s organization; I guessed he wouldn’t appreciate my charitable nature. And when their informer turned out to be the deadest of dead-ends, it would be best that there was no trail to follow. Jonny had his weak link; Taylor was mine.

  I could tell from Taylor’s tone on the ’phone that he felt he had something worthwhile for me and we arranged to meet at McAskill’s boxing gym in Dennistoun. The gym was a huge barn of a building of bolted-together corrugated iron that flaked dark green paint, and looked more like a shipyard shed than a centre of sporting excellence. Taylor and I used it a lot to meet; old man McAskill was glad of the fiver he got each time for his discretion and it was the last place on earth you would expect to come across a private and public detective exchanging notes – of one kind or the other. For that matter, it was also the last place on earth you would expect to come across any kind of boxing talent; but Dennistoun was the kind of place where, if you grew up there, you had an understandable urge to punch someone’s face and there was a steady stream of Dempsey wannabes, from the brawlers and sluggers to those with genuine talent, and McAskill had a reputation for sorting the wheat from the chaff – even if he never made a penny out of it.

  When we met, Taylor and I sat in McAskill’s office-cum-locker-room at the back of the gym. I lit a cigarette to fend off the stale-sweat odours of jock-straps and singlets, and offered one to Taylor.

  ‘You’ve got something worthwhile for me?’ I asked.

  ‘I have that, Mr Lennox,’ he said. ‘On those names you gave me … Andrew Ellis and Frank Lang … But I’ve drawn a blank with Tanglewood. Means nothing to me, means nothing to anyone I’ve talked to. But Ellis and Lang are much more interesting. You say these two people aren’t connected?’

  ‘They’re not,’ I replied. ‘In fact I’m not interested in Ellis any more. Just Lang.’

  ‘Oh …’ Taylor looked like I’d stolen his fire. Or some of it, at least.

  ‘Why? Are they connected?’ I asked.

  ‘You said Andrew Ellis was Hungarian by birth, so I decided to check out his immigration record and his proper name is, or was, András Elés. He was a kid when he came over. A baby.’

  ‘I know most of that already. Anyway, like I told you, Ellis is a closed case now.’

  ‘But you’re still interested in this Frank Lang character?’

  ‘Yes …’ I failed to keep the impatience out of my tone.

  ‘Well, seeing as I was in immigration records and the bird behind reception was being very cooperative, I thought I’d check to see if there were any records for Frank Lang.’


  I leaned forward. ‘And there was?’

  Taylor nodded. ‘Now, it’s maybe not the Frank Lang you’re looking for … in fact it would be a hell of a coincidence if it was … but there is one in the system. Also Hungarian by birth. It’s not the same as Ellis who’s been British most of his life. Until a couple of years ago this Frank Lang had to report regularly to his local police station as a resident alien.’

  ‘Do you have any more on him?’ I asked. ‘Has he served as a merchant sailor?’

  ‘That I don’t know.’

  ‘What was his original name?’ I asked. ‘I mean the Hungarian one?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ said Taylor, ‘but Lang is a very common Hungarian surname. Or so the lass in the records office told me. Just as common as it is in Scotland, but from a completely different origin. Anyway, I got details on this fella Lang …’ Taylor reached into the inside pocket of his raincoat and handed me a handwritten sheet of paper. ‘Again naturalized British, but, like I said, he’s a much newer mintage.’

  ‘How new?’

  ‘Came over after the war. Been in Scotland for just shy of ten years. Goes by the name of Frank Lang but the real first name is Ferenc. I just thought that it was quite a coincidence … that you gave me two names to check out and it turns out that they’re both Hungarian.’

  I thought about what Taylor had told me. I took a couple of leisurely draws on my cigarette before answering.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  When I ’phoned the union’s headquarters, Connelly wasn’t there, so I had to settle for Lynch.

  ‘You know how I asked for all and any information on Frank Lang that might help me find him?’

  ‘I remember.’ Lynch’s tone was dull and flat on the line, as if I was boring him.

  ‘Well, I know it’s a small point, really, but mentioning the fact that he has an accent like Bela Lugosi would have been helpful.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Lennox?’ The tone still flat.

  ‘Is or isn’t Frank Lang a naturalized Briton and Hungarian by birth?’

  ‘Well my guess would be that he isn’t … Isn’t Hungarian, isn’t Romanian or Transylvanian or from the fucking Shetland Islands. He isn’t even some Canadian smart arse.’

  ‘You’re saying he isn’t foreign by birth?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? But if Frank Lang is anything other than Scottish, then he disguises it well. No foreign accent, unless you count Wishaw as foreign. Anyway, it’s not something we would have missed. It would have come up somewhere in his records.’

  ‘Such as they are,’ I said.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Lynch. ‘Is that the only reason you’re ’phoning?’

  I thought for a moment. It didn’t make sense that no one else I had spoken to had mentioned Lang being foreign or having any kind of accent. And, of course, Andrew Ellis and his wife’s involving me in their marital concerns had nothing to do with the union case whatsoever.

  ‘It’s something I needed to check out, Lynch. The leads you’ve given so far have been less than useful. And there is a Frank Lang in Glasgow who was born a Hungarian national. It’s just a coincidence.’

  ‘Is this how you approach your investigations? You pick whatever nationality happens to be in the news and see if you can tie the missing person into it? Before you ask, he isn’t Egyptian either.’

  An idea struck me. ‘Does the word Tanglewood mean anything to you?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he said and I could tell it didn’t. ‘Is that it? I hope you get yourself sorted out soon, Lennox, because all I’m hearing at the moment is a dog barking up the wrong tree.’ He hung up.

  So much for coincidences. The Ferenc Lang Taylor had tripped over was obviously someone different from the Frank Lang I was looking for.

  I started to feel the pain of separation every time I thought about the cash I’d greased Taylor’s palm with.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  To say the least, my experience of the opposite sex in Glasgow had been very eclectic. Sex is perhaps one of the most unlikely but nevertheless effective ways of building a network of contacts; of expanding your experience of different walks of life. I am the first to confess that there had been a disproportionate number of barmaids, waitresses and actresses in the mix, but I had, nonetheless, met some interesting women from all walks of life during my time in Scotland.

  One such contact had been a pretty, slim redhead who worked in a photographic studio close to the Glasgow Herald offices. She was a sweet girl who had married the boss when she had been too young and he had seemed mature and worldly wise. Worldly wise soon became plain old and I had held her hand for a while, at a time when the odd adultery had been one of the lesser of my moral infractions. I guessed she still had a thing for me and she was pleased to see me when I called, and agreed to run off a dozen prints of the picture of Frank Lang.

  I had arranged with Jonny to mail him the photographs, keeping our visible contact to a minimum until the Arcade jewellery business cooled off, which we both knew would be many moons. In the meantime, he would get in touch one way or another to let me know if he had any news. It was a long shot, but Jonny owned the hottest dance halls in Glasgow; which was appropriate, because nothing came hotter than the cash he had used to buy them. If Frank Lang was a regular at any of the halls, then there was just a chance that one of Jonny’s people would recognize him.

  On the Friday morning, I dropped Archie and Twinkletoes off at the hire place in Charing Cross where, as usual, they picked up the van for the wages run. They were the oddest looking pair, that was for sure: Archie with his usual hangdog look and dry wit, Twinkletoes stretching the stitching on his best Burton off-the-peg and exuding earnest eagerness from a face that looked like he’d used it to beat someone to death.

  Seeing them together was a disconcerting experience, which reassured me, hoping that they would have the same effect on any would-be robbers. Hiring the van each week meant we got preferential rates, but it still cut into the profit of the job and was, potentially, a security risk. Another reason for me to lose the Atlantic for something more reliable and substantial that could be used for the wages run.

  I left them to it and headed back into town.

  When you scratched the surface – and you really had to scratch – Glasgow was surprisingly cosmopolitan. Probably because it was such a major world port and a gateway between Europe and the Americas. There were significant populations of Jews, Irish, Poles and Italians, and the city’s map was dotted with various clubs and societies representing expatriate, émigré and immigrant groups. As I already knew, there was the aptly-named Canadian Club in Woodlands Terrace, not far from Connelly’s union headquarters; the Cercle de Français de Glasgow and the Casa d’Italia were to be found at separate addresses in Park Circus; the Danish Society in Ashton Road, the Scandinavian Club in Sauchiehall Street, and the Hispanic Society of Scotland in Victoria Road. There was a Greek Orthodox Church in Grafton Street and even German church services held in St Stephen’s Church. There were consulates in the city for nations ranging from Guatemala to Finland.

  But no Hungarian representation.

  Glasgow seemed culturally blind to landlocked nations: almost all the consulates in the city represented nations with coastlines and trading ports. Glasgow wasn’t the nation’s capital but it was Scotland’s biggest city by far and its commercial heart. Its international relations were informed by trade, not politics.

  The Hungarian Consulate therefore had its offices in Edinburgh. I had prepared a spiel about working for a store who had found a dropped wallet that seemed to belong to a Ferenc Lang, but I didn’t get a chance to use my prepared fiction. My call was put through to a thick accent that went by the name Tabori, sounded harassed and suspicious and gave me the brush off. When I pushed and asked if there was anybody I could talk to in Glasgow who might be able to help, Tabori answered in the negative and in most definitely undiplomatic language. It wasn’t surprising.
Hungary was in tumult and there was considerable dubiety about who exactly was running the country; ambassadorial and consular staff were left cut loose and floating and I guessed that Tabori would have been bombarded by inquiries from anxious expatriates, nervous trade partners and persistent journalists.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, catching him, I guessed, as the receiver was already parting company with his ear. ‘I know this must be a trying time for you. But it would be helpful if you could point me in the right direction here in Glasgow. Even a Hungarian association, if there is such a thing in Scotland. Have you ever heard of Tanglewood?’ It was a stab in the dark but it was becoming a custom with me to ask anyone from Hungarian diplomats to bus conductresses. ‘It’s a name that came up and I just wondered if it has a significance amongst the Hungarian community in Scotland.’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t,’ said Tabori, his tone unreadable beneath a Carpathian purr. ‘I’m sorry if I was a little brusque. You’re right, it has been a difficult time. A Ferenc Lang, you say?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’ll make a few enquiries – however it may be some time before I get an opportunity to do so, Mr Lennox. Do you have a number where I may contact you?’

  I gave him my number and after I hung up I sat staring at the receiver for a moment. Tabori suddenly had found time to talk to me when I had mentioned Tanglewood. I shook the thought off. Andrew Ellis had nothing to do with Frank Lang, Frank Lang had nothing to do with Ferenc Lang and Tanglewood probably had nothing to do with anything.

  I sure was on a roll.

  When I returned to my digs that evening, I decided to grab the bull by whatever part of its anatomy you’re supposed to grab it by and I asked Fiona if I could talk to her. In my rooms, away from the girls.

  She made me wait ten floor-pacing minutes and when she arrived up the stairs I turned on her more aggressively than I had intended.