The Long Glasgow Kiss l-2

by Craig Russell

  ‘This doesn’t help you know, Lorna,’ I said, placing the Scotch on the side table and out of her reach.

  ‘Nor do you. You don’t help much, do you, Lennox?’ She pushed at my chest as if ridding herself of a great annoyance. ‘So what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’

  ‘I read the papers. I wanted to see how you are.’

  ‘Well you’ve seen. You may go…’ She approximated a regal wave of dismissal.

  ‘Not until you’ve sobered up, Lorna. I’ll make some coffee.’

  ‘Fuck the coffee. Fuck you, Lennox.’ It was the first time I’d heard Lorna utter a profanity. ‘Oh… is that what you want? You want me to fuck you, Lennox? We have such a deep and meaningful relationship, don’t we, sweetheart?’

  ‘Lorna, be quiet. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all day. I didn’t realize you were working so hard on tomorrow’s hangover. I’ll get you some water while the coffee’s on.’ I went through to the kitchen, filled the kettle and put it on the stove. Ditching the malt in the sink, I rinsed the glass and brought it back to Lorna, filled with water. Lorna looked at it disdainfully but I sat next to her and waited until she had drunk it all down.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lorna. I should have been here more often,’ I said, and meant it. ‘It’s just that I’ve been tied up with a few things, including looking into some of the deals your father was into. I thought that I might find out something about his death. But that all seems redundant now. Have the police spoken to you about the arrest?’

  Another dismissive wave. Less regal this time. ‘They showed me a photograph. Asked if I’d seen him before.’

  ‘Had you?’

  She shook her head sullenly. ‘Some bloody gyppo. He must’ve followed Dad home from Shawfields a few times to learn his routine. Then waited for him…’

  ‘Is that what the police told you?’

  ‘They told me nothing. They talked to Maggie for a while and then Jack.’

  ‘Jack Collins?’

  ‘Yes… He’s family,’ she said with what I took as a bitter laugh. There again, everything about her was bitter.

  ‘The gyppo must’ve broken in and waited until…’ She started to cry. ‘Daddy…’

  I put my arm around her and she pulled away.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  She shrugged. I went through to the kitchen and made the coffee and some toast. Again I had to overcome her resistance before she drank the coffee and ate the toast. I took some coffee too and managed to keep it down. The aspirin was beginning to work on my headache: like a butterfly trying to wear away a cannonball with its wing.

  We sat for an hour, saying nothing, me topping her up with coffee. Eventually the inevitable happened and she had to run for the toilet. When she came back, her face was grey-white and the streaked make-up stood out like flaking paint. We made a handsome couple. I made her drink more coffee. Gradually, her voice became less slurred and her hatred of me less intense.

  ‘Why did they want to talk to Jack Collins?’ I asked eventually.

  ‘About Dad’s business. If there could be a connection with his death. He knew all kinds. Like you do.’

  I let the dig go.

  ‘Do they suspect Collins of being involved in any of this?’

  She shrugged a loose, drunken shrug. ‘I dunno. Jack wouldn’t have anything to do with anything like that. Jack’s a good boy…’

  I wasn’t going to get much sense out of her so I guided her upstairs to her bedroom. I laid her down on the bed and she grabbed my jacket by the lapels, pulling my face close to hers. She reached her mouth to mine. I gently eased her back onto the bed.

  ‘Stay with me, Lennox. Sleep here tonight…’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. It was a reflex action, like kicking your leg when a doctor hits your knee with that little rubber hammer.

  It was Maggie MacFarlane who woke me up. I looked up at her, blinking. There was just too much sun streaming into the room for my bruised noggin to cope with.

  ‘You look terrible,’ she said. No smile. Just a hard, cold stare.

  I eased myself up into a sitting position on the sofa. We were in the living room. That irritating chivalrous streak had shown itself again and I’d camped out on the sofa. To get my gallantry into perspective, I don’t think either Lorna or I had had it in us to perform a horizontal tango. So here I was on the sofa: cramped, aching and in a foul mood. I looked at my suit trousers: they had more wrinkles than a Nepalese octogenarian and I congratulated myself on the smart move of changing clothes before I came over.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I asked, stretching.

  ‘What the hell is that to do with you?’

  ‘I came over last night and found Lorna completely plastered. She could have done with a little step-maternal support. You know that they’ve arrested a traveller for Small Change’s murder?’

  ‘Of course.’ Maggie remained frosty, which was far from her usual demeanour. ‘The police told me. So it was robbery after all.’

  ‘Did anyone suggest it wasn’t?’ I asked.

  ‘I think I should go up and see Lorna,’ said Maggie, dodging the question.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said, removing my restraining hand from her forearm when she looked at it as if I had been a leper. With Blackwater Fever. And a Celtic supporter. ‘I promised I’d look after her.’ Walking to the door, I added over my shoulder: ‘And how is your stepson? Or half-stepson? I get confused.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ It was there in her voice: something tight and a little unsure of itself. I turned to face her.

  ‘Young Jack Collins, the debonair gad-about-town. I’m guessing that’s who you were with last night? I know he’s Small Change’s illegitimate son.’

  ‘I think you should mind your own business and stay out of other people’s,’ said Maggie. The words were hard but the tone was softening. Like an expert sailor changing tack, she had worked out she needed to approach this breeze carefully. ‘Listen, Jack’s a good kid and he treated Small Change…’

  ‘Like a father?’ I helped out.

  ‘Well, yes. There’s nothing improper going on.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I said. I didn’t have time for this. ‘I better see Lorna.’

  It wasn’t a pretty sight. She had thrown up in her sleep onto the bed sheets and I had to help her to her feet and into the bathroom while I stripped the bed. It took me an hour to get her straightened out before I could leave. She cried a lot: the shame of the unaccustomed drunk. You didn’t see it much in Glasgow.

  I got back to my digs about ten a.m. The day was off to a great start: as I walked up the path Fiona White came out of the main door. She eyed me up and down, taking in my creased suit and probably sickly-looking face. It would have done no good to explain that I was actually concussed rather than hung over and I raised my hat to her as she walked past without uttering a word.

  Once I was freshened up again I drove up to Blanefield and knocked on Kirkcaldy’s door. There was no one home so I came back into town to the Maryhill address I had for his gym. It was in an old building in Bantaskin Street: a much bigger, less sophisticated and sweatier affair than the set-up he had in the basement of his house. Old Uncle Bert was there too; he showed a fidelity to his nephew that would have made Blackfriar’s Bobby look like a fly-by-night. Kirkcaldy was sparring with a padded-helmeted partner in the ring. Bert came over to me and was the most amenable I had seen him. Which still was on the hostile side of chilly.

  ‘We saw what happened to yon laddie of yours,’ he said through his nose. ‘That was bad. Bobby’s upset that the boy was looking out for him when he got the beating.’

  ‘I appreciate it,’ I said. ‘And I appreciate Bobby taking the time to call into the hospital to see him. Were you there when Bobby found him?’

  ‘Aye, we were both on the way back from here. The lad was lying by the car, all battered to fuck. Somebody must have belted his coupon from behind then kicked the shite out of him.’

&n
bsp; ‘You reckon?’

  ‘That’s what it looked like, poor kid. You want to talk to Bobby? He can’t really tell you any more than I can but you’re welcome to wait.’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s okay. Tell him I called by to say thanks.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  It was turning into an unproductive morning. I called around at Jimmy Costello’s. His two goons, Skelly and Young, were sitting at the bar when I went in and eyed me contemptuously, a look I was getting used to. Skelly was still wearing the marks of our recent tango. I asked Jimmy Costello if he had heard from Paul. He told me he hadn’t and I could see that he was telling the truth.

  ‘Why you asking?’ he said. ‘You got a lead?’

  ‘No, I’ve got a bump on the back of my head and I’m pretty sure it was your son who gave it to me. I tracked down Sammy Pollock but left my rear exposed, to coin an expression.’

  ‘Why would Paul do that?’

  ‘Maybe he’s not convinced that I really am just interested in tracking down Sammy. Do you know anything about a stolen jade statuette? Of some kind of oriental dragon or demon?’

  ‘No…’ I guessed that this was Costello’s automatic response to being asked about stolen goods so I pushed him. ‘Listen, Jimmy, it’s important. I think Paul and Sammy Pollock have bitten off more than they can chew. Now, do you really not know anything about a stolen jade figure?’

  ‘I swear, Lennox. If Paul knows anything about it then he’s never said fuck all to me. Not that that surprises me. We don’t talk much.’

  I talked to Costello for another half hour and just went around in the same old circles. As I was leaving, I saw Skelly shoot me another filthy look. The bump on my head gave another, bigger throb and it crossed my mind that it maybe hadn’t been Paul Costello who had bushwhacked me. I crossed the bar and pulled Skelly clean off his stool. His loyal pal backed away from me.

  ‘You got a problem with me, shitface?’ I chose the route of diplomacy.

  ‘I’m not the one with the problem,’ said Skelly, pulling the tailoring from my grasp. ‘And I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘So I have a problem… is that what you’re saying.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. Like I said, I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘Then just watch your manners when you’re around your betters, Sonny.’

  He turned a sullen back on me. There was no fight in him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t handy enough with a sap in dim light and from behind.

  I left him to his sulk and ignored Jimmy Costello’s impatient glare. I was pushing my luck, I knew it, but I had a sore head and was in a bad mood and everyone I dealt with seemed to be either lying to me or hiding something.

  A promise is a promise. I called in to see Davey at the lunchtime visiting hour. He was pleased to see me but I could tell he hurt like hell. I wasn’t far behind him. We talked and I joked with him and all the time I felt that old dark fury kindle itself deep in my gut.

  After I left the hospital, I ’phoned Sheila Gainsborough and asked if I could meet her, either at her apartment or my office. It was important, I told her, and not something that could be discussed over the ’phone. I got my message across and she agreed to meet at her apartment. But I would have to give her an hour to sort things out. She gave me the name of a cafe around the corner from her building and said we could meet there. The decorum was unnecessary and ill-advised but I was too beat-up to argue.

  I drove into the West End, found the cafe in Byres Road and took a table by the window. It was one of those Italian places, where they made an opera out of making a cup of coffee with a steam-hissing machine that sounded like it should be pulling the eleven-fifteen to London out of Central Station. At least the coffee was good.

  Sheila Gainsborough arrived five minutes late. She looked flustered and apologized for the delay. She took her scarf off and everyone in the cafe made a big show of not staring at her. Staring would have been much less obvious than the clumsily stolen glances. A waiter who looked as if he’d come straight off the boat from Naples but sounded like he’d come straight off the ferry from Renfrew took her order for a coffee.

  ‘You have news?’ she asked urgently. Her cheeks were flushed and, despite my gloomy mood and aching head, the thought of how nice it would be to make her cheeks flush crossed my mind.

  ‘Like I said on the ’phone, Miss Gainsborough,’ I said quietly. ‘We should do this at your flat or my office. Like it or not, you’re a celebrity, and every ear in this place is flapping. You never know when someone’s a reporter or a copper.’

  She took the point and we drank our coffee in haste and silence. Afterwards, we walked the few blocks to her apartment. Most of the dwellings in the area were tenements, townhouses or the occasional villa. Sheila Gainsborough’s place was a rupture in the grimy Victorian and Georgian facades: an Art Deco block that would have been about thirty years old. One of the interesting things about Glasgow was the richness and variety of its architecture: Victorian, slum, Art Deco, slum, Contemporary, slum…

  It was a classy place. Sheila led me into a huge, bright foyer that made you feel you’d stepped straight into the mid-Twenties. A uniformed commissionaire, who had an ex-military bearing but was of a vintage to have fought Kaiser rather than Fuhrer, saluted us and we took the elevator to the top floor.

  ‘You want a drink?’ she asked, as she dropped her bag and scarf onto a chair in the hall. ‘You look like you could do with one.’

  ‘I could do with one, but it would probably finish me off.’ I moved into the lounge. Everything in the flat was clean and orderly. The furniture, like the architecture that housed it, was Art Deco and was simple and tasteful — in that subtle way that tells you simple and tasteful is more expensive. There was a huge picture window, unbroken except for a couple of widely spaced, thin, white mullions. It gave a view over the city towards the university and Kelvingrove.

  ‘Please…’ she said, impatiently gesturing for me to sit. I sat. I think if Sheila Gainsborough had told me to jump out the window, I’d have done it. She remained standing, clutching her hands in front of her. ‘Is this about Sammy?’ she asked anxiously.

  I held my hands up. ‘Sammy’s okay. I saw him last night.’

  ‘Thank God he’s safe…’ she almost gasped. Tears of relief glossed her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Gainsborough, but I don’t think he is safe. I saw him last night and he was all right, but he’s in trouble. And he’s very scared.’

  ‘Then why in God’s name didn’t you bring him with you?’

  ‘Because, Miss Gainsborough, someone smacked me over the back of the head and put my lights out. Sammy and his girlfriend — and his handy associate — scarpered while I was counting sheep.’

  Her face fell. I felt sorry for her, but there wasn’t a lot I could do to put a positive sheen on it.

  ‘I’m afraid that Sammy has gotten involved in something heavy,’ I said. ‘Something out of his league. You remember Paul Costello? The guy who was wandering in and out of Sammy’s apartment, seemingly at will?’

  Sheila nodded.

  ‘I rather suspect it was young Mr Costello who put my lights out. They’re in this together. Whatever this is.’

  ‘I knew Sammy was getting in with the wrong sort…’ She frowned her cute frown again. ‘Where did you find him?’

  ‘Sleeping rough in a derelict farm cottage in the middle of nowhere’s back of beyond. I only found him because I spooked a girl he’s involved with — Claire Skinner — and was able to follow her.’

  ‘Sleeping rough?’ Her eyes glossed with tears again. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘I keep looking. I think there’s a chance he’ll get in touch with you. He looked hungry and tired. My guess is he’ll need money. If he gets in touch, I need you to let me know. No matter what he says, you’ve got to tell me. Got it?’

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘When I was out at the cottage, there was something odd. A stat
uette of a dragon. Looked like it was made of jade. Chinese by the look of it. Mean anything to you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Do you think they stole it?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure they did. I don’t know if that’s why they think the devil himself is after them or not. I really don’t know, but it would be a good guess.’

  ‘Where on earth would they have stolen something like that from?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I maybe know someone I can ask.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Surprising though it might seem, I was the bookish type. I read a lot. I would read almost anything, by anyone, on any subject. I only really drew the line, as I had pointed out to Devereaux, at Hemingway.

  Glasgow was the kind of city that liked to make a show of its knowledge. The University was a collection of grand and imposing Victorian buildings but the most strident statement of the city’s erudition came copper-domed: the Mitchell Library sat imposingly right at the heart of the city and was all Corinthian pillars. The original design of the building hadn’t included the St. Paul’s style dome, but the City Corporation councillors had insisted on it. Now the Mitchell Library shouted to the rest of Scotland and the world, ‘See… we do have books!’

  I waited in the main hall of the library. A smallish man with prematurely greying hair approached me.

  ‘Hello, Lennox,’ he said, and pump-handled my arm. Ian McClelland was an enthusiastic kind of person. His easy-going exuberance cheered me up every time I met him. Despite his impeccably Celtic name, McClelland was an Englishman, from Wiltshire, who had taken the usual upper-middle-class route of top public schools and Cambridge. He was probably the only person I knew who had any idea how to hold a fish knife. What the hell he was doing in Glasgow was beyond me.

  McClelland was a political science lecturer and specialist on the Far East and we’d met at a university function. I had been conjugating verbs with a young female French lecturer at the time. The romance hadn’t lasted, but the friendship with McClelland had. He dressed like an academic but didn’t for some reason look like one. On more than one occasion I had had suspicions that McClelland, who had spent a lot of time out in the Far East, had been at one time or another and to one degree or another involved with the intelligence services.