Fast forward a few years and I was at University in the city, and getting an education into the real heart of the place. I learned about bars, and religious divides. Glasgow is split along tribal loyalties. Back in the Victorian era, shiploads of Irishmen came to Glasgow for work. The Protestants went to one side of the city, the Catholics to the other. There they set up homes… and football teams. Now these teams are the biggest sporting giants in Scotland, two behemoths that attract bigots like bees to a honey pot. As a student I soon learned how to avoid giving away my religion in bars, and which ones to stay out of on match days.
Also by the time I was a student, a lot of the tall sandstone buildings had been pulled down to make way for tower blocks. Back then they were the new shiny future, taking the people out of the Victorian ghettos and into the present day.
Fast forward once more to the present day and there are all new ghettos. The tower blocks are ruled by drug gangs and pimps. Meanwhile there have been many attempts to gentrify the city center. Designer shops were being built in old warehouses, and docklands developments building expensive apartments where sailors used to get services from hard faced girls, and with shiny, trendy bars full of glossy expensively dressed bankers.
And underneath it all, the old Glasgow still lies, slumbering, a dreaming god waiting for the stars to be right again.
Lord Collins’ house belonged in the old Glasgow.
The house was huge, a red sandstone, Gothic Pile sitting beside the River Kelvin to the north of Glasgow University. It was an elaborately carved baroque extravaganza, the Victorian equivalent of saying Look at how big and important I am. Collins hadn’t told me where the house was… he didn’t have to. Everyone in town knew where the most expensive house in Scotland could be found.
I was about to knock when I caught a glimpse of someone beckoning me from across the road.
The net curtains of the house across the road twitched again as I turned back to the pavement. I waved, and the curtains opened. A little old lady beckoned me towards her.
“Come here,” she mouthed at the window, looking like a goldfish perpetually surprised by its surroundings. By the time I got to the front door she had it open, and ushered me in, looking around furtively, worried that the neighbors might see.
“Come in son, don’t just stand there gawking.”
She was tiny. She only came up to my chest, but was wider than I was, and twice as nervous. She pulled at a thread of her cardigan, fiddled with her horn-rimmed glasses, patted her hair and straightened a picture, all in the time it took me to enter the narrow hallway and close the front door behind me.
“Are you that private detective Collins visited this morning?”
She didn’t give me a chance to reply. She showed me into a living room straight out of the nineteen fifties, all dark heavy wood and floral patterns that hurt the eye to look at them. On the wall hung faded black and white pictures of family, but none of them were recent; no school pictures of grandchildren, no family reunions. The place was clean, but there was a certain mustiness that told me the animals might rule the roost here. She had at least four cats, two budgerigars and a very old dog, and that was just in the living room.
The dog lay by the fire. It lifted its head when I walked in, then went back to sleep. I hoped it didn’t dream of chasing rabbits; the shock might be too much for it.
“Have a seat son, but mind the new carpet, and try not to sit on the Siamese. She might look dead, but she’ll give you a nasty scratch. I keep meaning to get her claws clipped, but just keeping an eye on that house across the road takes up all my time and I…”
She had to stop for breath, her hand held tight to her chest. She was flushed, as if she was having palpitations.
I put up a hand.
“Slow down missus,” I said, “Just take your time. Do you have something to tell me?”
She nodded. She waved me to a seat.
“It’s about that man Collins,” she said.
She sat opposite me. A black cat, so fat it looked stuffed, climbed slowly into her lap and glared at me balefully.
“You’ve been keeping an eye on him?” I asked, noticing for the first time the binoculars and tripod at the window, and the small notebook and pencil on the table beside it.
She saw me looking.
“I’m keeping records,” she said. “That’s what the police do on stakeouts, isn’t it. I’ve seen it on the telly.”
I nodded, having to stifle a laugh at the sudden image I had of the old lady at the window, eating donuts and drinking coffee out of polystyrene cups.
“He’s up to something dodgy,” she said. “He gets deliveries at all hours of the day. I’ve been having to sleep down here just to try to catch him at it.”
“What kind of deliveries?”
“Big boxes. Lots of them.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“I think it’s fags and booze … smuggled in. I’ve got records of every delivery.”
“Let me see,” I said.
A cat tried to climb up my leg. I brushed it away and it sauntered off, showing me that it was above anything I might have to offer.
The old lady scuttled over and retrieved the notebook. She opened it and showed me the tiny neat handwriting, but she drew it away when I tried to take it from her.
“How do I know you’re not working for him?” she asked. She backed away from me, eyes wide. Her hand went to her chest again, as if trying to keep her heart in. “You could be a double agent. How do I know you’re not in on it?”
I suddenly got inspiration.
“If I was, you’d have seen me here before yesterday, wouldn’t you?”
She checked the notebook, rifling through pages, mumbling dates to herself. She sounded like a buzz saw on a go-slow. When she finally looked up at me she had her smile back.
“You’re not here,” she said.
“Was anybody else here... say, late at night?”
She consulted the book again.
“Sunday, 7:30 a.m. White van, four boxes in, three boxes out.
“Sunday, 8:00 a.m. White van, twelve boxes in.
“Sunday, 6:50 p.m. Collins arrives home. Drunk.
“Monday, 6:00 a.m. White van, ten boxes in, three out.
“Monday, 6:30 a.m. Collins leaves on foot.
“Monday, 8:00 a.m. Postman, letters, no parcels.
“Monday, 2:30 p.m. Collins drunk again.
“Monday, 8:00 p.m. White van …
“I get the idea,” I interrupted. So no suspicious visitors in the night?”
She checked, muttering times under her breath. Eventually she looked up.
“No.”
“I went to the polis with my information. But they wouldn’t listen to me. That’s the trouble with policemen these days. They’re all too young and too busy with their own lives. You see it on the telly … they’re always talking about their family or their sex lives, or they’re down the pub drinking. And they never get the real criminal first time. I know that.”
I realized she was more than a bit confused about the difference between television and reality. Then again, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in this day and age.
“And how long have you been collecting this information?”
“Since he moved in five years ago,” she said. “I had to go and buy the binoculars specially… my eyesight isn’t what it used to be. Since last month they’ve had five hundred boxes delivered, and they’ve sent out nearly four hundred. If it is booze and fags that’s an awful lot of money. It used to be such a nice street, but now any old drunk can get in. The man three doors down is a homosexual. Did you know that? If my Jimmy were still alive he’d be spinning in his grave.
“So you see why I can’t tell the Police anymore?” she said. “They might be in on it. You hear stories about police corruption. And I’ve seen that on the telly as well. All sorts of stuff are let go by the cops when there’s a brown envelope stuffed with fifties involved. And
even I know there’s a lot of money in this town. I’d be surprised if the cops don’t take some of it. I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to send my wee notebook to the Prime Minister. He’ll know what to do with it.”
“You do that,” I said, rising. “But be careful. I hear he’s a closet smoker. He might be part of the conspiracy.”
She thought about that for a bit.
“Then I’ll have to get Interpol involved, won’t I? Or maybe the CIA? Do you think they’d be impartial?”
I kept a straight face as I left.
“Just keep gathering evidence missus,” I said. “That’s what they like. Lots and lots of evidence.”
The old dog lifted its head and watched me go, then went back to sleep.
The old lady showed me to the door.
“I’ll keep watching,” she said.
“And so will I. I have my own way of keeping an eye on what’s going on.”
“Well, if you like, I can be one of your snitches.”
“You’re already there,” I said. “Just keep an eye on the house. You never know what’ll come in useful later.”
When I got outside and looked back the curtains twitched, but I couldn’t see through them. She’d be at the binoculars though. She’d always be at the binoculars.
The watchman opened the high glass door to let me in, and led me into the vast entrance area. High overhead the ceiling curved in a vaulted roof of gravity defying stone and glass. I was still marveling at the wide, spacious emptiness of it as the watchman closed the main door behind us.
The short stocky man turned back towards me. He had a pronounced limp, and walked with a waddle and sway. He looked like a small, friendly bear.
“You’ll be the dick then?” he said to me, and smiled.
“And you’ll be the wee arse-hole?” I replied, smiling back.
He took a second to think about being affronted, then broke into a wide grin.
“Jock Clarke,” he said, shaking my hand. For a short man he had a surprisingly strong grip. “I suppose you met that officious wee prick Collins?”
I nodded.
“I’d say he’s got his head up his backside, but nobody’s got an arse that big,” he said. “Did he tell you about the problems?”
“In the collection?”
“That’s the one.”
“If you ask me, it’s a psychiatrist he needs to be consulting, not a detective.”
“Why is that then?”
Clarke tipped his hand towards his mouth, and repeated the action.
“He likes a dram… or ten.”
“Don’t we all?” I said.
“I suppose so,” Clarke replied. “But I drink to be sociable. I don’t lock myself in a room with a bottle.”
I do.
I thought it, but I didn’t say it.
“And he’s had a run of bad luck. He’s had to sell a lot of the furniture and paintings, just to make ends meet.”
That would explain the boxes the old lady was monitoring.
He led me along a white-paneled hall that had a modern-art sculpture spaced every few yards.
Suddenly the late evening shadows didn’t seem so benign. Night had started to fall outside, and dark corners gathered, taking on depths where things might hide.
“He told you about the alarm system?” he asked me.
“Aye.”
“And I bet he told you I had something to do with it?”
“Actually, I think he likes you,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.
“That’ll be the day,” he said. “But he’s right about the alarm. I was here all night, and there wasn’t a peep.”
“Did you check the collection during the night?”
He didn’t answer, and the blood drained from his face.
“What is it?” I asked.
He ran a hand through his hair, and kept looking down the corridor ahead of us. Suddenly I knew what it was… fear. I could almost smell it.
“Nobody goes into this part of the house after dark,” he said. “There have been stories, and the staff all know to keep away. Hell, Mary Campbell, the cleaner, went in one night, and when she came out her hair was white and she couldnae speak for a week.”
I forced a smile.
“OK you can drop the act,” I said. “Save it for the lads in the bar.”
He backed away from me.
“I ken what I ken,” he said. “And I ken plenty. There’s something there that has no right to be there; something bad.”
In truth, he was starting to get me spooked.
But I wouldn’t show it. Not before I’d earned my fee.
Clarke stopped abruptly.
“I’m no’going any further. The room you want is through there,” he said, pointing to my right. “If you want me, my office is in the back of the house. Just follow the sound of the radio.”
He turned, almost running, his waddle more pronounced.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I called after him, but the sound of his footsteps receding was all that echoed back at me.
I looked through the gathering gloom into the room he’d indicated. Just at that moment a cloud scudded overhead, throwing running shadows on the marble floor. I lit a Camel and walked through.
Time to go to work.
I found the collection cases easily enough. Someone had patched up a broken pane of glass with clear tape, and had done a fair job of it. Inside the glass an exhibit depicted a scene from the war. In the foreground a placard told what the exhibit depicted, but just then I didn’t care enough to read it.
Maybe if I’d paid more attention at the start the case might have turned out differently. But that’s the story of my life.
Large leather armchairs were scattered at intervals along the walls. I chose one that wasn’t well lit and gave me a view of the case, and settled myself down into a watching brief.
I didn’t find it easy. At first the noise of the street outside reassured me that I wasn’t quite alone, but that soon stilled as the city started to shut down for the evening. Darkness deepened. There was no moon to throw light in the dark corners that grew blacker as the night came. My imagination switched itself to overtime, and I jumped at the merest noise.
Somewhere in the depths of the building a door opened, and the first few bars of Sinatra singing Moon River wafted in the night. But all too soon even that was gone.
My forehead felt tight, and I realized I had been peering, trying to see into the shadows. It was time to prove I was as tough as the image. I stood, and started on a round of the room.
I looked in all the corners, under all the exhibits and up into the high ceiling.
“No spooks here,” I whispered to myself. Besides, I had already convinced myself I was looking for a human agency. I suspected the watchman… even if his act had been convincing.
I didn’t think there would be any activity tonight… I was only here for insurance. That was fine by me. Five hundred was a fair wage for a night’s work, and one for which I could put up with a small case of the heebie-jeebies.
And even they had gone by the time I got back round to the armchair.
I checked my watch when I sat back down. It was only just after eight thirty. I had a long night ahead of me. I lit another Camel, and this time I was able to switch off, closing down so that the eyes were still watchful, but the brain was occupied elsewhere. Five minutes later I was asleep.
I am back in the underground fishing lodge in Skye… again.
Blood splatters on and around me… but most is running down the runnels. And where the blood hits it, the stone begins to change, lightening in color, softening, as it takes on the texture of skin, soaking up the blood, drinking it in.
I came awake with a start, cold and sweating in equal measure. My hands trembled as I lit the first Camel, but by the second draw of smoke I was beginning to feel almost human again. Work was what I needed. A case that would keep me awake at night, and stop me thinking about Skye.<
br />
But I already knew that the next time I closed my eyes I’d be back there, trussed up in the nightmare.
Best not to sleep at all.
I was halfway down the next Camel when I heard footsteps in the hall beyond and the clink of glass on glass.
`Who’s there,” I called out, feeling quite pleased that I kept any trace of a tremor from my voice.
That was because I knew already who it was… Brylcreem and after-shave are a potent mix, and I’d already had a whiff of the same cocktail earlier in the day.
I sat up in the chair and tried to look attentive, just as Lord Collins came through the doorway. He carried a whisky bottle and two glasses, and by the slightly glazed look to his eyes I guessed he’d made a start already.
“Anything happening?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“It’s been as quiet as a church mouse with slippers on,” I replied. “But it’s early yet.”
“I should go and leave you to it,” he said, but showed no signs of moving.
My eyes strayed to the whisky bottle, and he saw me looking.
“We got off on the wrong foot this afternoon,” he said. “Will you have a dram with me?”
I smiled.
“I’m working.”
“I won’t tell anybody if you don’t,” he said, smiling back. He waved the bottle. “It’s a twenty five year old MacAllan?”
I motioned him forward.
“I can’t refuse a Lord with a bottle,” I replied.
“I can’t refuse anybody with a bottle,” he said, and again I saw the sad old man I’d met earlier.
He sat in the large chair beside me and poured two fingers of malt into my glass.
The Midnight Eye Files: Volume 1 (Midnight Eye Collections) Page 42
