I smiled to myself on the way out of Sneddon’s mock-baronial, mock-Gothic, mock-respectable mansion. I had managed to become unemployed and employed within an hour. And between John Andrews’s cheque and Sneddon’s bundle of fivers, I was already two hundred pounds richer.
The only downside was that I hadn’t a clue where to start looking, I had the City of Glasgow Police breathing down my already bruised neck, someone highly professional had given my office a thorough going over, and the Neanderthal chiropodist from hell was shadowing me.
CHAPTER FOUR
The first thing I set about doing was finding out who the girl was that Tam McGahern had been giving the seeing-to immediately before his untimely demise. No name had been mentioned. Normally I would have bought Jock Ferguson a pint in the Horsehead Bar and teased it out of him. But every time I thought about his parting shot in the car, it was like touching an electric fence around the police. It was one source — usually my most important and reliable — that I wouldn’t be able to use this time. I had no choice but to dive right on in there and go round to McGahern’s bar in Maryhill.
The Highlander Bar was surprisingly free of any cultural reference to the Highlands or Highlanders. No grand paintings on the walls of ‘Stag at Bay’ or ‘The Bonnie Prince’. Nor was there a comprehensive array of the fine single malts of Scotland behind the bar. No aroma of rain-washed heather, unless rain-washed heather smells like smoke and piss. Instead the Highlander Bar was typical of the kind of spit-and-sawdust Glasgow pubs that turned over a huge profit. This was a drinking factory. The men who came here — and there was no snug or lounge for the ladies — worked harder at their consumption of beer, fortified sherry or the cheapest blended Scotch they could find than they did in the shipyards or steelworks they had come directly from. I arrived just after opening and the Highlander Bar was already heaving. I am just shy of six foot but still felt awash in an ocean of chest-high flat caps, wreathed in a sea fog of tobacco smoke.
There were three barmen working the bar with a joyless, industrial efficiency. One seemed to be in charge, barking sideways orders to the others as he worked the pumps and the optics. He was a short, angry-looking man in a striped shirt with elasticated sleeve-garters to keep his white cuffs clear of his wrists. He spotted me across the mass of customers and frowned. He disappeared out of sight for a moment and the next thing I knew there were two cap-less thugs in cheap suits flanking me.
‘You all right, pal?’ said one with a yellow-toothed grin. He was a short, ugly youth with dirty blond hair sleeked back in panels at the side that arced into a ‘DA’ hairstyle. He was trying too hard to project friendly menace.
‘I’m fine. You?’
‘Oh the best, pal. If you don’t mind me saying, you’re not one of the usuals here.’ His companion was also smiling with the same insincere friendliness. ‘What brings you here, if you don’t mind me asking?’
I made a ‘you got me’ face. ‘I’m a reporter. To be honest I’m here because of that murder. You know, the one upstairs.’
A third thug came in through the doors behind me. He was bigger than the other two. But, like them, he was trying too hard to look tough.
‘It was a fucking liberty. A fucking liberty,’ said the short blond thug. ‘Mr McGahern was a gentleman. Treated everybody right. Listen, pal, we used to work for Mr McGahern. We still do, in a way. We can give you all the gen you need.’
‘You can?’
‘Oh, aye… no problem at all. Anything you need to know.’
‘And why would you do that?’
‘Because we’ll do anything to help catch the bastards that did it,’ the taller, dark-haired one said. ‘Get it all in the papers and that.’
Most of the customers were ranged four deep at the bar. In Glasgow drinking was a business so serious you did it standing up. Or standing up till you fell down. It was mostly the older men who sat at the scattered, scratched tables.
‘Okay. Let’s sit down and talk.’ I pointed to an empty table. ‘First I’ll get a round in.’
I took their orders and went up to the bar. When I came back they broke up their huddled conference. The smiles were back in place. This was going to be fun. The youth with the dirty yellow hair introduced himself as Bobby. His friends were Dougie and Pete. We drank warm, sour stout and talked about the night of the killing. Bobby and his pals made a big show of being reluctant to go into detail in a public place.
‘We’ve got the keys to the flat upstairs. We could take you up there, pal. Show you where it all happened, like,’ said Bobby conspiratorially. No one had yet asked me what newspaper it was that I was supposed to work for. He glanced around the bar and paused as a man of about seventy staggered past. ‘We can’t talk here.’
‘Okay,’ I said and we made our way out the open side door of the pub and into an alley that stank of urine and worse. As soon as we were outside, the three thugs blocked my way. This was the move they had been telegraphing from our first encounter. I turned square on and looked down on them, my hand closing around the sap in my pocket.
‘You’re not a reporter,’ said Bobby. The smile was gone and his movements had the jerkiness of someone hyped up and ready for action. ‘You’re that Yank Lennox. You’re the one that killed Frankie.’
‘If you want to play, you wee shite,’ I said, moving towards him and forcing him to step back, ‘we’ll play. And it doesn’t matter how many of your little pals you’ve got with you; it’s you I’m going to hurt. Bad. You understand? I don’t like the way you look. And I don’t like the way you smell.’
I took the sap from my pocket and shoved him in the chest with my other hand. He staggered back another two paces. His back was against the alley wall and his confidence was gone. I could see the other two move in on me and I turned.
‘As for you two… I’m here working for Willie Sneddon. So back the fuck off or you’ll end up like your bosses.’
The small blond one narrowed his eyes at me, trying to regain some credibility. I slapped him. Hard. Strands of oily blond hair fell across his brow. A few flat caps inside the pub turned in our direction. ‘What you going to do now, shitface?’
The other two didn’t make their move. Instead they glared hatred at their colleague, who had lost face for them all.
‘I’ll tell you what you’re going to do,’ I continued. ‘Fuck all. Because that’s what you are… fuck all. Nothing. Your boss is dead. His brother is dead. You’re about to be eaten up by the big boys, so don’t pretend you’re here to defend anything.’
I waited for them to make their move. They didn’t. Instead they looked at each other indecisively. I was in charge now.
‘What you three wee poofs are going to do now is take me upstairs, just like you said, show me the flat and tell me everything I need to know. I mean everything. And there isn’t going to be any trouble and you’re not going to hold back on me. Because if you do, I’ll be back. And I won’t be alone. Willie Sneddon has given me a loan of Twinkletoes McBride if I feel you’re not cooperating.’
That would be the clincher.
‘We can talk upstairs,’ Bobby with the greasy blond hair and the slapped-red face said. ‘In the flat.’
I made the three would-be goons go ahead of me. We went out of the alley, into the street and through a door immediately next to the bar’s main entrance. It opened straight onto a hall so small it only just accommodated the arc of the opening door. A stairway led steeply up to an equally small landing and a door to the left. This was where Tam McGahern had taken it up the ass in the worst way. There were smeary hints of where someone had halfheartedly cleaned up the mess. As we climbed I could hear the noise and smell the smells of the pub. The three Neds were ahead of me and took the opportunity to exchange mumbled words. When we got to the top, Bobby opened the door.
‘This is it.’
‘You girls go first,’ I said.
As I stepped through the door I slammed my elbow into the face of the largest of the three, t
hen swung my sap hard against the temple of the second. The biggest guy recovered enough to take a poke at me. It was a clumsy swing and I dodged it easily, using his momentum to drive him out of the still-open door, slam his face into the wall hard enough to leave a red smear and tip him sideways so that he fell all the way down the stairs. Bobby, the little blond guy, just stared at me. His pal was cupping his nose to try to stem the flow of blood. I swung a kick straight and hard into his groin and he stopped worrying about his nose. When he went down I kicked him in the side of the head and his lights went out. Bobby backed away from me.
‘What the fuck was that for?’ he wailed indignantly, but slipped his hand into the outside pocket of his bum-freezer jacket.
‘That was for whatever it was you were planning in the bar and on the stairs. It’s also to show you that I’m not here to play games.’
I took a step towards him and he pulled a razor from his pocket and slashed at the air in front of himself.
‘Stay back. I’ll fuckin’ cut you.’ His voice was shrill and shaky.
I looked around. There wasn’t much to choose from so I snapped up a wooden chair and swung it full force onto his arm. He dropped the razor and I jabbed the chair at him, hitting him below the eye with the end of one leg. He stumbled back and I threw the chair to one side. I punched him twice on the face where the chair leg had hit him and was already swelling up. He didn’t have the weight to stay on his feet and when he went down I dropped on him, my knee on his sternum, squeezing air from his narrow chest. I snatched up the open razor and held it to the eye that was still open, the blade almost kissing the white. He started to squeal.
‘You ever killed someone, Bobby?’ I hissed at him. ‘I mean really killed someone?’
He shook his head energetically, but in movements small enough that the blade of the razor, gleaming bright and sharp, didn’t cut him.
‘I have,’ I said. ‘Fucking dozens. In the war. Up close too. Like now. You understand?’
He croaked something which I took as agreement.
‘I could do you now, you wee shite. Or I’ll maybe just blind you. Pop your eye. It wouldn’t cost me a thought. You get used to killing, you see. To hurting people. Like a habit.’ I paused. ‘But I’ll tell you something now… I’ll tell you two people I didn’t kill: Tam and Frankie McGahern. And I’m getting really pissed with people saying that I did. You got it?’
‘Got it.’
I kept the blade to his eye for a second to punctuate my point then I stood up and slipped the razor into my pocket.
I took in the flat. We were in the main room which served as a living room and kitchen. The only other room was the bedroom. No bathroom or toilet. I guessed the facilities were out the back and shared with the bar. Romantic.
The greasy windows were half-covered with grime-grey lace. The wooden floor was bare, the furniture old and spartan. A pile of beer crates stood in one corner. When it came to picking a venue for seduction, it was clear Tam McGahern had been no George Sanders.
Bobby made a move to get up from the floor but I pushed him back down with my foot.
‘You’re not going to give me any more trouble, are you, Bobby?’
He shook his head vigorously.
‘Sit down over there.’ I indicated an old and worn club chair. ‘And stay.’
I went over to the door, where Bobby’s colleague was beginning to stir. I hoisted him to his feet, told him to pick up his friend at the bottom of the stairs and to fuck off. He nodded dully and slunk away.
After they had gone I went through to the bedroom. The bed was old and the iron bedhead was rusted, as if it had been reclaimed from a scrapyard, but the linen was reasonably clean. Again the floorboards were bare and tangled balls of dust and grime had gathered in the corners of the room.
Something caught my eye. In one corner a light blue piece of cloth. I picked it up. A woman’s handkerchief. Lace-trimmed but cheap. It was spotted with dark flecks of blood. The flecks were small, some no bigger than pinheads. I dropped the handkerchief: the source of the blood had nothing to do with Tam McGahern’s wounds. Two shotguns at that range was anything but dainty.
I went back into the living room, found the only other chair and placed it in front of Bobby. One eye had completely shut and that side of his face had ballooned into an ugly red swelling. The sleeked-back side panels of hair now hung like broken wings over his ears. He looked like he was about to start crying. I wanted to hit him again. Really wanted. I lit a cigarette instead.
‘Who killed Tam McGahern?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. Honest I don’t. There was nobody here… I mean in the bar or anything, when it happened.’
‘Yes there was. There was the girl.’
‘Except the girl.’
‘What was her name?’
He looked afraid for a moment. He was thinking about lying to me. He decided not to. ‘Wilma. Wilma Marshall.’
‘Is she on the game?’
‘Not really. She worked as a barmaid in one of his other bars. One of his better bars: Wilma had a bit of class about her. Tam was the kind of guy to take whatever it was he wanted.’
‘Where is she now? What’s the name of the bar she works at?’
‘It was the Imperial, but she’s not there now. She only worked there on and off. Since the shooting she’s dropped out of sight.’
‘Who dropped her?’
‘I don’t know.’
I stood up and Bobby held up his hands. ‘Honest… I really don’t know. It wasn’t anybody to do with Tam’s crew. Maybe she decided herself. The only other thing we wondered about was if it was the police. You know… protective custody or something.’
‘Did she say anything to anyone about what happened that night?’
‘Just what you probably already know. She hid through there in the bedroom when she heard the shotguns go off. Afterwards she peeked over the windowsill and saw two guys with smart suits and sawn-offs get into a car. A couple of other folk seen them as well. Same thing… smartly dressed. And really fucking calm. Strolling back to the car like they was in no hurry.’
I gave Bobby a cigarette and lit it for him. His hand shook as he smoked. He didn’t have what it took. Tam and Frankie McGahern had surrounded themselves with nobodies to make them feel bigger in the scheme of things. Some time soon someone a lot meaner than me would come along from one of the Three Kings to vacuum up what was left of the tiny McGahern empire. If Bobby or his pals got in the way, they would be at the bottom of the Clyde within hours.
‘And the police have nothing?’ I asked.
‘Nothing worth anything. Not on Tam, anyway. Word was they thought it was you that done Frankie. Word now is that the coppers are looking for Jimmy Wallace to talk to. They’ve been looking for him since Frankie died.’
‘Jimmy Wallace?’
Bobby read my thoughts and shook his head. ‘It’s a dead end. Jimmy didn’t do Frankie and he definitely didn’t do Tam. It’s just that Jimmy dropped out of sight the night Frankie got done.’
‘Did Jimmy Wallace work with you? I mean, was he part of the McGahern team?’
‘Naw. Nothing like that. Wallace was a wanker. Upper-class wanker. He was always trailing around after Tam. Tam put up with it though. Wallace was never short of a bob or two even though he drank like a fucking fish. Gambled too. I got the feeling Tam saw him all right with cash.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Tam just seemed to put up with him for some reason. They were supposed to have been in the army together. In the desert.’
‘And you reckon Jimmy had nothing to do with either murder?’
‘Naw. No way. He was devoted to Tam. Mainly because Tam was his meal ticket. I don’t know what they had going on in the past, but it was like Tam felt he owed Jimmy or something. Tam wouldn’t have put up with the shite Jimmy talked otherwise.’
‘So why did he do a runner after Frankie was killed?’
‘Search me.’ Bobby shru
gged and smoothed back the broken wings of greased hair. His fingers still trembled. ‘When Tam died he lost his meal ticket. Or maybe he thought he was going to be next.’
I thought about it for a second then shook my head. ‘Doesn’t make sense. If that were the case then he’d have fucked off after Tam was topped. Why hang around until Frankie had his head turned to jam?’
Bobby shrugged again but looked at me apprehensively. He clearly thought I was going to give him another smack for not being able to explain the contradictions in what he had said.
‘Where does Jimmy Wallace live?’ I asked.
‘Sorry, Mr Lennox. I don’t know that either.’
‘Before Tam got killed, were there any new faces around, or did anything unusual happen?’
Bobby looked at me blankly. I could tell he was trying to think of anything he could give me to avoid another slap. I saw something drop into his memory.
‘Jackie Gillespie came around a couple of times.’
‘The armed robber? Was Tam planning a robbery?’
‘I don’t know. But I saw him in the Highlander with Gillespie three, maybe four times. Tight and talky.’
‘Gillespie…’ I spoke to myself more than my new chum. ‘Gillespie is a heavyweight. More than a bit out of the McGaherns’ league.’ I shook the thought from my head. ‘Anyone else?’
‘There were two guys I never seen before. Tam got me to drive him sometimes and he met with this big fat guy who was staying at the Central Hotel. Jimmy Wallace went with him.’
‘Can you remember anything about this man?’
‘Naw, no’ really. Except I thought he was foreign or something. I only saw him from a distance, like, when he came out of the hotel with Tam, but the way he looked, the way he dressed and that.’
‘And the other stranger?’
‘He was different. A greasy-looking wee fucker with a droopy eyelid.’
I grinned at the idea of Bobby calling anyone else a greasy-looking wee fucker. ‘What business did McGahern have with this guy?’
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