When it came to Frank Lang, the dead ends were becoming more than metaphorical.
Time for a chat.
CHAPTER TEN
As he sat in the corner, a pint glass of flat beer on the table before him, the sound of two miners swearing at each other seeping through from the main bar, Joe Connelly’s fat neck was straining another shirt collar to tolerance. He was wearing the same suit that he’d had on the last time I’d met with him and again it was stretched drum tight over his corpulence. His were not the only beady eyes that watched me as I came into the small room at the back of the working men’s club: Lynch was there too, as I had expected him to be.
‘This is… quaint…’ I said as I sat down opposite them without being asked. I had only ever seen the inside of a working men’s club when I’d been in one on business. My second impression pretty much matched my first. Living conditions for the average Scottish working man must have been dire indeed if he chose to spend his free time in a place like this.
An ugly box of smoke-darkened brick under a shallow-pitched roof, the club was for dock workers, rather than shipyard workers. It sat on the south side of the river, in Govan, at that point where the Clyde swelled into the Queen’s Dock in the north shore and the Prince’s Dock, with its three basins, on the south.
Rather oddly, my instructions had included an order to come around to the back door, where no one could see me. Lynch had been waiting to usher me in unseen by the club’s regulars, who, even at this time of day, were probably too drunk to notice me anyway.
‘Exactly what have you got for us on Frank Lang’s whereabouts?’ Connelly posed the question like it was a wages demand.
‘Exactly? Well, the best way of answering that would be to say I’ve got exactly nothing.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’ sneered Lynch. I really, really wanted to reach over the table and smack the sneer off his face, but instead I smiled.
‘Why are you not surprised? I don’t know… because I sure am. You see, given enough time to ask the right questions, I could write a book on just about anybody’s personal history. If you dig around for long enough, and deep enough, you can put together a pretty comprehensive picture of just about anyone. People exist on several levels. The first is existing in the way we all understand it:, simply being there. The second is the way we exist in the minds of others: family, friends, lovers, acquaintances, colleagues… even people who see us regularly on the street or the bus or the tram without knowing our names or the first thing about us. The third is our bureaucratic existence: birth, marriage and death certificates, national insurance numbers, drivers’ licences, rent books…’
‘What’s your point?’ asked Connelly.
‘You have assured me that Frank Lang exists. The problem is the only footprints he leaves come to a sudden end. There is no dimension, no depth to Frank Lang. Go back two jobs or one address and there’s nothing. Because he was a sailor, the people I want to speak to about him are scattered all over the world. I’ve only been able to find two seamen who confirm that the face in the picture you gave me really is Frank Lang. And as for his paper trail existence, even that is minimal.’
‘This all sounds like an excuse for you not being able to do the job we’re paying you for,’ said Lynch, his small eyes glittering in the dim, smoky light.
‘Does it? It sounds more to me like I’ve been chasing a ghost. A ghost that, so far, only you two gentlemen, his two ex-shipmates and his nearest neighbours can confirm actually having seen in the flesh.’
‘Are you telling us that you can’t help us any more?’ asked Connelly.
‘Well, that depends.’ I paused and took a cigarette from my case, tapped the tip against gold plate to get rid of the loose shards of tobacco, and lit it. ‘I’ll be honest. I don’t think you’re telling me everything I need to know about Mr Lang and his sudden disappearance.’
‘We’ve told you all we can at this stage, Lennox.’ Lynch didn’t look at me when he spoke, his head lowered as he rolled loose tobacco into a cigarette paper.
‘I see.’ I turned to the union boss. ‘What kind of car do you drive, Mr Connelly?
‘I don’t have a car. If I need to get about on union business, then I have an official car and driver.’
‘What make is it?’
‘Ford Zodiac.’
‘Colour?’
‘Two-tone. Grey on top and a sort of fawny-brown underneath.’
‘What about you, Mr Lynch?’
‘I have a Morris Minor Traveller. Green. Now what the hell has that got to do with anything?’ He had finished rolling his cigarette and sealed the paper by running the edge along the tip of his tongue.
‘The only thing I’ve been able to find out is that, two weeks ago, Frank Lang went off with a couple of men in a large, expensive car, either red or brown in colour. Whoever these men were, and wherever Lang went with them, that is the last sighting we have of him. He just dropped off the world after that.’
‘Are you suggesting it was us?’ said Lynch. ‘If we have spirited Lang away, then why would we hire you?’
‘I wasn’t suggesting anything. I just need to know who picked him up that night. But I do know you’re keeping something from me. Lang is turning into the man-who-never-was. So, gentlemen, why don’t you cut the bull and tell me the truth about him?’
‘Everything we’ve told you is the truth,’ said Connelly, unperturbed. ‘Why would we hire you and then deliberately mislead you?’
‘Maybe what I’m looking for isn’t important, but simply the act of looking.’
‘Is this the way you sound all the time?’ asked Lynch. ‘Or do you, every now and again, open your mouth and make some sense?’
‘Oh, I sometimes make sense all right. Even if it is only to me.’ Again I turned back to Connelly. ‘You see, I am a suspicious sort of cove by nature. And this suspicious streak is putting odd ideas in my head.’
‘Such as?’ asked Connelly.
‘Such as maybe you hired me to go through the motions so you have something to show the police when whatever it is you’re hiding comes to light. I don’t know what that missing ledger has in it, or if that money really has gone missing. All I do know is that Frank Lang is a ghost, and I don’t believe in ghosts. There’s something dodgy going on here, maybe even illegal, and, like I told you, I don’t get involved in anything illegal.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Lynch smiled in a way I didn’t like. ‘We know all about your past, Lennox. Your involvement with the so-called Three Kings.’
Picking up my Borsalino from the table, I stubbed out my cigarette in a cheap ashtray made of pressed tin, and stood up. ‘I think we’re through here, gentlemen. I’ll send you my bill.’
‘You just hold on a minute, Lennox…’ Lynch protested as he stood up. It gave me no end of pleasure to plant my hand squarely on his chest and shove him back, hard, into his chair. The force of it nearly toppled him backward.
‘Stand up to me again,’ I said in an even, quiet tone, ‘and I’ll break your jaw.’
Connelly held up his hand in an appeasing gesture. ‘Mr Lennox, there’s no need to get fired up. Please, sit down. We really do need your help.’
I stayed standing. Lynch’s small rat eyes burned up at me with resentment. But he wasn’t going to do anything about it any time soon.
‘You’re right,’ said Connelly. ‘We haven’t told you everything. But with good reason. Please, Mr Lennox. Sit down and listen to what I have to say. Then, if you still don’t want the job, we’ll settle your bill and you can forget all about us. But please, hear me out.’
I shrugged and sat down.
‘When we first met, I told you that we had carried out our own limited enquiries, such as they were.’
‘Yes,’ I said, dropping my hat back onto the table. ‘So limited you didn’t even speak to Lang’s neighbours.’
‘Union officials are not detectives, and they would be very conspicuous carrying out any kind of public
