investigation. But with the enquiries we did make, we found ourselves in exactly the position you’re in now. Frank Lang doesn’t have much of a history, and all the history he does have seems to have been just enough to get him involved with the union.’
‘Some kind of plant?’
‘We don’t know, and that’s the truth,’ said Lynch, still glowering. ‘There’s a history of it in the movement. MI5, Special Branch… we know they use informers and infiltrators to spy on the union. It’s all supposed to be chummy at Number Ten these days, but the police still have their little rats burrowing away in our organization.’
‘Normally they’re ordinary workers who they pay for information,’ said Connelly. ‘Class traitors. But maybe Lang wasn’t working for the police or the government and is just a skilled con man. A criminal. When we couldn’t pick up any kind of trail, we thought we would involve you. Because of your background, we thought we could trust you not to talk to the police. And, to be brutally frank, that you may have ways of getting information out of people that we can’t be seen to employ.’
I snorted. ‘I see… you think I’m some kind of thug for hire?’
‘Not that. Just someone who was more likely to get to the bottom of this matter than we are. And you know people connected to the underworld who may have a better chance of knowing who Frank Lang really is.’
‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘From what you say, Lang is as likely to be some kind of copper as he is to be a crook. And that could buy me a whole lot of trouble.’
‘Trust me, we don’t like relying on outsiders, but we’re out of our depth here. We don’t think that Frank Lang was a government plant.’
‘Then what?’
‘Like we said, more than likely a con man who wanted to fleece the fund,’ said Lynch. ‘But he maybe realizes the value of the ledger. Insurance, in a way. The information in that ledger could be worth even more than the money he has stolen… and if it falls into the wrong hands then people may die. That’s the main reason that your background qualified you for the job. You have contacts in that world. If Frank Lang is some kind of confidence man or extortionist, then you could talk to the right sort of people. Maybe even track him down.’
‘So what, exactly, is in the ledger?’
‘Payments made by our union to foreign workers’ organizations,’ Lynch answered. ‘We set up a special fund for aiding groups in countries where trade unionism is actively oppressed.’
‘What? Like Russia, Poland or Hungary?’ I asked with a straight face.
‘No, Mr Lennox…’ Connelly rode the jibe patiently. ‘… like the United States, South American countries or Franco’s Spain. Anywhere where the rights of the working man are being fought for in an environment of great adversity.’
‘Why do I get the feeling this isn’t exactly kosher?’
‘It’s a legitimate part of the union’s activities,’ said Lynch. ‘But it has to be dealt with very discreetly. We needed a middleman. Someone with special skills.’
‘Lang?’
‘He proved that he had been building up contact with groups during his time at sea. Merchant sailors have access to parts of the world cut off to everyone else. And he presented himself as an active and committed trade unionist.’
‘So he never actually worked in the union’s headquarters?’
‘No. And at his request, we conducted all of our meetings away from the offices.’
‘But he took you both in?’ I asked. I couldn’t imagine Connelly being easy to dupe. Lynch and Connelly exchanged a look. This was going to be good.
‘I never actually met him,’ said Connelly. ‘I spoke with him on the ’phone a few times, but all face-to-face meetings were done with Paul here, and in places where they wouldn’t be seen. Lang insisted on it. And, to be honest, I thought it was a good idea not to meet with him directly.’
‘And you fell for this?’ I failed to keep the incredulity out of my tone.
‘He had the most reliable people speak to his reputation,’ said Lynch. ‘And the contacts he had were confirmed as genuine.’
‘Although he stole thirty-five thousand,’ said Connelly, ‘the fund was originally standing at fifty thousand. The first fifteen thousand made it to the groups and organizations it was targeted to help. We got confirmation of that. We were very pleased with what he achieved.’
I thought it all through for a moment.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Connelly, this is all far too complicated for me. And too political. I don’t want to get any more involved.’
‘Then maybe this would simplify it for you…’ He reached into the tight squeeze of his jacket and dropped an envelope on the table in front of me. Picking it up I could feel the unmistakable heft of a pleasing wad of banknotes. ‘And if you locate Lang and secure the missing ledger and funds, I can promise you the same again.’
He was right. It did simplify things for me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I had, at one time or another, dealt with all sorts of dodgy characters — thugs, killers, torturers, bank robbers, pimps. Car salesmen, however, were in a league all of their own.
The showroom was owned by Willie Sneddon, one of the Three Kings, or at least he had a major interest in it. One of his legitimate fronts.
My experience with the Teddy Boy Samaritans in Maryhill had highlighted my need for something more reliable for work than the Atlantic. The repair bills were piling up and it seemed to be eating up fuel these days, which was a problem given that the cost of petrol had soared to over five shillings a gallon and rationing had been temporarily reintroduced because of the shenanigans in Suez. Most of all, the next time I had a breakdown in Maryhill or some other Badlands of Glasgow, it might not end so well.
I didn’t tell the salesman any of that. He was the predictably eager type, about thirty and wearing a dark suit and print tie. The motor trade was trying to shed the bomb-site wideboy reputation it had built up after the war. Today, car salesmen tried to dress with less flash and more like bank managers, but the trail of slime they left in their wake as they oozed across showroom floor or car lot from one customer to the next tended to dispel the illusion.
That said, the irrepressibly cheery salesman who introduced himself to me as Kenny struck me as slightly less oleaginous than most of his trade, even if he was still given to grinning periodically as if to remind me of how much he really, really liked me.
I told Kenny I was looking for something less flash and more family and spun him the usual bull about how I really didn’t want to part with my beloved Atlantic, etc. I wandered around the lot — apparently magnetized because Kenny was never more than three feet behind me — not being drawn to any particular car until I spotted a particularly nice convertible. I didn’t disguise my interest quickly enough and Kenny pounced like a lion on a deer.
‘Ah yes…’ he mewed appreciatively. ‘The Sunbeam-Talbot Ninety. Now that’s a motor with real style… Three years old, a Mark Two.’
‘Mmm…’ I said. ‘Bit too steep for me. And it’s a convertible. Let’s face it, Kenny, a convertible is about as much use in Glasgow as a yacht in the Sahara.’
‘Ah, but just imagine summer days driving around Loch Lomond or the Trossachs, the wind in your hair,’ he said wistfully. I tried hard, but all I could imagine was struggling to get the roof back up in a sudden squall.
When I asked him what kind of trade-in he would offer for the Atlantic, Kenny looked at me as if I’d asked how much he would take to sell his sister into slavery. After a minute of mental anguish, all of which played out across his face with a lack of subtlety that would have made Donald Wolfit blush, he eventually gave me a figure fifty pounds less than the car was worth. I thanked him for his time and made to leave and suddenly he found some fresh emotional and financial reserves. He was still short, so I said I would think about it and again started to leave. Kenny followed me across the lot, feeding me a line about how he couldn’t offer more against the model I was
