restraining hand on my forearm.
‘It must be great,’ he said, his transatlantic drawl fading to pure Lanarkshire for a moment. ‘I mean, being a private eye. Spying on people. You know, the power you have over them, knowing all about their lives, looking through their stuff when they don’t know you’ve been there…’
For a moment I thought he was cracking wise: mocking my way of earning a living, but I saw the earnestness glitter in the coal of his eyes.
‘I’d like that,’ he said. ‘I’d like that a lot.’
‘Don’t believe all you see in the movies. My job offers very little power, no glamour and less pay. Anyway, it was nice talking to you,’ I lied, and made my way out into the street.
I had a lot on my mind as I drove home: the going-nowhere-fast Lang job, the went-South-even-faster Ellis case, and whatever it was that was going on between Fiona and me.
But, despite these large and pressing problems, something odd kept intruding into my thoughts. Something disturbing. Sheriff Pete was a pathetic, loudmouth failure who could bore for Britain. A small man with big ideas about himself, like a thousand losers just like him.
So why was it that, every time I thought of those intense, penetrating dark eyes, I got a chill down my spine and a feeling in my gut that I had just encountered something completely evil?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Before going into my office the next morning, I telephoned Handsome Jonny Cohen from a Central Station call box. I was probably being too cloak-and-dagger about the whole thing but, at the end of the day, what I was going to tell him could probably end up with someone’s murder. Jonny was an okay guy in many ways but he was still a gangster, one of the Three Kings, and someone of a biblical disposition when it came to rewarding betrayal.
I knew I should have been walking away from the whole business, but I owed Jonny. Whoever was trying to save their neck by ratting out Jonny to the police was a traitor, and one thing I couldn’t stand was a traitor. I tried to keep that thought foremost as I dialled, and not the thought that I was about to condemn a man to death.
Jonny and I did the pals’ act, haven’t-seen-you-in-a-long-time thing, before I got down to business. I told him to meet me down by the Queen’s Dock at two-thirty that afternoon. When he protested that he was too busy I told him he wasn’t going to be busy for the next twenty-five to thirty if he didn’t meet me and hear what I had to say. I also told him to make sure he wasn’t tailed.
‘And come alone, Jonny,’ I said before hanging up.
I didn’t stop to take my hat and coat off when I called into the office. Archie was there and didn’t seem to be doing much other than chain-smoking the air blue-grey.
‘Can I borrow your car Archie?’ I asked after we had briefly run through where we were with finding Lang, which wasn’t far. ‘I’ve got something to attend to and the Atlantic is acting up.’ I didn’t tell Archie about my meeting with Handsome Jonny Cohen. Archie, the ex-cop, was as straight as Donald Taylor, the serving officer, had ambitions to be crooked.
Archie shrugged, muttered some kind of gloomy assent and tossed me his car key. I grabbed my coat and hat and headed out.
It was true that my car hadn’t been reliable over the last month or so, but the real reason I wanted to borrow Archie’s ancient Morris Eight was that it was a lot less conspicuous than the Atlantic. I had something to do before I met with Cohen. The something I had to do was the thing I always did, what I did best: I was going to spy on someone else’s life and I needed a car that would not be noticed.
Because the person I was about to spy on would be able to identify the Atlantic.
Even though I was in an unknown car, I parked as far along the street as I could while still being able to watch the house. There is nothing more unpleasant than when what you suspected was going to happen happens, and something lurched in my gut when I saw the Jowett Javelin pull up and a man get out. He was about the same age as me but shorter, with blond hair. He trotted up to the front door and rang the bell, and I saw he was dressed in a sports jacket and cavalry twills with the collar of his checked shirt open and a cravat at his throat. I recognized the uniform of the British middle-class male and I recognized the British middle-class male wearing it.
I recognized the little bastard all right.
When he came back out to the car he had Fiona with him. He held open the door and she climbed in. I watched the Javelin drive off, but didn’t follow. There was no point. It wasn’t their destination that mattered, it was the fact that they were making the journey together.
And, anyway, I had an appointment to keep with Jonny Cohen.
From where I stood and smoked, I could see that there was a huge hulk in the dry-dock: either the hull of a cargo ship or Twinkletoes McBride’s bath tub. Whatever it was, it was rust-brown and grey-black in the November afternoon. The cold air rang with the clanging of metal on metal, and every five yards or so along the hull’s flank there was the bright sodium fizz and shower of sparks from either welding or cutting gear. From this distance I couldn’t tell if the object of the labour was construction or dismantling.
A dark green Bentley fastback purred to a stop behind me and a tall, hatless man in a camel military-style coat stepped out. He had thick, dark hair perfectly barbered and was absurdly good looking. In a world where your nickname usually derived from the weapon you used or whatever scars or disabilities you’d picked up in the course of your criminal career, in Cohen’s case it was his movie-star looks that had earned him his epithet: Handsome Jonny.
We shook hands and walked along the quayside a little without speaking until eventually we came to some iron railings. Hunching his camel-coated shoulders against the cold damp, Cohen leaned his forearms on the railings, interlocked his pigskin-gloved fingers and looked out across to the dry dock.
‘Okay, what is this all about?’
‘That’s quite some beast you’ve got there.’ I nodded to where he had parked the Bentley. ‘A pretty conspicuous set of wheels. Are you sure you weren’t followed?’
‘Why would I be followed?’ he asked.
‘Were you?’
‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘Now tell me what the hell this is all about.’
‘You know I’ve been trying to go one hundred percent legit, don’t you, Jonny?’
‘Yeah… I guessed that from the way I’ve been dropped from your Christmas list.’
‘Nothing personal,’ I said. ‘It’s just that I’ve been trying to keep a low-profile and turn an honest buck. But I owe you big time and that’s the only reason I’m here. I need your word that you’ll never let on to anyone that this came from me…’
‘Okay, Lennox, you’ve got my word. Now what’s this all about?’
‘I needed you to make sure you weren’t followed because the police are probably keeping a close watch on you.’
‘And why would they do that?’ His tone darkened.
‘Let’s put it this way, they’re maybe looking to pick up some bargains for Christmas. Jewellery for the wife, that kind of thing.’
Cohen said nothing, his expression opaque. It was the same empty face I guessed he would show the coppers when they came knocking on his door. The silence was broken by more ringing echoes of metal clanging over in the dry dock.
‘They maybe think you could offer them bargain-basement prices and undercut, say, the jewellery stores in the Argyle Arcade.’
‘Now where,’ said Cohen, with deliberate slowness, ‘would they have got an idea like that?’
‘I get the impression it came from someone close to you. Maybe someone who’s visited a jeweller’s with you. Recently. Maybe last month, say.’
‘You don’t have a name?’
‘My police contact is looking for payment for that information, but he needs someone in the middle and I’ve told him I’m not that kind of girl any more.’
