‘I need a name, Lennox. I’ll pay for the name. Tell your copper that.’
‘No can do, Jonny. And it’s best for you if you have no dealings with him. If this ends the way I think it will, then he’s the kind to get scared and blab. Anyway, you don’t need the name, Jonny. All you need to know is that a link in your chain is about to break. I’m guessing that, in this case, it’s a pretty short chain. And like the proverb says, it’s always the weakest link. I reckon you can work it out from there.’
He nodded without taking his eyes off the hulk across the dock. ‘Maybe you’re right at that. Thanks, Lennox. Thanks a lot.’
‘Jonny?’
‘Yes…’ He turned to face me, still leaning one elbow on the railings.
‘Do me a favour. I really don’t want anyone to come to… permanent
… grief because of what I’ve just told you.’
‘I can’t promise you that. You know that. It’s best you don’t ask any more.’
It was my turn to be quiet. I’d spent more than a year house-cleaning my life, sweeping out the shadows and cobwebs of dodgy dealings, and I had just condemned a faceless man to a few hours in a darkened room with a torturer. Once they were convinced he’d told them exactly how much he’d passed to the police, they would give him something to ease the pain. Permanently.
‘You know I appreciate this, Lennox. If there’s anything I can do
…’
‘I didn’t do this for a quid-pro-quo, Jonny,’ I said. ‘I would much rather have had nothing to do with it. It was information I wish I never had. But I did, and I had to tell you.’
‘Well, if there’s anything…’
A thought struck me. ‘There is maybe something. If I gave you a photograph, could you have it copied and passed around your people? It’s a missing person I’m looking for. I’ve been given the idea that he enjoys a dance and he’s maybe been a face at one of the dance halls you own. His name is Frank Lang.’
‘Sure. It’s the least I can do.’
‘There’s a chance, maybe a good chance, that Lang isn’t his real name. I don’t know for sure what his game is, but he could be into blackmail and extortion. So maybe someone will recognize him in a professional capacity.’
‘Get me the picture and I’ll ask around. Personally. That means I’ll get answers.’
‘I should warn you that there is a chance that there’s a political element to this. Lang’s a Lefty. Or purports to be. Like I say, he might just be a con man and the politico crap is just part of his cover, but it’s best to keep it discreet.’
Jonny nodded. I could have asked him for anything and he would have given it me. I had just saved him from spending most of the rest of his life behind bars.
And it had come at a small price: a man’s life.
It was my day for clandestine meetings. Taylor, the semi-crooked copper on the cusp of becoming fully bent, had made a ’phone call to my office and told me he had something on the names I’d given him. I thanked him without mentioning that I had passed on for nothing everything he had told me about there being a snitch in Cohen’s organization; I guessed he wouldn’t appreciate my charitable nature. And when their informer turned out to be the deadest of dead-ends, it would be best that there was no trail to follow. Jonny had his weak link; Taylor was mine.
I could tell from Taylor’s tone on the ’phone that he felt he had something worthwhile for me and we arranged to meet at McAskill’s boxing gym in Dennistoun. The gym was a huge barn of a building of bolted-together corrugated iron that flaked dark green paint, and looked more like a shipyard shed than a centre of sporting excellence. Taylor and I used it a lot to meet; old man McAskill was glad of the fiver he got each time for his discretion and it was the last place on earth you would expect to come across a private and public detective exchanging notes — of one kind or the other. For that matter, it was also the last place on earth you would expect to come across any kind of boxing talent; but Dennistoun was the kind of place where, if you grew up there, you had an understandable urge to punch someone’s face and there was a steady stream of Dempsey wannabes, from the brawlers and sluggers to those with genuine talent, and McAskill had a reputation for sorting the wheat from the chaff — even if he never made a penny out of it.
When we met, Taylor and I sat in McAskill’s office-cum-locker-room at the back of the gym. I lit a cigarette to fend off the stale-sweat odours of jock-straps and singlets, and offered one to Taylor.
‘You’ve got something worthwhile for me?’ I asked.
‘I have that, Mr Lennox,’ he said. ‘On those names you gave me… Andrew Ellis and Frank Lang… But I’ve drawn a blank with Tanglewood. Means nothing to me, means nothing to anyone I’ve talked to. But Ellis and Lang are much more interesting. You say these two people aren’t connected?’
‘They’re not,’ I replied. ‘In fact I’m not interested in Ellis any more. Just Lang.’
‘Oh…’ Taylor looked like I’d stolen his fire. Or some of it, at least.
‘Why? Are they connected?’ I asked.
‘You said Andrew Ellis was Hungarian by birth, so I decided to check out his immigration record and his proper name is, or was, Andras Eles. He was a kid when he came over. A baby.’
‘I know most of that already. Anyway, like I told you, Ellis is a closed case now.’
‘But you’re still interested in this Frank Lang character?’
‘Yes…’ I failed to keep the impatience out of my tone.
‘Well, seeing as I was in immigration records and the bird behind reception was being very cooperative, I thought I’d check to see if there were any records for Frank Lang.’
I leaned forward. ‘And there was?’
Taylor nodded. ‘Now, it’s maybe not the Frank Lang you’re looking for… in fact it would be a hell of a coincidence if it was… but there is one in the system. Also Hungarian by birth. It’s not the same as Ellis who’s been British most of his life. Until a couple of years ago this Frank Lang had to report regularly to his local police station as a resident alien.’
‘Do you have any more on him?’ I asked. ‘Has he served as a merchant sailor?’
‘That I don’t know.’
‘What was his original name?’ I asked. ‘I mean the Hungarian one?’
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ said Taylor, ‘but Lang is a very common Hungarian surname. Or so the lass in the records office told me. Just as common as it is in Scotland, but from a completely different origin. Anyway, I got details on this fella Lang…’ Taylor reached into the inside pocket of his raincoat and handed me a handwritten sheet of paper. ‘Again naturalized British, but, like I said, he’s a much newer mintage.’
‘How new?’
‘Came over after the war. Been in Scotland for just shy of ten years. Goes by the name of Frank Lang but the real first name is Ferenc. I just thought that it was quite a coincidence… that you gave me two names to check out and it turns out that they’re both Hungarian.’
I thought about what Taylor had told me. I took a couple of leisurely draws on my cigarette before answering.
‘It is, isn’t it?’
When I ’phoned the union’s headquarters, Connelly wasn’t there, so I had to settle for Lynch.
‘You know how I asked for all and any information on Frank Lang that might help me find him?’
‘I remember.’ Lynch’s tone was dull and flat on the line, as if I was boring him.
‘Well, I know it’s a small point, really, but mentioning the fact that he has an accent like Bela Lugosi would have been helpful.’
‘What are you talking about, Lennox?’ The tone still flat.
‘Is or isn’t Frank Lang a naturalized Briton and Hungarian by birth?’
‘Well my guess would be that he isn’t… Isn’t Hungarian, isn’t Romanian or Transylvanian or from the fucking Shetland Islands. He isn’t even some Canadian smart arse.’
‘You’re saying he isn’t foreign by birth?’
‘How the hell should I know? But if Frank Lang is anything other than Scottish, then he disguises it well. No foreign accent, unless you count Wishaw as foreign. Anyway, it’s not something we would have missed. It would have come up somewhere in his records.’
