that fake accent. He claims he’s American. American my ass.’
‘Actually, he is. He was called up for National Service and he got out of it because the US Army have prior claim. So he ended up dodging both.’
‘You’re kidding me?’
‘No kidding. He was born in New York then lived in Detroit till he was seven. Then his parents moved back to Britain. Coventry. Then he moved up to Motherwell. So the cod Yank accent is only half cod. Apparently he had a lot of it beaten out of him at school. What did he talk to you about?’
‘Just that he was a big shot. That he’s just done nine years in Peterhead. That he was a real tough guy and a bank robber but that’s not what he’d been in for, that he’s been framed for something else.’
Jock Ferguson snorted, his expression the kind you had if you’d eaten a bad clam. ‘Our friend likes to sneak into women’s bedrooms, wake them up and beat them over the head with a metal pipe…’ He nodded to the weal on my temple. ‘Like the one he clobbered you with. Then he pulls their pants down. He’s a sick, sick bastard. He did the time in Peterhead for the beatings and indecent assaults and he’s been done for rape in the past. I tell you, Lennox, you intervening when you did saved that girl from Christ knows what.’
I took it all in. I remembered the custody sergeant’s approving look. Sheriff Pete was the kind of creep that everyone wanted to see get a hiding. Cops, citizens and crooks alike.
‘So what is it you have him in the frame for?’ I asked.
Ferguson leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and locking me with an earnest stare. ‘You and I have known each other a few years now and we’ve been reasonably straight with each other. Well, I’m asking for a favour, and if it sounds like I’m trying to warn you off, then I’m not. I’m asking you, as a personal obligement, to walk away from this and forget it ever happened. Don’t talk to anyone about it and, most of all, don’t have anything more to do with that piece of shit we’ve got locked up over there. I need to ask you a couple of questions that aren’t going to sound important but, believe me, they are. I need to get straight answers from you and afterwards I need you to keep your nose out of this whole business.’
‘Sounds big,’ I said.
‘You have no idea. Do I have your word?’
I had been warned off a dozen times by coppers to keep my nose out of cases, but my natural curiosity — and resentment of anybody telling me what not to do — had always gotten the better of me. This was different, I could tell.
‘You’ve got it, Jock. Now what is it you want to know?’
‘He told you he was a bank robber and safe-cracker?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Any details?’
‘No. None. It would all have been crap anyway.’
‘And he bought you this drink?’
‘Yeah. A whisky. I couldn’t get out of it.’
‘And you say he paid for it out of a wad of cash?’
‘Only after he waved it around for half an hour for all to see.’
‘What kind of cash? I mean the age and denomination of the notes?’
I gave Ferguson a look.
‘Seriously, Lennox, try to remember. It’s important.’
I thought for a moment, trying to rebuild the picture in my head. ‘Now you come to mention it, they were all brand new notes. Crisp new fivers.’
Ferguson’s expression changed to something that I felt in the back of my neck. Whatever it was he wanted, I’d just given him it.
Coming home at two-thirty in the morning was something I hadn’t done for a while. As I knew it would be, Fiona’s apartment was in darkness. No point in me tapping on her door for a wee small hours heart-to-heart. Even if that was exactly what I felt like doing.
I felt even more like a heart-to-heart when I reached my rooms and found an envelope addressed to me in Fiona’s handwriting pushed under the door.
I took it through to my small living-room and, switching on the table light, sat down and opened the letter. Here, at last, I thought, was the explanation I had been waiting for.
Except the envelope didn’t contain any explanations. Instead it held a glowing reference for me as a tenant. And a one month notice to quit my flat.
I had intended to march down first thing the following morning, dismissal notice in hand, and challenge Fiona to give me a good reason — any reason — for her asking me to leave. But when she answered the door, she looked so pale and drawn and tired that the fight went out of me. Her pretty eyes above the high cheekbones were shadowed, as if she hadn’t slept at all the night before. There was something about her frailty, about the obvious pain I was somehow causing her, that struck me harder than anything she could have said. I told her I was sad she felt the way she did but I would, of course, honour her wishes. The only thing I asked for was that we had a chance to talk; to meet somewhere away from the house to talk the whole thing through. She was too important to me for me to just walk away from, I told her. Whatever it was that had gone wrong, I wanted a chance to discuss it.
‘Okay,’ she said softly. ‘But not for a while. I need to get some things sorted out first. It may be quite some time, Lennox, but I will explain. I promise you I’ll tell you everything, when the time’s right.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Looking for another place to stay was a distraction I could have done without, but I followed the logic that a new flat might just be something I might actually manage to find. I certainly wasn’t having any success in locating Frank Lang.
I took the morning off to look at places I’d circled in the local classified ads. Circled, then crossed out. The ones that weren’t cold and grubby were run like borstals by middle-aged landladies who were probably on some Israeli wanted list. I knew I had time to look around, but staying on longer than necessary at Fiona’s would be unpleasant for both of us.
The last place of the morning — a basement flat in a West End tenement — started me seriously considering a boat ticket back to Canada.
At least there would be no danger of romantic involvement with the landlady there: she lived in the street- level apartment above the flat for rent and was a short, stocky woman in brogues, with pitch-black hair coiled in a bomb-proof permanent and whose too-pink make-up powder had gathered in tiny clumps on her incipient moustache. Zapata in drag showed me the flat while quizzing me about my religious allegiances with what she clearly thought was undetectable subtlety. The basement flat was clean, but dark in the November morning and smelled dank; at the front it had bars on windows that looked out on nothing but a sooty brick wall and the steps leading up to street level.
Life in Glasgow above street level was grim enough and the idea of a subterranean existence there plunged me into nearpathological depression.
I was pretty dejected and took my circled classifieds to a coffee bar with steamed up windows in Byres Road, where I sat over a cup of bitter froth, desperately trying to seek out alternatives. There was one. But it was so absurd I laughed out loud. I circled it anyway.
‘It is an awful day, isn’t it?’
A man in his thirties, still hatted, sat down at my table. I noticed he hadn’t brought a coffee over from the bar.
‘Terrible,’ I said. I drained my coffee. ‘At least it’s not snowing. Excuse me…’
The guy at the table placed his hand on my forearm as I stood.
‘Please, Mr Lennox. I’d appreciate a moment of your time.’
I looked at him but didn’t sit. I also took in the two other men sitting at the table behind my new friend. They sat with untouched coffees, watching me. I sat back down. A busy Glasgow cafe wasn’t somewhere they could pull a stunt and I was safer here than out on the street.
