‘I also admire your pitch,’ I said.
‘Thanks, pal. I’m a leading expert in the field.’
I laughed and handed him a half crown and he was gone.
The station clock struck nine. I glanced around again. No mysterious blonde femmes fatales. No heavies with hands tucked into their jackets. I waited another ten minutes. Nothing. Five minutes more and I left the station. My date had obviously decided Central Station wasn’t romantic enough. I walked along Gordon Street past a row of smoking taxi drivers and down Hope Street towards Argyle Street, where I had parked the car.
They jumped me while I was unlocking my car door.
There was a large Bedford van parked close behind me, which I thought suspicious because the rest of Argyle Street was practically empty of parked cars. Because it had pricked my attention I had been half-expecting something and heard them running towards me from the tail of the Bedford. Four of them. Two on either side. Big.
The one who came nearest first swung a length of lead pipe at my head. I didn’t have time or room to duck so I jammed forward and into him, weakening the strength of the swing. I brought my knee hard up into his balls. Really hard. And as he doubled over I hooked my fist up and cracked it into his face. I heard him moan and as he went down I grabbed his wrist and snatched the pipe from him. They were all on me now and I swung wildly. I hit two of them. I got one in the face and he screamed as his cheek split open.
I had two temporarily down, one stunned and one uninjured. I couldn’t win this fight, but it wasn’t a fight they were looking for. They were trying to snatch me off the street and they had lost the element of surprise.
Someone kicked me at the top of my thigh, missing the groin they had aimed for. I took three heavy punches to the side of my face but stayed on my feet. I swung the pipe again and made glancing contact with a head. I was tiring. I took another punch and tasted blood. I hit the pavement and the kicks started to rain in. But then stopped.
I heard the Bedford reverse at speed, a grinding of gears and it sped off. I heard the shrill sound of a police whistle and flat feet running towards me. I dragged myself upright and caught sight of the tail of the van as it swung around the corner into West Campbell Street. A young bobby grabbed my arm and steadied me.
‘You all right?’
‘I’m okay.’ I spat a small puddle of viscous crimson onto the pavement. There was a small crowd gathering around me. A green and orange tram had emerged from the black Argyle Street underpass beneath the huge Schweppes sign on Central Station’s flank. As it passed most of the passengers on my side gawped at me.
‘What was all that about?’
‘No idea,’ I said. ‘They jumped me when I was getting into my car. Maybe they wanted to steal it.’
The young copper eyed me sceptically. ‘Who were they?’
‘How the hell should I know? Like I said, I was just getting into the car when they jumped me.’
‘Did you get the number of the van?’
‘No,’ I lied. ‘’Fraid not.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I have an aversion to police stations. As I walked into the St Andrew’s Street nick I felt the phantom of a farm lad’s fist on my neck. The Station-Sergeant eyed me suspiciously when I asked to speak to Detective-Inspector Ferguson. In my experience, all Station-Sergeants tended to be the same. Most of them were older coppers nearing the end of their careers, or retired to a desk for health reasons. They all wore the same weary ‘seen-it-all’ expression: it seemed to be a prerequisite to getting that little crown above your stripes that you had to be a cynical fucker. I told this particular Happy Harry that I had an appointment.
Jock Ferguson came out five minutes later and led me into his office.
‘I need a favour, Jock. I need to know who the registered owner of this vehicle is.’ I handed him a slip of paper with the number of the Bedford truck on it. I knew I was pushing my luck. Ferguson took the note and looked at it.
‘I hear you were involved in a bit of a public exhibition the other night. I take it this is the truck involved?’
I nodded.
‘Why did you tell the constable you didn’t catch the number?’
‘Delayed recall,’ I said. Ferguson didn’t laugh. ‘I wanted to keep it unofficial.’
‘And why is that? I thought you told the beat man that you reckoned they were after your car.’
‘I think it’s got something to do with the case I’m working.’
‘You know something, Lennox? I think that case is the McGahern case. If it is, you’re heading for a shitload of trouble. You were warned.’ Ferguson’s tone was neutral and I couldn’t read any threat into it. ‘Have you been poking your nose where it’s not wanted?’
‘Me? No… You know me. I’m not the curious type. But maybe someone out there thinks I’m involved because of my run-in with Frankie McGahern. It’s just that I was given a beating for some reason and they made off in that truck.’ I nodded towards the slip of paper with the number of the Bedford truck on it.
‘Okay… I’ll check it out. Give me a day.’
I had lunch at a greasy spoon place and headed back to my office. I felt a bit queasy when I arrived. It could have been the eggs I’d eaten, but it was more likely to have been the sight of an expensively tailored Willie Sneddon and a Burton-suited Twinkletoes McBride waiting for me outside the door to my office. Twinkletoes smiled at me and I felt even queasier.
‘We were in town,’ explained Sneddon. ‘I thought I’d get the latest from you.’
I unlocked my office door and let Sneddon and Twinkletoes go ahead of me.
‘There’s not much to tell,’ I said. I offered them a whisky but Sneddon turned it down for both of them. ‘But someone’s getting rattled.’ I told Sneddon about the botched attempt to snatch me on Argyle Street.
‘You recognize any of them?’ asked Sneddon.
‘No. But if it had been one of the other two Kings, they wouldn’t have sent anyone I would recognize. But that doesn’t fit. I think this is some independent outfit, maybe even something to do with McGahern’s operation. But I smell a new team in town. These guys were big and enthusiastic but really clumsy. Inexperienced.’
‘Whoever it is, they’re trying to scare you off.’ Sneddon was wearing a double-breasted mohair suit, similar to the one Hammer Murphy had been wearing the last time I saw him. He reached into his jacket pocket. For a moment I thought he was going to pull a gun. Instead he took out a gold cigarette case. A gun would probably have weighed less. He lit up.
‘No. They were trying to do more than that. They were trying to lift me off the street. Maybe they were as interested in what I could tell them as I am in what they could tell me. Or it could be that it was going to be a strictly one-way trip.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Sneddon. He flicked ash onto my floor. ‘That’s why I’m having Twinkletoes shadow you. Protection.’
‘I can look after myself, Mr Sneddon.’
‘I’m not offering. I’m telling.’ Sneddon’s expression darkened. ‘People know that you’re working for me, even if it’s only temporary. No one fucks about with someone who works for me. I let this go and it sends out the wrong signals. For all we know it could have been that Fenian fucker Murphy, just pushing things to see how far he can go. Twinkletoes is watching your back from now on.’ Sneddon stood up to go. Twinkletoes didn’t. ‘But listen to me good, Lennox. If I hear you’ve tried to lose him or give him the slip, then I’ll get him to give your toenails a trim. Hear me?’
‘Then I quit.’ I took the cash Sneddon had given me out of my wallet and held it out to him. ‘Your money’s all there. I can’t work the way you want me to. I talk to all sorts who would run a mile at the idea of anyone, least of all Twinkletoes, knowing they were a contact of mine. You hired me because I’m independent. Because you know that by buying my loyalty for only a short time, you’re buying it completely. I appreciate your interest in my welfare, but what I do is a risky business and I look after myself.’
Sneddon glared at me. A hardman glare. He didn’t take the money, so I dropped it onto the desk for him to
