CHAPTER SEVEN
I spent the next couple of days paddling hard and getting nowhere. Nowhere with what had happened to Sammy Pollock. Nowhere on what was going on with Bobby Kirkcaldy. I was considering changing the name of my business to Sisyphus Investigations. The one good thing was I was able to leave a message with Big Bob at the Horsehead for young Davey to get in touch. I would maybe have something for him to do after all.
Sheila Gainsborough was back in town. She called me on her return from London and didn’t sound at all pleased that I had so little to report. She insisted on talking face-to-face and asked if I would meet her at Sammy’s apartment. I drove over that afternoon.
When I got there the place was unrecognizable. The disorder was tidied and the air in the apartment was scented with beeswax.
Sheila had gathered her blonde hair up with pins and was dressed for serious housework: a red checked shirt-style blouse, the shirt tails tied in a bow at her navel, exposing a couple of inches of pale midriff above the sky-blue Capri pants. She had none of the sophisticated couture she had worn at our last meeting and her face was naked of make-up, other than a quick sweep of crimson around the lips. And she still looked a million dollars.
‘I had to tidy the place up,’ she said. ‘It makes me feel better. Getting it nice for Sammy to come back to, I mean.’
She asked me if I wanted a coffee and I decided to risk it: coffee in Glasgow was typically some chicory sludge from a bottle, mixed with hot water. But Sheila was anything other than typical Glasgow. She returned with a tray encouragingly laden with a percolator, two cups and a plate of pastries. She poured our coffees and sat down opposite me, her knees angled, ankles together, finishing-school style. I thought again about how good a job they had done on her.
She offered me one of the pastries. It was one of those over-sweet things that had become popular since rationing had ended: a doughnut with cream and jam filling — what we used to call a Burlington Bun back home in Atlantic Canada. I didn’t know what they called them anywhere else.
‘No thanks.’ I smiled. ‘I don’t have a sweet tooth.’ I noticed she put the plate back down without taking a pastry herself. That figure was a piece of work.
‘The last time we spoke I was really worried about Sammy disappearing…’ She bit into her crimson lower lip and I found myself wishing she had been biting into mine. ‘Now I’m frightened, Mr Lennox. He seems to have vanished from the face of the Earth. And you don’t seem to have the slightest clue…’
‘Listen, Miss Gainsborough. I have found something out. I didn’t want to tell you on the ’phone, but do you remember Paul Costello, the guy we came across at Sammy’s apartment?’
She nodded. I could see the trepidation in her eyes.
‘Well,’ I continued, ‘I’m afraid he seems to have gone missing too. Same set-up.’
The trepidation became fear and Sheila’s eyes glossed with tears.
‘I really think you should contact the police,’ I said, placing my coffee cup on its saucer and leaning forward. ‘I know you’re really concerned and, if I’m honest, so am I.’
‘But the police…’ She paused and frowned. ‘Why do you think they’ve both disappeared?’
‘My theory is that there is some truth in what Costello said about this mysterious Largo. I don’t think Costello owed him money, the way he claimed, and I don’t think this Largo would send heavies here to Sammy’s place if he wasn’t in some way involved. But Costello denied that too.’
‘So what do you think is going on?’
‘I honestly don’t know, but I’m guessing that Sammy and Paul Costello were involved in some kind of deal with Largo and something has gone wrong. If I’m right, that’s not necessarily bad news. It could mean that Sammy and Costello have simply gone into hiding. Voluntarily. That would explain why they’re so hard to find. That’s the way they want it. But it’s just a hunch. I think you should go to the police. There’s something clearly not right here. Even if Sammy has headed off under his own steam, it would suggest that he’s got something to be afraid of.’
‘No. No police. If what you’re saying is true, then there’s a good chance Sammy’s broken the law. Seriously broken the law. He wouldn’t be able to stand prison.’ She frowned her cute frown for a moment then shook her head decisively. ‘No. No, I want you to keep looking for Sammy. Do you need more money?’
‘I’m fine for the moment, Miss Gainsborough. The only thing I’d ask is that you tell your agent that I don’t work for him. I’ve nothing to say to him about anything. I deal with you directly. Are you okay with that?’
She nodded. I reached into my pocket for a cigarette, but my case was empty.
‘Oh, hold on a minute…’ She stood up and looked about herself. ‘Sammy smokes. I’m sure I found some cigarettes when I was tidying up. Oh yes…’ She crossed to the dresser against the wall and brought over a silver desktop cigar box. She flipped it open and offered me one.
‘They’re filtered,’ she said apologetically. Then she frowned. ‘Look… they’re the kind you asked about. The butt you showed me with lipstick on it.’
I took a cigarette and examined it. It had two gold bands around the filter. ‘Yeah… they’re Montpelliers. A French brand. There’s a lot of them about, it would seem.’ I lit the cigarette and drew on it. It was like straining steam through a blanket. I nipped off the filter between finger and thumb and dropped it into the ashtray, pinching the ragged end tight.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Filters are okay for women. But for me they kill the flavour.’
Sheila smiled the smile of somebody responding to something they hadn’t listened to. ‘So you’ll keep looking?’ she asked.
‘I’ll keep looking,’ I said, pausing to pick a couple of tobacco strands from my tongue. ‘I know you don’t want the police involved, but would you mind if I spoke to a couple of police contacts. Strictly on the Q.T. and off the record.’
‘What if they get suspicious?’
‘The kind of cops I’m talking about don’t get suspicious, they just get expensive. Leave it to me.’
We talked for another half hour. I asked if she could remember anything more about the people her brother had been hanging around with, particularly the girl, Claire. I also asked her to think again about the name Largo. I drew a double blank. I asked if there had been any places with which Sammy had a particular attachment: anywhere he may have sought sanctuary in. She tried. She really tried, the poor kid, but she couldn’t think of anywhere, anything or anyone that might bring me closer to finding her missing brother.
I left her to her desperately methodical housework. As I was leaving, I said that at least Sammy would be coming back to the place all nice.
The truth was that we both suspected she was simply dressing a grave.
It was on the Thursday night that I got a break. Such as it was. I had been doing the rounds of clubs and bars. Most knew Paul Costello only as Jimmy Costello’s son. And the few that had heard of Sammy Pollock/Gainsborough again made the link only through Sheila Gainsborough. I struggled to find any musicians or singers who had heard of them, far less been approached with offers of representation. I worked my way from the few hep joints Glasgow had, like the Swing Den and the Manhattan, to the rougher workingmen’s clubs that abounded across the city.
The Caesar Club was one of the latter category. It combined industrial drinking with performers so bad that you had to drink industrially to tolerate them. I arrived about nine-thirty.
The Caesar Club was well named. It was the kind of place that left no turn un-stoned, and the acts who took to the stage weren’t so much performers as gladiators. I half expected to see Nero in a dickie-bow sitting at the front table giving each turn the thumbs-down. When I walked in there was a comedian on the stage. He had succeeded in warming up the audience in much the same way as Boris Karloff had warmed up an angry peasant mob with torches in Frankenstein.
The audience was on the cusp of verbal violence turning physical and, despite the fixed grin above the oversized bow tie, I could see the comic’s eyes glittering as they darted desperately around the crowd. I wasn’t sure whether he was trying to find just one person laughing or trying to gauge from where the first missile would be launched. I wondered why anyone would choose to be a comedian in Glasgow when there were so many less hazardous career options like bomb disposal, bullfighting or sword-swallowing. I started to feel a deep, real sympathy for the comedian.
Then I heard a couple of his jokes and decided he had it coming.
I knew the manager of the Caesar Club and he pushed an unbidden and unwanted pint of warm stout in my
