neck again. Davey Wallace called me at six on the dot, as agreed. Davey couldn’t drive and I told him to stay put and wait in the Atlantic until I came up. I decided I’d probably take a taxi up to Blanefield and get it to take Davey back home. Riding in a taxi was one of the luxuries in life most Glaswegians only ever experienced on special occasions. Before I went up to Blanefield, I ’phoned Sneddon. I told him what had happened at MacSherry’s place.
‘He knew you was there for me?’ he asked.
‘Not to start with. But I told him later.’
‘Fucking slum rats. I’ll arrange a lesson in respect.’
‘You better send a mob, then. From what I can see, the old guy still has a crew of sorts. And he has a reputation that must have been earned.’ I neglected to tell Sneddon that MacSherry had backed down at the first mention of his name. I was pissed because the old man had tried to turn out my pockets. A lesson in respect, as Sneddon said.
‘Aye? Well, I’ll arrange a change of scenery for him. I bet he doesn’t get out of Bridgeton much,’ said Sneddon, reminding me of the promise Superintendent McNab had made me. There was so much local colour here; maybe ‘fucking off back to Canada’ would do my health a bit of good.
‘I did get something interesting out of the whole encounter,’ I said. ‘Did you know that Bert Soutar went into business with Small Change MacFarlane? Some time around the start of the war?’
‘No…’ I could tell Sneddon was doing the same jigsaw puzzle in his head that I had done in Bridgeton. ‘No, I didn’t. Do you think it’s significant?’
‘Well, this hot deal that turned into a fairy story about boxing academies… it could be that Small Change was covering up the detail and not the principals. Maybe it was something to do with Bobby Kirkcaldy. And maybe the deal was brokered through MacFarlane’s old chum Soutar.’
‘But MacFarlane was going to broker the deal to me.’ I could tell that Sneddon was laying down the fact to see what I would do with it.
‘Let’s not forget Small Change had his skull cracked like an egg,’ I said. ‘My guess is it was all about this deal. He was at the heart of it and was playing for the big money, not for some commission. And I suspect Uncle Bert is involved some way.’
‘You think he battered Small Change’s coupon in?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. But I don’t see why he would, unless something went pear-shaped with the deal, whatever it was. But maybe it was whoever’s been leaving warning messages for Kirkcaldy. One thing I’m sure of is that Kirkcaldy doesn’t appreciate the attention we’ve been giving him. Speaking of which, can I borrow a couple of bodies to take turns watching Kirkcaldy’s place. I’ve just got the one guy and me.’
‘Okay,’ said Sneddon. ‘You can have Twinkletoes. You two seem to get on.’
‘Yeah…’ I said. ‘Like a house on fire… Thanks. I’ll let you know when I need him.’
After I hung up I locked the office and took a taxi down to the Pacific Club. Like the last time I had been here they were just starting to get the place ready for the evening’s trade. The manager Jonny Cohen had running the place was a small handsome Jew in his early forties called Larry Franks. I’d never met Franks before but he seemed to recognize me; he came over and introduced himself as soon as I arrived. He had his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up.
‘Mr Cohen tells me that you’re looking for Claire Skinner.’ He grinned widely. Franks had an accent, difficult to place but there was a touch of London in it. And a touch of something much farther away. It was something you encountered every now and then. The war still cast a long shadow and, even though all but one of the Displaced Persons camps that had been spread across post-war Europe were now closed, there were still huge numbers of people building new lives in new places. Whatever Franks’s history, it hadn’t seemed to suppress his good nature. ‘Can I get you a drink? On the house?’
‘Thanks, but no. And yes, I am looking for Claire. Jonny said you have an address for her?’
‘There you go…’ Franks grinned again and handed me a folded note he took from his waistcoat pocket. I noticed something on his forearm and he tugged his shirtsleeve down, casually. ‘But getting into Fort Knox would be easier.’
‘What do you mean?’ I unfolded the note; it had an address in Craithie Court, Partick, written on it.
‘It’s a pussy pound,’ he said, matter-of-factly and without a hint of lasciviousness. ‘A hostel for unmarried women run by Glasgow Corporation. It’s only a couple or so years old. Claire has her digs there. But they’ve got a matron and she’ll have your bollocks if you try to get in. Strictly no gentlemen callers. You’d maybe be better trying to catch her here the next time she’s singing.’
‘When would that be?’ I asked.
‘To be honest, it might not be for a week or more. I’ve got a new combo booked in for the next two Fridays.’
‘No… I need to see her before then.’ I stared at the note for a moment, my mind elsewhere. ‘I’m looking for Sammy Pollock. Or Gainsborough, as he seemed to prefer to be known. Claire’s boyfriend. Have you seen him lately?’
‘That wanker?’ Franks grinned. ‘No. Not for a couple of weeks.’
‘The last time he was seen was here. There was a bit of a disagreement outside the club, about two weeks ago. Did you see or hear any of that?’
‘No…’ Franks pursed his lips pensively. ‘No, can’t say I did. And nobody mentioned it either.’
‘Right, I see.’ I pocketed the note. ‘Thanks. And thanks for the offer of a drink. I’ll take you up on that the next time I’m in.’
‘Sure.’ His smile was still there but had changed. He was reading my mind and I was reading his. It said: I don’t need your sympathy.
I walked out of the stuffiness of the Pacific Club and into the stuffiness of the Glasgow evening. The taxi was still waiting for me. I got into the back and told the driver to take me to Blanefield. I sat in silence for the whole journey, thinking about Larry Franks’s cheery manner. And the number I’d seen tattooed on the inside of his forearm.
When I got out of the taxi, I could have sworn that Davey Wallace was in exactly the same place, in exactly the same position, as when I’d left him in the morning. We sat together in my Atlantic and he ran through twenty minutes of detailed notes. Twenty minutes of detailed nothing. He was a good kid all right and keen enough to make mustard makers the world over question their calling.
‘You free to do the same shift tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘Maybe a bit longer too?’
‘Sure, Mr Lennox. Anytime. And you don’t need to bring me up here. I know where it is and I can get the tram.’
‘Okay. Meet me up here a bit later. Make it six tomorrow. Nothing’s going to happen during the day, I reckon. How about your work? Will you still be okay for the early shift?’
‘No problem, Mr Lennox.’
‘Good,’ I said. Of course it wasn’t a problem. Having to cross the Himalayas wouldn’t have been a big enough problem to keep Davey away. I gave him a fiver. ‘You get off home now.’
‘Thanks, Mr Lennox,’ said Davey with reverent gratitude.
This was not a good use of my time. I sat watching Kirkcaldy’s place for three hours without anything happening. Then Bobby Kirkcaldy arrived, presumably after a day at the gym in Maryhill. He turned more than a thousand pounds’ worth of Sunbeam-Talbot Sports, its soft-top folded down, into the drive. Kirkcaldy was a successful professional boxer, but even at that he seemed to be able to stretch his finances impressively. Maybe he had a paper round.
I leaned back in the driver’s seat, sliding down to get some support for my neck, and tilted my hat over my eyes. No point in being uncomfortable. It still felt clammy and I had the window wound open, but the air outside was clammy and sluggish and there was no breeze to cool me down. I was going to have trouble staying awake. I turned on the radio but all I could get was Frank Sinatra talking his way through another forgettable tune. I decided to keep my brain active by going over where I was with everything.
There was a tie-in with Small Change’s murder all right. Bobby Kirkcaldy was up to his neck in something that didn’t follow Queensberry rules. There was a connection between Small Change and Kirkcaldy through Soutar. Here I was trying to avoid getting any deeper into dodgy dealing and all the time I was being sucked deeper and deeper into Small Change’s murder.
