Ireland… the real Gypsy McCoy, you could say.’
Kirkcaldy said nothing.
‘They’ve had a long and difficult history, gypsies,’ I continued. ‘They’ve been in Britain for centuries, you know. Did you know that we actually sold them to Louisiana to work as slaves for freed blacks who had their own small plantations? Or that we used to hang them just for being gypsies? It’s made them an unforgiving bunch. They’re big on vengeance and blood feud.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Kirkcaldy said, but again I could see behind the expression.
‘I don’t know what you did. That’s the one piece that’s missing for me. You see, like I said, I’ve been reading up on gypsy customs. And I met Sean Furie, whose son is up for Small Change’s murder. Now, to start with, I thought Furie was more Blackrock than Bulgaria, but it would seem he’s the real thing. He and his mob follow gypsy customs and law. Furie himself is a Baro — that’s a kind of clan chieftain. The kingpin gypsy. And as a Baro, Furie will also sit as a judge on the kris, the half-arsed court arrangement they have going. One of the things the kris does is sit in judgement on fellow gypsies or even on gaje as they call non-gypsies.’
‘Very fucking interesting,’ said Bert Soutar. ‘Consider my horizons expanded. Now get over against the wall.’
I decided to stay where I was for the moment. ‘It is interesting. You see, one of the things the kris sits in judgement on is if one of their own is killed by someone else. Murder, say… or a careless accident. Then they can issue a sentence on the accused and the only way he can get out of it is to pay a glaba. Blood money.’ I paused for a moment. Less for dramatic effect and more to check my surroundings again. There were a couple of small, grimy windows over by the rear wall. A clutch of old and rusting garden tools, including a small hand scythe mottled with reddish-brown flecks. A shadow fell across the grime-dimmed window and passed on. There was someone else here. Outside.
‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘here’s the way I see it: you, good old Uncle Bert, and young Collins here, are all under sentence of death. And death, though it’s bad enough, isn’t as scary as the kind of death you’ll have at the hands of the gypsies. Now I don’t know if Furie’s son carried out sentence on Small Change or not, but you fellas have a pretty good idea what’s ahead of you… unless, of course, you hand over a large glaba ransom.’
‘So what are we supposed to have done?’ asked Kirkcaldy.
‘Well, it’s pretty obvious at first sight. Uncle Bert here supplied that young pikey fighter for the bare-knuckle fight. Then he dies. So Soutar, Small Change and Collins are held responsible. Small Change meets a sticky end by having his skull pulped with a statue of his favourite greyhound, and you start getting traditional gypsy symbols of death dropped on your doorstep. I was supposed to work it all out. Well I have. But what I don’t get is why… the gypsy boy went into the fight of his own free will, knowing the risks, and took his chances. So why does his clan hold you responsible?’
‘You’re not as smart as you think you are, Lennox,’ sneered Jack Collins. His face was white and drawn. The coolness had gone. He was afraid. It was either what I had been saying, or he knew he was about to witness something unpleasant. I did my best to believe it was the power of my oratory.
‘Shut up, Collins,’ said Kirkcaldy. ‘Against the wall, Lennox. And keep your hands where I can see them.’
‘So this is it?’ I asked. I noticed I wasn’t breathing hard and I didn’t feel my heart pounding. That was what happened, I guessed, when you’d thought you were going to die so many times before. When you’d seen so many others go before you. ‘So you’re going to kill me over a gypsy curse and an amateurishly fixed fight? No… this doesn’t make sense. I’m missing something here. Who was it in Collins’s car outside your house? And why are the gyppos really after you?’
My back was to the wall now, but, as I’d backed up, I’d angled my steps so I ended up next to the scythe. A rusty garden implement against a gun and two experienced fist fighters. They don’t stand a chance, I thought to myself.
‘Show him…’ Kirkcaldy barked the order at Collins and indicated his car with a jerk of his head. Collins went over to the car and opened the trunk, lifting out something wrapped in a blanket. He carried it in his arms like it was a baby. He laid it on the floor and unwrapped it for me to see. It was the Ky-Lan demon statuette. It had been broken into two pieces. The fake jade was less than an inch thick. The contents spilled from the broken sculpture: tightly wrapped waxed paper bricks.
I sighed as something tied itself into a knot in my gut. I knew what Kirkcaldy having it meant. ‘Sammy Pollock?’
Kirkcaldy smiled, and it reminded me of the way Sneddon smiled. ‘Just like everything else in Glasgow, Lennox, the Clyde is unpredictable. You dump two bodies at the same time in the same place and one washes up and the other sinks without trace.’
‘He didn’t deserve that, Kirkcaldy. He was just a kid.’ I thought about how Sheila Gainsborough would take the news. I hadn’t earned my fee on that one, that was for sure. But, there again, it wouldn’t be me who’d be breaking the news to her. I gave a bitter laugh.
‘What’s so fucking funny?’ asked Kirkcaldy.
‘Just that I was working two cases that I never connected. I’m not as smart as I thought I was.’
‘You’re smart, Lennox. Too smart. But you should know by now that nothing happens in this city without it being tied into everything else. And before you get all huffy about Pollock, remember that he brought it on himself. He wanted to play with the big boys. He ended up way out of his depth.’
‘I don’t think you’re far behind him. You having that stuff means you don’t just have a bunch of irate gypsies after you. Have you heard of John Largo?’
‘I’ve heard. And I know this is his stuff. But he’s still looking for Pollock and Costello. We happened on this by chance. We’re in the clear.’
‘Not that in the clear. I found you.’
‘No you didn’t. All that you said to Collins here was smoke and mirrors. You were grouse-beating. Except now it’s the grouse with the gun on you. Anyway, you’re not going to be telling anyone anything.’
That’s that then, I thought. If there was one thing you couldn’t accuse Kirkcaldy of, it was ambiguity.
‘How did Costello and Pollock get their hands on the jade demon? There was no way they could have known what was in it.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. Young master Pollock was a young man of cosmopolitan tastes. Bohemian, you might say. He was a bit of a hashish smoker and had experimented with opium. No other bastard in this city would have realized the value of refined heroin, but Pollock knew all right. But that was as smart as he got. He was no master criminal and he thought he was dealing with Al Capone when he got in tow with Paul Costello. But Costello was a wanker and as much out of his depth as Pollock was.’
‘So how did they get their hands on this?’ I asked. The three of them — Soutar, Collins and Kirkcaldy — were all facing me now, with their backs to the doors. Kirkcaldy had left the door open a few inches and I could have sworn that I had seen it move. My shadow at the window was maybe not another accomplice after all. I pinned my hopes on a guardian angel.
‘Paul Costello was always looking for a score,’ Kirkcaldy continued and I made a gargantuan effort not to cast a glance at the garage doors behind him. ‘I think he was trying to prove he could be a real player, like his Da. Fuck all chance of that. He didn’t have the brains to blow his hat off. Sammy Pollock was supposed to be the thinker. Talk about the blind leading the blind. Anyway, they did a couple of night-time jobs. They got two other guys in with them. Their first score was a warehouse with cigarettes. French shit. They didn’t have a clue how to move the stuff on, other than going round the clubs and pubs themselves. Complete amateurs. You don’t pull a job unless you’ve done a deal in advance with a fence who’ll move the stuff on. Not only did these wankers have no deal, they didn’t even know a fence.’
‘So they went to Small Change?’ It was all fitting now.
‘Aye… he took the stuff off them for peanuts. Now Small Change was no Fagin, but he did handle the odd dirty merchandise now and again. Especially if there was decent money to be made. But only if it was something special and there was a high brokering margin to be made.’
‘It still doesn’t explain how Pollock knew to steal the jade dragon.’
‘Pollock and Costello had help on their jobs. Two guys who worked for Costello’s Da and a pikey who provided extra muscle,’ said Kirkcaldy. Again something fell into place for me.
‘The five of them did the cigarette job,’ Kirkcaldy went on. ‘All the stuff came from the warehouse used by that Frog, Barnier. Before they get to the cigarettes, they have to open a few crates to check before they hit the
