jackpot with the fags. The genius pikey cracks open a jade statue by accident and sees it’s full of packets. He tells Pollock and Pollock jumps to the conclusion that it’s hashish. So they take the statue as well and get away scot- free. But when Pollock gets home and opens one of the packets, he realizes they’re all in the deepest shite. He realizes it’s not hashish but heroin, and pretty high grade. He takes a sample from one brick, puts the brick back and glues the statue back together. He takes the sample straight to Small Change. Small Change doesn’t know the slightest thing about narcotics, so he comes straight to yours truly.’
‘So these two guys you said were working for Costello,’ I said, ‘I’m guessing that they did a deal with you and Small Change and then delivered up Sammy Pollock and Paul Costello… So what went wrong?’ I kept my eyes fixed on Kirkcaldy’s and ignored the figure I saw on the edge of my vision slipping in through the doors and edging, crouched down, along the wall and behind the cars.
‘The pikey works out there’s something more to the job and starts asking for more money or he’ll talk. Except he doesn’t know that I’m involved now. He also happens to be a bare-knuckle fighter who Uncle Bert has fixed up with a few fights at Sneddon’s place.’
‘And he just happens to die during the fight?’
‘Aye… funny that.’ Kirkcaldy smiled coldly. ‘Quite a coincidence. Particularly as Uncle Bert gave him some special medicine before the fight. Told him it would make him fight better and not feel the other bloke’s punches. The last bit was right. The stupid pikey bastard took it. The other fighter was able to beat the shite out of him and then he started bleeding like fuck. From the beating or the drugs I don’t know.’
‘And your problem’s solved.’ I tried to stay relaxed and natural, when all the time I was mentally measuring the distance to the rusting scythe and waiting for the figure hidden behind the cars to make his move.
‘Naw… that’s when our problems just began. Turns out that the pikey is Sean Furie’s son… the brother of the one up for Small Change’s murder.’
‘So that’s the glaba you have to pay…’ I said. ‘A Baro ’s son won’t come cheap.’
‘It takes more than a bunch of pig-arsed Irish gyppos to scare me. It’s a nuisance that I don’t need at the moment. I can’t sell the heroin yet and I needed to raise money to buy the knackers off.’ He jerked his chin in the direction of the broken statuette. ‘This is the biggest business opportunity I’ve ever had. This stuff’s going to be big here… Have you seen Glasgow on a Saturday night? Half the city gets totally fucking stocious. Thousands of men out of their skulls on booze. No one drinks for the taste and Christ knows they don’t drink for the social fucking aspect. Do you know what they want? They want a holiday. They drink because for a few hours they can step outside their lives. If cheap whisky or red biddy gives them a day trip to Largs, this stuff is two weeks in fucking Monte Carlo. This…’ He bounced the package in his hand, as if assessing its worth. ‘This is the future, Lennox. This is Glasgow’s future. We won’t be able to get enough of this stuff to keep up with demand. I’m fucking telling you, this stuff was made for Glasgow. Because this stuff makes Glasgow go away. Anyway, talking about making things go away, enough chat…’
Kirkcaldy pulled the carriage back on the Browning. The three of them faced me. Collins looked even paler. He had known from the moment he left his office to lead me up here that this was what was going to happen. Bert Soutar twisted his thin lips underneath his busted-up nose. He was going to enjoy this.
For some reason that I couldn’t fathom, Fiona White’s face came to my mind. Maybe it was the fact that she was about to have a vacancy to let.
There was a terrible grace to it. I had guessed it would be Singer who was behind the car. After all, it had been me who had suggested he was put onto tailing Kirkcaldy. He moved out from behind the car without a sound. It was Collins’s startled cry that caused Kirkcaldy and Soutar to spin round. I saw Singer’s hand move swiftly up and make a short arc in the air. Collins made a gurgling sound and blood started to pulse from his neck where Singer’s razor had slashed him.
I lunged for the scythe. Kirkcaldy heard the rasp as I tore it from the wall and he spun back, swinging the gun around. The scythe sliced into his wrist and the gun fell to the floor. I rushed forward and swung the scythe again, this time its tip sank into Kirkcaldy’s back and he screamed in a way that didn’t sound human. I saw that Singer and Soutar were now desperately wrestling with each other: Soutar’s iron grasp on Singer’s wrist, stopping him from bringing the razor down to his throat. I threw down the scythe and snatched up the automatic Kirkcaldy had dropped. I didn’t even think about it. I put two rounds into the side of Soutar’s head and he went down. Lifeless. His dead grip pulling Singer down on top of him.
The whole thing would only have lasted four or five seconds, but now Soutar lay dead, Collins was on his back, shivering and twitching the last of his life away, Kirkcaldy was on his knees, clutching his hacked-open wrist.
‘Thanks, Singer…’ I said. ‘If you hadn’t come along, I’d be dead.’
Singer straightened himself up and nodded. He was out of breath but I thought I detected a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth.
We left the bodies in the garage. I wrapped a handkerchief around Kirkcaldy’s hand and we put him in the passenger seat of his Sunbeam-Talbot Sports. Tucking the Browning into the waistband of my trousers, I gathered up the jade demon, wrapped it back into its blanket and put it into the boot of my car. I knew Kirkcaldy wouldn’t give me any more trouble, so I told Singer to follow me in my Austin Atlantic. We stopped at a telephone box by the side of the road and Singer watched Kirkcaldy as I ’phoned Willie Sneddon. I gave him a brief outline of what had happened and told him there were a couple of consignments of meat for Hammer Murphy’s mincer, and where to find them.
We drove back into Glasgow, all the way Kirkcaldy trying to do a deal with me, offering all kinds of riches if I helped him get out of this mess. As I drove along the Clyde and into the Gallowgate, I promised I would; that I knew people who would sort him out.
Singer parked outside and waited for me. I drove into the enclosure at Vinegarhill. The old guy I’d seen before ran across to Sean Furie’s caravan and hammered on the door. Furie nodded to me and I nodded back. Neither of us paid any heed to Kirkcaldy’s begging. I threw the keys of his car onto the ground and he fell out of the car and started to scrabble in the dust for them, but they were too far away and the ring of gypsies that had formed was already closing on him.
When I dropped Singer off at Sneddon’s place, I thanked him again. He nodded once more and got out.
I was tired and I was aching but I had three ’phone calls to make. It was getting dark, darker than it had been for weeks, and there was something in the late evening air that spoke of a colder season on its way. I parked by the side of the Clyde and took the shattered jade demon out of the trunk and carried it down to the water’s edge. I took a couple of the waxed-paper bricks out and held them, one in each hand. I was always looking for a way of making a buck. Here, in my hands, I had an entire retirement fund. I guessed I would even get a tidy finder’s fee if I returned the narcotics to Largo. I also knew that it was only a matter of time before Kirkcaldy’s predictions came true and the streets of Glasgow would be awash with the stuff. But there was some money that was just too dirty, even for me. I took my lock-knife from my pocket and, one by one, cut open the bricks and shook out great clouds of white powder. I watched the clouds of white powder drift away on the evening breeze, and the wrappers as they drifted away on the dark, sinewy surface of the water.
I made my calls from a telephone box on the corner of Buchanan Street. The first was to someone everybody seemed to think of as a phantom: I told John Largo that he had an hour before I told Dex Devereaux where to find him. Without going into the specifics, I told him that all accounts had been set straight and he had no scores left to settle in Glasgow. I recommended an immediate change of climate. Probably somewhere sunny.
The second call was to Jock Ferguson at home. I told him to meet Dex Devereaux at his hotel in half an hour and that it would mean he would get the John Largo collar.
My third call was brief and to the point. I tried ringing Jimmy Costello at the Empire Bar. He wasn’t there but I got him at the Riviera Club. He asked me impatiently what I wanted. I understood his impatience: he had asked me to find his son for him and he had turned up dead. I was making a habit of it.
‘Are Skelly and Young there?’ I asked.
‘Aye, so fucking what?’
‘They’re there right now?’
‘Aye…’ His impatience grew. ‘I’m looking right at them.’
‘Then you’re looking right at the men who killed Paul. Or at least gift-wrapped him for someone else to kill. And don’t worry, all other accounts have been settled.’
‘If you’re fucking lying…’
