kind of shite. But all of that went right down the pan when that constable was gunned down. So yes, it’s not difficult to know a lot about Strachan if you’re a Glasgow copper. Added to which I’ve had my ear bent non-stop by Superintendent McNab about him since those bones were dredged up.’
I thought for a moment about McNab’s personal interest in Strachan. I was going to have to make a real effort to work around him, in much the same way as a pilot fish works around a shark.
‘So if he was a First War deserter, how come he didn’t end up in front of a firing squad?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know too much about that, but I gather that he talked his way out of it. He was good at that, from all accounts. And the odds were in his favour: there were over three thousand sentenced to death, but only three hundred or so faced a firing squad.’
I nodded slowly as I processed the information. The British had been almost as keen on shooting their own as shooting the enemy in the First War. Most of those tied to a post and shot had been men with otherwise outstanding war records, whose nerves had been shredded and reshredded by an uncaring command that did not recognize battle fatigue. And many had simply been terrified children who had lied about their age to serve King and Country. One of the finer moments of the British Empire had been when it had shot a ‘coward’ who had just turned sixteen.
‘There were rumours, apparently,’ continued Ferguson, ‘that Strachan maybe dodged a drumhead court- martial and firing squad because he volunteered to do reconnaissance work. You know, going over-the-top on your own at night and crawling around in the mud to find out what you could about the enemy disposition — barbed- wire, machine-gun posts, that kind of thing. Maybe that’s where his daughters got that mad idea that he was a war hero. It was probably dangerous, all right, but you’ve got less chance of getting shot at night on your belly than tied to a post in front of a firing squad. Anyway, have you seen Billy Dunbar yet … the guy I gave you the address for?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well I got the name of the witness we talked about. The van driver. But you’re not going to get much out of him.’
‘Oh, why?’
‘Rommel got to him first. If you want to find him you’ll have to go and play hunt the thimble in the North African desert. A German land mine sent his head in the direction of Tobruk and his arse towards the equator.’
‘Great. Thanks for checking it out anyway. There’s one other thing, Jock …’
‘Oh, really, there’s another thing you need from me? Why am I not bloody surprised?’
‘I’ve got another name needs checking. Could you see if you’ve got anything on someone called Paul Downey? I think he’s an actor. And part-time photographer.’
‘Why the hell not? I’ve got nothing else to do other than pander to your every whim. Is this connected to the Strachan thing?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ I said. ‘It’s a completely different case. Someone’s kid keeping the wrong company, that sort of thing.’
‘And you say he’s an actor?’
I shrugged. ‘That’s what I’ve been told. Or photographer, or both.’
‘Okay, I’ll check it out. But I’m warning you, Lennox, I’ll be looking for a few
‘Fair enough,’ I lied convincingly.
‘And Lennox?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You’ve made a good job of keeping your nose clean of late. Don’t go sticking it back in the shite; it brings out the worst in you. You understand what I’m saying?’
‘I understand, Jock,’ I said. And I did.
My last business meeting with Willie Sneddon had been in a brothel and bare-knuckle fight venue he had acquired. He was nothing if not creative in combining enterprises. This place, however, was a completely different ball of wax.
The offices of Paragon Importing and Distribution were down near the Queen’s Dock in a vast commercial palace of redbrick that had been soot-grimed a matt rusty-black. It was the kind of place the Victorians had built as a cathedral to trade, and reminded me of the huge ornate warehouses I had seen in Hamburg at the end of the war.
The office was huge and panelled in a polished exotic hardwood that made you think it would have been cheaper to paper the walls with five-pound notes. Sneddon sat behind a massive inlaid desk that could have been launched into the Clyde as an aircraft carrier. On the desk sat three phones: one black, one ivory, one red. The rest of the desk furniture looked antique and there was a small pile of books in one corner of the desk and a heap of files sitting on the blotter in front of Sneddon.
Sneddon himself was dressed in expensive grey herringbone, a silk shirt and burgundy tie. I had never seen him dressed in anything that didn’t look Savile Row. Willie Sneddon had the kind of physical presence that made you wary. He was none too tall and was stocky without being heavy: all muscle and sinew in a way that always made me think he had been woven from ship rope. That, and the ugly crease of a razor scar on his right cheek, told you that this was someone to whom violence came naturally and easily.
I wondered what his classy new chums would make of the razor scar.
‘What the fuck do you want, Lennox?’ said Sneddon in greeting. I guessed Dale Carnegie’s
‘It’s been a while,’ I said sitting down without being asked. ‘You seem to be doing very well for yourself, Mr Sneddon.’
He stared at me silently. His small-talk skills made Jock Ferguson look like a chatterbox.
‘I wondered if you could help me,’ I continued, cheerily undeterred. ‘You used to be friends with Billy Dunbar. I just wondered if you know where I might find him? He seems to have dropped out of sight.’
‘Billy Dunbar?’ Sneddon frowned at me. ‘How the fuck should I know? I haven’t heard from him in over ten years. Billy Dunbar …’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘What the fuck do you want Billy Dunbar for?’
‘A long shot. The police hauled him in and gave him a rough time back in Thirty-eight. Over the Exhibition robbery job. I just wanted to talk to him about it.’
Something flickered across Sneddon’s expression in the small pause before he spoke. Whatever it was, I didn’t have time to read it.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Does this have something to do with Gentleman Joe Strachan being found at the bottom of the Clyde?’
‘Well, yes … as a matter of fact it does.’
‘And what the fuck has that got to do with you?’
‘I’ve been hired to look into it. To make sure that was Joe Strachan they found.’
‘And why the fuck shouldn’t it have been Strachan? It makes sense, seeing as how it ties in with when he went missing.’
‘Did you know Strachan?’ I asked.
‘Naw. Knew of him, of course, he was the big bollocks back then … but I never met him. Why do you think that it’s maybe not Strachan they found?’
‘I didn’t say I thought that. I’ve just been asked to make sure. And I just wanted to talk to Billy Dunbar about it and thought you might have a more up to date address for him.’
‘Leave Billy out of it,’ said Sneddon. ‘He was a good bloke. Someone you could trust. But he went straight fucking years ago and just wanted left alone. The coppers gave him the hiding of his life and he didn’t tell them anything. I mean, they get handy with their fists a lot of the time, but this was different. What they did to Billy, and a few others, was nothing less than fucking torture. But there wasn’t nothing for him to tell.’
‘I see. So you don’t know where I could find him?’
‘How many fucking times do I have to tell you?’
I stood up. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Sneddon.’
Sneddon said nothing and remained seated. I made my way back to the door.
