The Deep Dark Sleep

expenses. Just see if you can trace him. But try not to spook him. I just want to talk to him, okay?’

‘I will move like a panther in the night,’ said Archie.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I took the keys into the office and ran Archie home in the Atlantic. I went back to the Central Hotel to pick up my stuff, pausing in the lobby to use one of the telephone kiosks. It was all walnut, brass and polished glass and didn’t smell of piss in the slightest. I ’phoned Mrs White and told her that I was in the Central Hotel but moving on, probably, that day or the next. She sounded genuinely relieved to hear from me and I asked her if everything was all right, which she said it was, but I could tell from her voice she was tired. I told her I would keep in touch and I hung up.

I rang up to Leonora Bryson’s room, but got no answer. I had better luck when I tried John Macready’s suite. I told her I was moving out and would keep in touch about progress, I also asked what Macready’s movements would be for the next week, until he caught his flight. Her tone was as businesslike as usual and neither of us made mention of what had happened the night before: she because she was not alone in the room, probably; I, because the situation was so bizarre that I was beginning to doubt that it had really happened, or think that I had dreamt it.

After staying in the Central Hotel, I braced myself to come down in the world, and found a reasonably priced hotel down by the Gallowgate. It was more of a boarding house than a hotel and had a sign outside which declared: NO DOGS, NO BLACKS, NO IRISH. I had spotted signs like this in London and the South, but this was the first I had seen in Glasgow. I was greeted, or more confronted, by a small, rotund, balding bundle of hostility who introduced himself as the landlord. He had that speech defect that seemed to be particularly common in Glasgow, a slushy lisp where every fricative is distorted into something that sounds like radio interference. It was rather unfortunate, therefore, that his name was Mr Simpson. Or Schimpschon, as he introduced himself.

I restrained the instinct to dry my face with my handkerchief, or to ask if it was okay if I could keep Nigger, my black Irish Wolfhound, in my room, and followed Simpson up the stairs. When I answered his question about how long I would be staying, which I said would be a week, he stopped on the stair and turned, a suspicious frown creasing his porcine brow.

‘You’re no’ Irischsch, are you?’

‘What? Oh, my accent … no, I’m Canadian. Is that all right? But I did spend a weekend in Belfast once …’

My irony went over his shiny head by a mile.

‘That’sch awright. Schscho long aschsch you’re no’ Irischsch …’

The room was basic but clean, and I shared a bathroom with four other rooms and there was a pay ’phone in the hall. It would do for a week or two, if needs be. I paid three days in advance, which Simpson took thanklessly and left.

With Archie on the trail of Billy Dunbar, I decided to dedicate myself to tracking down Paul Downey, the part-time amateur photographer who had done so well in capturing John Macready’s good side.

I spent the first evening checking out the well-known queer haunts in the city centre: the Oak Cafe, the Royal Bar in West Nile Street and a couple of others. I decided to hold off on a trip down to Glasgow Green for the moment. Wherever I went, I was met with an almost universal suspicion, clearly being taken instantly as a copper out to trap homosexuals. I would have probably been less offended if they had thought I had been there cruising.

I tried to get around the suspicion that I was a cop by offering money for information, but that seemed to make things worse. I couldn’t blame them for clamming up. As I had told Macready, the City of Glasgow Vice Squad — and police forces in Scotland generally — pursued homos with biblical zeal which, in itself, made me question the underlying culture. I never could understand why homosexuality was illegal in the first place: if consenting adults wanted to assault each other with friendly weapons out of the sight of children and horses, then I didn’t see why that should be a police matter.

All the same, I avoided visiting the toilets while I was in the queer bars.

I was aware that somebody followed me out of the Royal. It was dark and the fog had come back, but nothing like as densely as before. Unlocking your car door is a prime time for an ambush, so I walked straight past the Atlantic, picking up my pace and taking a swift turn into the alley that connected West Nile Street with Buchanan Street. As soon as I was around the corner, I pressed into the wall and waited for him to take the turn. This time, just like I had promised myself, I was going to lead the dance.

I saw the figure hesitate for a moment, then turn into the alley. I leapt out and grabbed his coat, pulling it out and down over his shoulders and upper arms, transforming it into an improvised straightjacket. I swung him around, slammed his back into the wall and rammed my forearm up and under his chin, shutting off his windpipe.

I knew even before I got a look at his face that this wasn’t the same guy from the other morning in the smog. It had all been too easy and, anyway, this guy was too small.

A pair of scared-wide eyes stared at me through uneven horn-rimmed spectacles.

‘Please … please, don’t hurt me …’ he pleaded.

‘Shit … Mr MacGregor …’ I let go the bank’s Chief Clerk. ‘What are you doing following me?’

‘I … I saw you in the bar. I know why you were there. I just know it.’

‘Em … no, you don’t, Mr MacGregor,’ I said emphatically. ‘I’m not that type of girl.’

‘No, no … I know that, Mr Lennox. I know you were in there watching me. That’s why I came after you. I promise I’ll never go in there again. Ever. It was my first time …’ His fright turned to pleading. ‘Well, my second time, but that’s all, I swear. I promise you I won’t do it again. Listen, I have money. I’ll give it to you. Just don’t tell the bank director. I know he hired you to check up on me … Or the police. Oh, please God no, not the police …’

‘Is that why you came after me?’ I pulled his coat back up over his shoulders.

‘I saw you leaving. I didn’t see you when you were in there, but I guessed that you had seen me. Please don’t tell the bank, Mr Lennox …’

I held my hands up to placate him. ‘Take it easy, Mr MacGregor, I wasn’t in there looking for you. I had no idea that you … And no,’ I said, reading the sudden change in his expression, ‘I wasn’t in there for fun. Let’s get out of this alley before a patrolling copper takes us for a couple.’

He stepped back out onto West Nile Street. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift home,’ I said. This was more than just an embarrassing moment: MacGregor worked for an important client and I could do without the complication. But it began to dawn on me that there might be some mileage in having the goods on MacGregor. He told me he lived in Milngavie and we headed out of the city centre and up through Maryhill.

‘So what were you doing in the Royal?’ he asked eventually, clearly still not convinced that he had not been the subject of my surveillance.

‘I was looking for someone,’ I said. ‘A guy called Downey.’

‘Paul?’

I took my eyes off the road and turned to MacGregor. ‘You know him?’

‘I do. Did. Not well. I haven’t seen him in weeks. What do you want him for?’

‘I can’t tell you that, Mr MacGregor. I thought you said that was only your second time in that bar …’

MacGregor reddened. I was going to be able to milk this.

‘Listen, I’m not interested in your private life, but I would greatly appreciate it if you could point me in the right direction. I really need to find Downey.’

‘He used to go to the usual places, the Oak Cafe, The Good Companions, all of those places. But, like I said, I haven’t seen him for weeks. You could try some of the steam rooms though. I think I heard someone say that Paul’s friend works at one of the public baths.’

‘Do you have a name?’

‘I’m afraid not. No, wait … I think his friend was called Frank, but I don’t know which baths he worked at.