Dead men and broken hearts

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

To say the least, my experience of the opposite sex in Glasgow had been very eclectic. Sex is perhaps one of the most unlikely but nevertheless effective ways of building a network of contacts; of expanding your experience of different walks of life. I am the first to confess that there had been a disproportionate number of barmaids, waitresses and actresses in the mix, but I had, nonetheless, met some interesting women from all walks of life during my time in Scotland.

One such contact had been a pretty, slim redhead who worked in a photographic studio close to the Glasgow Herald offices. She was a sweet girl who had married the boss when she had been too young and he had seemed mature and worldly wise. Worldly wise soon became plain old and I had held her hand for a while, at a time when the odd adultery had been one of the lesser of my moral infractions. I guessed she still had a thing for me and she was pleased to see me when I called, and agreed to run off a dozen prints of the picture of Frank Lang.

I had arranged with Jonny to mail him the photographs, keeping our visible contact to a minimum until the Arcade jewellery business cooled off, which we both knew would be many moons. In the meantime, he would get in touch one way or another to let me know if he had any news. It was a long shot, but Jonny owned the hottest dance halls in Glasgow; which was appropriate, because nothing came hotter than the cash he had used to buy them. If Frank Lang was a regular at any of the halls, then there was just a chance that one of Jonny’s people would recognize him.

On the Friday morning, I dropped Archie and Twinkletoes off at the hire place in Charing Cross where, as usual, they picked up the van for the wages run. They were the oddest looking pair, that was for sure: Archie with his usual hangdog look and dry wit, Twinkletoes stretching the stitching on his best Burton off-the-peg and exuding earnest eagerness from a face that looked like he’d used it to beat someone to death.

Seeing them together was a disconcerting experience, which reassured me, hoping that they would have the same effect on any would-be robbers. Hiring the van each week meant we got preferential rates, but it still cut into the profit of the job and was, potentially, a security risk. Another reason for me to lose the Atlantic for something more reliable and substantial that could be used for the wages run.

I left them to it and headed back into town.

When you scratched the surface — and you really had to scratch — Glasgow was surprisingly cosmopolitan. Probably because it was such a major world port and a gateway between Europe and the Americas. There were significant populations of Jews, Irish, Poles and Italians, and the city’s map was dotted with various clubs and societies representing expatriate, emigre and immigrant groups. As I already knew, there was the aptly-named Canadian Club in Woodlands Terrace, not far from Connelly’s union headquarters; the Cercle de Francais de Glasgow and the Casa d’Italia were to be found at separate addresses in Park Circus; the Danish Society in Ashton Road, the Scandinavian Club in Sauchiehall Street, and the Hispanic Society of Scotland in Victoria Road. There was a Greek Orthodox Church in Grafton Street and even German church services held in St Stephen’s Church. There were consulates in the city for nations ranging from Guatemala to Finland.

But no Hungarian representation.

Glasgow seemed culturally blind to landlocked nations: almost all the consulates in the city represented nations with coastlines and trading ports. Glasgow wasn’t the nation’s capital but it was Scotland’s biggest city by far and its commercial heart. Its international relations were informed by trade, not politics.

The Hungarian Consulate therefore had its offices in Edinburgh. I had prepared a spiel about working for a store who had found a dropped wallet that seemed to belong to a Ferenc Lang, but I didn’t get a chance to use my prepared fiction. My call was put through to a thick accent that went by the name Tabori, sounded harassed and suspicious and gave me the brush off. When I pushed and asked if there was anybody I could talk to in Glasgow who might be able to help, Tabori answered in the negative and in most definitely undiplomatic language. It wasn’t surprising. Hungary was in tumult and there was considerable dubiety about who exactly was running the country; ambassadorial and consular staff were left cut loose and floating and I guessed that Tabori would have been bombarded by inquiries from anxious expatriates, nervous trade partners and persistent journalists.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, catching him, I guessed, as the receiver was already parting company with his ear. ‘I know this must be a trying time for you. But it would be helpful if you could point me in the right direction here in Glasgow. Even a Hungarian association, if there is such a thing in Scotland. Have you ever heard of Tanglewood?’ It was a stab in the dark but it was becoming a custom with me to ask anyone from Hungarian diplomats to bus conductresses. ‘It’s a name that came up and I just wondered if it has a significance amongst the Hungarian community in Scotland.’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t,’ said Tabori, his tone unreadable beneath a Carpathian purr. ‘I’m sorry if I was a little brusque. You’re right, it has been a difficult time. A Ferenc Lang, you say?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’ll make a few enquiries — however it may be some time before I get an opportunity to do so, Mr Lennox. Do you have a number where I may contact you?’

I gave him my number and after I hung up I sat staring at the receiver for a moment. Tabori suddenly had found time to talk to me when I had mentioned Tanglewood. I shook the thought off. Andrew Ellis had nothing to do with Frank Lang, Frank Lang had nothing to do with Ferenc Lang and Tanglewood probably had nothing to do with anything.

I sure was on a roll.

When I returned to my digs that evening, I decided to grab the bull by whatever part of its anatomy you’re supposed to grab it by and I asked Fiona if I could talk to her. In my rooms, away from the girls.

She made me wait ten floor-pacing minutes and when she arrived up the stairs I turned on her more aggressively than I had intended.

‘I know what’s going on, Fiona,’ I said. ‘Why couldn’t you just have come straight out and told me? I think I have a right to know.’

‘You know?’ There was genuine surprise, and worry, in her eyes. I noticed again how pale she had become. And tired looking. I consoled myself with the fact that her betrayal must have been costing her sleep.

‘Yes, Fiona. I know. I’ve seen him.’

‘Seen who?’ Confusion swept away the surprise and worry.

‘You know who. James White.’

‘Oh…’ she said. ‘Jim…’

‘Yes, Jim,’ I said bitterly. ‘Brother of the dear departed Peter White. I’ve seen him around. I saw you in his car. I thought he had given up sniffing around but it would appear that there was something worth sniffing about for.’

Fiona’s face hardened. There was no hint of guilt or remorse in her expression, just anger. Resentment.

‘Who the hell do you think you are to tell me who I can or cannot see? Jim is Elspeth and Margaret’s uncle and he is entitled to come and visit the girls… to visit me… whenever he wants. He’s all the family the girls have.’

‘Don’t be naive, Fiona… you know he’s been after you for years. He’s not hanging around because he has some sense of avuncular duty. But this isn’t just about him. It’s about us. Things haven’t been right between us for over a month and you expect me to believe that his reappearance on the scene has got nothing to do with it?’

‘I don’t give a damn what you think, Lennox. Nothing I do has got anything to do with you.’ Her voice was raised now. Shrill. She composed herself and dropped it down a tone. ‘This is a family. My family. There are things about holding a family together that someone like you could never, ever understand.’

‘Really? And what is “someone like me”?’

‘I’m too tired for this,’ she said, but the fire still burned in her eyes. ‘I told you I couldn’t be the kind of woman you want me to be. I can’t give you what you want.’

‘I would have thought that I’m the best judge of what I want. And I do want you, Fiona. You know that. I’ve made that clear to you, haven’t I? But I’m not competing for you. And especially not with that little cretin. You say you can’t be the woman I want… isn’t it more the truth that I’m not the man you want?’

It was then that Fiona did something that took me by surprise. She reached up and placed her hand on my cheek and looked at me for a moment, wordlessly, the fire gone from her eyes. It was a gesture that should have reassured me, put my mind at rest, but the tide of sadness that washed across her expression did exactly the opposite.

‘I can’t talk about this just now, Lennox. There are more important things, bigger things than you and me to be thought about. To be sorted out. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, I really am, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘Fiona, I don’t understand…’

‘Nor do I. I don’t understand either. But sometimes things are the way they are and there’s nothing we can do about it.’

‘Things? What things?’

She let her hand drop and stepped back from me. ‘I want you to know that this has nothing to do with Jim. You’re wrong to think that.’

I shook my head. No matter how she dressed it up, I knew what was going on.

‘I’ve got to get back to the girls…’ she said. I made to stop her but checked myself. She turned and went back down the stairs, and I stood, arms hanging at my sides, watching her go.