Dead men and broken hearts

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

That itch was still there between my shoulder blades. I was pretty sure I hadn’t been followed and I had avoided using the rental car anywhere I would be expected to be seen. I even took circuitous routes back to the hotel from my office, often taking me far out of my way. My meeting with Hopkins had shaken me, added to which was the odd feeling I had that I was trying to shake off my old life before starting a new one. The fact remained, however, that I still got an uneasy feeling that I was being watched. Stalked.

Jock Ferguson didn’t need to go to such extremes to find me. He called into my office the following morning, just before ten and just after I’d finished talking through the caseload with Archie. I had an old hunting knife that I’d had since I was a kid in Canada, and when Ferguson walked in, I was opening the mail with it.

‘I hope you never walk around with that on your person,’ said Ferguson, nodding to the hunting knife.

‘This? No, Inspector… that would be against the law. It was a gift from my Dad for weekend hunting trips, but I’ve given up the outdoor lifestyle since I moved to Glasgow. I only use it as a letter opener these days. ’

Ferguson and Archie spent a few minutes chatting while I boiled up the electric kettle I kept on top of the filing cabinet. It had been Ferguson who had put me in touch with Archie in the first place and I knew that, somewhere along the line and before Ferguson had begun his ascent of the ranks, the two had served together as beat coppers.

After Archie left I sat drinking black tea with Ferguson and chatting casually; which was a ploy, because Ferguson wasn’t the type of friend, or copper, just to drop in on you while passing. Or chat casually.

‘What happened with my buddy, Sheriff Pete?’ I asked, as much to divert him as anything: I didn’t give a damn about the bad little bastard.

‘He’s locked up nice and tight, for the moment,’ said Ferguson. ‘We’ve got him for a theft from a colliery in Lanarkshire. Smalltime stuff but enough to keep him under lock and key. While we’re on that subject, the night you got into a tussle with him, who was the woman involved?’

‘The girl he was manhandling?’ I asked, confused. ‘I haven’t a clue. I don’t even know if he actually knew her or if they’d just bumped into each other in the ballroom or on the way out. Why?’

‘Oh, nothing. I just wondered if you knew who she was.’

‘I’m aware I have a certain reputation in Glasgow, Jock,’ I said, ‘but, believe it or not, I don’t actually know every beddable woman in the city.’

‘Sure…’ he said and we danced about a little more. It took him five minutes of carefully aimless chat to get to the punchline, which he went out of his way to make sound as casual as possible.

‘We’re just putting the initial report to bed on the Dewar murder-suicide,’ he explained. ‘Tying up any loose ends.’

‘Oh?’ I said with equally forced casualness. I couldn’t think what ends I had left in my statement, loose or otherwise.

‘Yes…’ He stretched the word. ‘Remind me… you got the call from Dewar just after lunchtime, and he was distraught… agitated… is that right?’

‘Like I told you before, Jock. Several times, if I remember. He told me he didn’t know what to do or where to turn. I said I would come up and discuss his case with him that night.’

‘How did he get your name and number?’

‘That I don’t know. I didn’t ask.’

‘But you didn’t know him previously?’

‘Nope.’

‘What about his wife? You never met her before?’

‘No. Why? What’s this all about?’

‘Like I said…’ Ferguson stood up, leaving the tea I’d poured him half-drunk, ‘… just checking up on all of the details, that’s all. See you…’

And that was it.

The ’phone rang shortly after Ferguson left.

‘This is Matyas,’ said the Mittel-European-tinged voice. ‘I have discussed your suggestion with Ferenc Lang and he has agreed to meet you. With certain conditions.’

‘Oh he has, has he?’ I said, leaning back in my chair and putting my feet up on the desk. ‘A little birdie told me that I should have nothing to do with you or Ferenc Lang.’

‘A little birdie?’ The voice at the other end of the line sounded confused, but maybe more at my choice of expression than what I was saying. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Do you want to meet Ferenc or not?’

‘Not. It turns out that your Frank, or Ferenc, Lang is not the Frank Lang I’m looking for and, anyway, I’m no longer working on the Ellis case. So thanks for getting back to me as we arranged, but I no longer have a professional interest in meeting you or Ferenc Lang.’

‘I see…’ There was a pause while he processed the information. ‘That is unfortunate. It was you who pressured me to arrange this meeting for you and I have done so at no small inconvenience.’

‘Then I apologize for your trouble, but I am no longer employed by that client and, like I said, I therefore have no professional need to meet with Mr Lang. To be honest, this has all been a matter of mistaken identity. Like I said, Mr Lang is not the Frank Lang I was after.’

‘Well, that is of course up to you, but I think it may have profited you to talk to Mr Lang. It is a great pity that you have become involved in our business and Ferenc wanted the opportunity to set you straight on a few things.’

‘Well, like I said, I’m not involved anymore, so I don’t need setting straight.’

‘If you change your mind, Mr Lang will meet you at the coffee bar in Central Station, across from your office, in exactly one hour. He will give you ten minutes. If you don’t turn up, that’s up to you. But I really think you should hear what he has to say.’

‘I’m sorry, but don’t you understand what I’ve explained? This is no longer any of my business.’

‘One hour, Mr Lennox. Mr Lang will make himself known to you.’ He hung up.

I held the receiver out for a moment and examined it, shaking my head in disbelief. Maybe Matyas’s English wasn’t as perfect as I had thought.

I sat with my feet still up on my desk and smoked a couple of cigarettes while I thought through where I was with everything. The three issues most prominent in my mind were finding Frank Lang for the union, my preparations for getting back home, and distancing myself from the events at the Dewar home in Drumchapel and all of the red tape that could go along with them. Getting tangled up in that was the one thing that could delay my escape from the Second City of the British Empire.

Smoking and idly looking out of the window across Gordon Street to the frontage of Central Station, I thought back to my ’phone call with Matyas and how he simply would not take the hint that I was no longer interested in whatever his little group was up to. By the time I had finished my second cigarette, I really felt like a cup of coffee. I took my hat and coat from the stand, locked the office behind me and headed down the stairwell and across the street to the station.