Dead men and broken hearts

CHAPTER THREE

One of the strange things about being an enquiry agent — a life into which I had carelessly stumbled — was that it was one of the few occupations that gave you a licence to be a voyeur. I considered my profession as sitting square centre between that of the anthropologist and that of the Peeping Tom. I was paid to watch individuals without them knowing they were being watched, and that gave me an insight, literally, into how some people lived their lives. There was nothing improper about the gratification it gave me: it wasn’t spying on the intimate, the furtive or the sordid moments that I enjoyed, it was the simple observation of the tiny details, the way someone behaved when they thought they were alone and unobserved; the small personal rituals that exposed the real person.

A Sauchiehall Street store — one of the big ones where the sales clerks acted superior despite the fact that they worked in a store — had once asked me to watch a female counter clerk whom they suspected of having pilfered from the till. It was strictly the smallest of small-time theft — a sixpence here and a shilling there — but over the months it had added up to a tidy sum.

I had followed the woman, too old to have been called a shop girl and too young to be called a spinster, through her dull ritual of work and home, spying on her from behind clothes rails while she took payments and totalled takings; sitting in my car outside her tenement flat while she spent empty evenings and days off at home. I had gotten the idea that the store manager was looking to make some kind of example of her: a warning to others that theft would always be found out and punished. The store certainly had to pay out ten times as much to keep me and Archie on her tail as the alleged larceny was costing them.

It eventually became clear that we were backing a loser: we could find no evidence that she was taking from the cash till.

Then, one Saturday off work, she took the morning train to Edinburgh Waverley. I had followed her onto the train and stood within range at the far end of the third class-carriage corridor. She was a frumpy type, always dressed in grey and a difficult surveillance subject because she seemed instantly to merge into any crowd. One advantage I had, however, was that she clearly had no idea she was being followed and never once checked over her shoulder.

It was when we arrived in Edinburgh that I realized the store had been right about her. This woman, whose rituals and routines were as dull and ordinary as it was possible to be, had disembarked and then done something that was not at all dull and very out-of-the-ordinary: she had retrieved a suitcase from a left-luggage locker at Waverley and disappeared into the ladies’ toilets. While I waited for her to re-emerge from the ladies’, I took a note of the locker number and then positioned myself where I could watch the washroom door without the attendant suspecting I was some kind of pervert.

I nearly missed her. If she had not been carrying the same suitcase and had not returned it to the locker, then I would not have recognized her as the same woman. It wasn’t that she had transformed herself from frumpy spinster to dazzling starlet; but she had donned an expensive and fashionable suit and high heels, had applied make-up to the otherwise perpetually naked face. The Glasgow shop attendant had become the image of a wealthy if unexceptional middle-class Edinburgh housewife. The suit she was wearing was clearly a label that a store clerkess could never aspire to, and I had realized instantly that I was looking at where the pilfered two-bobs and half-crowns had gone. It must have taken her years: years of watching women buy from her clothes she could never aspire to wear herself; years of constant reminding that everyone had a place and her place was behind the counter, not in front of it.

I realized that I could have confronted her there and then; that I could have demanded to know how she had managed to pay for the clothes, the shoes, the handbag, but there was something about what I had witnessed — its bizarre surreality — that made me want to watch her a little longer. My guess had been that this was all about a man and I decided to bide my time to see whom she met.

I had followed her on foot across Princes Street to a typically Edinburgh, typically snooty tearoom-cum-restaurant four floors up with a view of Edinburgh Castle. She ordered from a waitress who clearly knew her from previous visits and she sat contentedly eating scones, drinking tea and looking out across Princes Street Gardens to the castle. I knew then that there was no male companion, no secret tryst with a partner in crime or adultery. There was a peace and contentment about her that was fascinating and I knew I was watching her enjoy the single, complete, indivisible object of her larceny. This was what she had stolen for. It made absolutely no sense and it made absolutely perfect sense.

I followed her from the tearoom. She window-shopped, she browsed, she strolled, but didn’t buy anything. Then, after two hours, she returned to the railway station, picked up the suitcase and performed her transformation in reverse. We both caught the same train back to Glasgow but I made no effort to keep tabs on her; I had seen all I needed to see.

Like I said, it was the oddest thing about my job: to be able to look into the corners of people’s lives and see what they thought no one else could ever be party to.

The funny thing was that when it came to making my report to the store, I didn’t include the details of her trip to Edinburgh. I didn’t tell anyone about it. It wasn’t that I lied to my client: I gave a full account of the observation Archie and I had carried out and the fact that we had found no direct evidence of theft or even discrepancies in the till receipts. I don’t really know why I kept a secret for someone who didn’t know I was keeping it. Maybe it was because I could understand why someone would go to such great lengths to be, for a few hours once every month or so, someone completely different.

And now I found myself observing another life.

I followed the Daimler at as great a distance as I could risk without losing it in the dark and the rain. Andrew Ellis drove out of Bearsden, and towards the city centre through Maryhill. Maryhill was the kind of place you drove through. Without stopping if you had any sense. It was a tough neighbourhood where a squabble over a spilt pint of beer could cost you an eye, a lung or your life, yet run-down Maryhill sat shoulder-to-shoulder with prosperous Bearsden; opposite ends of the Glasgow social spectrum squeezed together. I dare say the city fathers had had it in mind to make the commute to work easier for burglars.

Ellis took a left off Maryhill Road and an alarm bell began to ring in my head. Not that there was anything wrong with his road skills, it was just that driving a Daimler into Maryhill was kind of like a Christian standing in the middle of the Colosseum and banging a dinner gong in the direction of the lions. I followed him in, not without trepidation. He took another left, then another, and a third that took him back out onto Maryhill Road. I let him take the last turn without following him, instead driving deeper into darkest Maryhill.

Now the alarm bells in my head were deafening. I had peeled off from his tail when he took the last left because his little manoeuvre had clearly been to check if the headlights in his rear-view mirror were there by coincidence or by design. It was a pretty fancy move for a run-of-the-mill Glasgow businessman to pull, even if he was on his way to see his piece of skirt on the side.

I pulled up at the kerb to give Ellis a few minutes before trying to catch sight of him again, although that was unlikely and probably unadvisable if he was on the lookout for a tail.

Mine was the only car in a grey-black tenement-lined street that had the picturesque charm of an abattoir yard. The gloom was punctuated every twenty yards or so by the insipid sodium glow of a streetlamp and I noticed, three standards down, a knot of youths in Teddy Boy gear gathered around the lamppost, smoking cigarettes with the expected dull indolence of adolescence. They turned their attention to the car, exchanged a few words and started to move in my direction. I decided now was maybe a good time to move on, in pretty much the same way as a wagon full of settlers in Cooke’s Canyon, on seeing Apaches silhouetted against the hilltops, would have decided it was a good time to move on.

Despite patriotic chest-beating to the contrary, British engineering was not, it had to be said, a wonderful thing. Why the design and construction of an even moderately reliable automobile lay beyond the nation that had come up with the Industrial Revolution was a puzzle that I found myself addressing, in slightly more colourful language, as my Atlantic stalled in the middle of the three-point turn, leaving me stranded and straddling the cobbled street.

I glanced, as casually as I could, towards the advancing Teddy Boys. Five of them. I could handle myself pretty well — a little too well, to be honest — but the arithmetic was against me. As I slipped the column shift into neutral, turned the key off then on again, and stabbed with my thumb at the starter button on the dash, an image flashed through my mind of my scalp adorning the mantelpiece of a Maryhill tenement while the residents whooped and pow-wow-danced around the coal scuttle.

The Atlantic wheezed rhythmically, threatened to cough into life, but spluttered to a stall. I repeated the procedure, aware that the gang of young thugs was almost at my door. This time the engine caught. I put the car into gear and gave it some gas. Time to go.

The engine died again.

There was a tapping on the window. A long face with small eyes and bad skin was leaned in towards the glass. He sported a Teddy quiff that clearly needed more grease to maintain than the average ten-axle freight locomotive. I was outnumbered, I had no sap or any other kind of weapon with me. I decided to play nice, for the moment. I rolled down my window.

‘Nice motor, pal…’ The Teddy Boy’s small eyes glittered hard as he spoke without removing the minuscule stub of a still glowing roll-up from his almost lipless mouth.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘Austin Atlantic A90, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ I said. I noticed the others nodded approvingly at his superior knowledge.

‘Aye… that’s what I reckoned. I thought they was all for export to the Yanks.’

‘No… not all of them. I picked this one up in Glasgow. Second hand.’

‘You a Yank?’ he said, frowning at my accent in a way I didn’t like.

‘American? No. I’m Canadian.’

‘Canadian?’ He turned to his pals. ‘Hear that? He’s a Canadian…’ Then to me. ‘I got an uncle and cousins in Canada…’

‘Hasn’t everyone?’ I quipped. It was something that came up a lot when people found out I was a Canuck. Almost everyone in Glasgow had a relative who’d recently emigrated to Canada. Since the war, Glasgow had been haemorrhaging people and there were regularly round-the-block queues of hopeful would-be-immigrants outside the Canadian High Commission in Woodlands Terrace. As I smiled at my Teddy Boy chum and took in the grimy, wet gloom of a Maryhill street, I could understand the appeal of the Prairies.

The chief Ted leaned his head in through the window. It made him vulnerable and I considered making my move there and then. Taking him out would reduce the odds against me and, because he was clearly the leader, it might make the others less sure of themselves.

And in this kind of dance party, being sure of yourself was everything.

‘Do you know what your problem is, pal?’ he asked me.

I sighed. ‘Let me guess, you’re going to tell me.’

‘Okay boys,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘You know what to do…’

Party time.

I put my hand on the door handle. I intended to slam him hard with the door and get out into the open where I’d be free to move. For as long as I was capable of moving. I noticed that his little gang had all moved around to the back of the car, leaving their leader on his own. A mistake.

‘Half choke,’ he said. ‘That’s your problem.’

‘What?’

‘Half choke. Pull the choke out half ways and me and the boys’ll give you a push.’

I did what he said and he joined his friends at the back of the car. I steered the car as they eased it forward until it was facing the right way. My Teddy Boy chums then picked up the pace and the Atlantic lurched as I eased off the clutch, the engine kicking into life. I drove on a few yards, leaving them behind, then stopped, revving the engine a few times.

Leaving the motor running, I got out and walked back to where they stood, wheezing and bent over. Glasgow’s climate, dirty air and its passion for tobacco meant that the city was yet to produce an Olympic sprinter.

‘Thanks guys,’ I said and tossed an unopened packet of Players I’d taken from the glove box to the leader with the bad skin, the small eyes and the three pints of grease in his hair. Between gasps, he waved his enthusiastic thanks and I drove on.

Glasgow.

After ten years, I still didn’t have it figured.

There was no point in me trying to find Ellis. By now he would have reached the city centre and could have taken a dozen different directions. For all I knew he could be happily on his way to Edinburgh, if it was possible for anyone to be happy about being on their way to Edinburgh. When I got back onto Maryhill Road I decided to head back to my digs. It took me on the same route Ellis had been on so I kept my eyes open for the Daimler, but it was nowhere to be seen.

It was late and I didn’t want to use the shared ‘phone in the hall at my digs so, as I drove back, I applied my mind to the needle/haystack conundrum of where I could find a urine-free telephone kiosk in Glasgow on a Friday night. Against my better judgement I headed into the city centre and to the Horsehead Bar. Of course, it was now far after closing time.

Which meant nothing.

When I walked into the Horsehead it was packed. This was called a ‘lock-in’ and all of these good citizens were, in the eyes of the licensing regulations, bona fide ‘guests of the management’. It was the job of the police to make sure that this was the case and that the till, whose drawer had been left open, did not accept cash for drinks. From the number of uniformed and plainclothes coppers propping up the bar, it was a responsibility the City of Glasgow Police clearly took very seriously. And they were putting the bar staff to the test by accepting pints and shorts without paying for them. Funny thing was, something always seemed to distract their attention at those crucial moments when other ‘guests of the management’ handed over cash.

I was no great hand at physics, but I knew that most scientists held that air is not solid. The atmosphere inside the public bar gave a lie to that otherwise universal scientific truth. Coming in from the cold night, the air inside was dense, sweat-and-whisky humid, blue-grey with cigarette smoke, and it wrapped itself around my face like a stale barber’s towel.

I ploughed a channel through the fug to the bar, its long sweep of oak, punctuated by slender brass taps for adding water to whisky, hidden from me behind a curtain of hunched shoulders and flat caps.

‘Not seen you for a few weeks, Lennox.’ Big Bob the barman poured me a Canadian Club from a bottle that had clearly sat untouched since my last visit. ‘The Horsehead too downmarket for you these days?’

‘Too many people look for me here, Bobby. The wrong kind of people.’ It was my own fault: at one time I’d set up the Horsehead as an unofficial office. Somewhere those who didn’t keep business hours could find me.

‘Aye… I suppose I know what you mean. Handsome Jonny Cohen was in here a couple of nights back.’

‘Oh?’

‘Aye. Just for a quick pint, he said. As if he ever comes in here for a quick pint. But he came in with a couple of knuckle-draggers.’

‘Looking for me?’

‘Not that he said. But let’s just say you came up in conversation. Asked me when you was last in. I said you didn’t come in much any more. I thought you and Cohen were tight.’

I nodded. Of the Three Kings, Handsome Jonny was the one I trusted most, which wasn’t saying much. But Jonny and I had a history and I owed him. No matter how much I owed him, he was still someone who lived in a landscape I was trying to distance myself from.

‘No one else?’

‘Naw.’ Bob nodded towards the glass in my hand, the bottle still in his. Drinking was something done at a trot in Glasgow. I drained the whisky and he poured me another.

I noticed a knot of drinkers at the far end of the bar gathered around a younger man who was clearly holding court. His appearance struck me right away: he was small but stocky, coatless, and dressed in a white shirt and black suit. His tailoring — combined with a pale complexion made striking by the black of his hair and dark eyes — made him look colourless, monochrome. I couldn’t hear what he was giving forth about, but each pronouncement was greeted with slaps on the back, cheers and encouragement from the older men. Monochrome Man was clearly basking in their admiration. However, what he was unable to see but I could, was the exchange of glances between the older men as he spoke and they encouraged him.

‘Who’s the bigmouth?’ I asked.

‘Bigmouth right enough,’ answered Bob. ‘He’s only in here after hours because the boys enjoy taking the pish out of him. We call him Sheriff Pete — he puts on the cod Yank accent and tells everyone he’s from New York.’

‘And he’s not?’

‘Maybe he is.’ Bob pursed his mouth as if considering the possibility. ‘If New York is just outside fucking Motherwell.’

The small man caught me looking at him and held my gaze for a moment, his face expressionless, before turning back to his audience. They were laughing at him all right, but I had seen something in that brief look that I didn’t like. Something bad. I held out a ten-shilling note to Bob. ‘Do me a favour and give me change for the ‘phone.’

‘Chasing skirt again, Lennox?’ He pushed the coins across the counter to me.

‘This is business, Bob. Strictly business.’

I went out to the pay telephone that hung on the wall by the door. After confirming that Ellis had not returned home, I started by explaining to Pamela Ellis that I was having to ’phone from a public bar, lest she thought the raucous background noise indicated that I was slacking and drinking on the job. I don’t think I did much to allay her fears.

‘You say you lost him, Mr Lennox?’

‘I’m afraid I did. Or, more correctly, he lost me.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand…’

‘I have to say it’s not a good sign, Mrs Ellis. There’s no doubt in my mind that your husband was taking measures — quite expert measures — to ensure he was not being followed. He deliberately led me all around the houses, literally.’

‘So he is up to something… is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m afraid it is. Quite what that something is, I promise you I’ll find out. If you still want me to.’

‘More than ever, Mr Lennox.’