Dead men and broken hearts

CHAPTER THIRTY

Think, Lennox.

I kept repeating it to myself, trying to push back the panic. After all, I’d been in worse situations.

There had been some kind of cockeyed logic behind my escape. I wasn’t kidding myself that I could live the rest of my life as a fugitive, even if I did somehow get back to Canada, but I knew that my prospects were no more sunny if I had stayed put with the police. I had to find the answers myself, and I couldn’t do that from a cell. I even toyed with the idea that Ferguson had taken me to the Hopkins building, even though he already knew there was no one there, just to give me a chance to make a break for it. I dismissed the thought: no matter how sympathetic he was to my plight, Jock Ferguson was a straight-down-the-line copper. Creative thinking or expedient dodges were not in his makeup.

And I tried not to think about the little lecture Ferguson had given me about flight being an indicator of guilt.

I tried to look on the bright side: I may have looked grubby, dishevelled, black-eyed, unshaven, shoeless and probably half-mad, but I comforted myself with the thought that this was Glasgow, so there was no problem with me looking out of place.

There really were genuine advantages to my situation. The smog was a godsend: Ferguson wouldn’t call out search parties, knowing it would be a fool’s errand. I could bet, however, that every patrolling beat bobby would have my description the next time he made the routine call from his police box to check in with his station. It all meant that I had time, but not much. And, of course, the smog was as much an encumbrance to my escape as it was to their manhunt.

I had to get my bearings.

Glasgow’s artery was the Clyde. And, like all arteries, it had a pulse. There was always loud activity on the river or along its shores. If I could get to it, I could get some kind of bearing.

I strained the smog for the sounds of the river. Nothing. Just the bleating of car and bus horns as drivers warned each other of their snail’s pace approach in the smog. Guessing that the sounds of traffic would indicate the city centre, I took it as a bearing and headed in the opposite direction, again dodging the sounds of footsteps in the fog. I still managed to scare an older couple when I nearly bumped into them. The old man drew his wife to him as they both took in my appearance with startled, terrified eyes. I mumbled an apology and stumbled on, leaving them shocked and puzzling as to whether I would turn back into Dr Jekyll before midnight.

I reckoned I must have been heading toward the Trongate, but when I found myself following the flank of a massive, ornate building, and could hear the rhythmic sounds of chugging locomotives, I realized that I must have staggered across the street without recognizing any landmarks and was now at the back side of the St Enoch Station. Again I paused, resting against the wall and massaging my feet, one by one. This was good and bad: I was nearer the river but also closer to Buchanan Street. More people. And more coppers.

I pushed off again, heading into the maze of streets and alleys behind the station. A sign told me I was in Dunlop Street. Now I could clearly hear the horns and claxons of barges and tugs navigating the smog-bound water. If I handled this right, I might even find the suspension footbridge near Custom Quay and get over to the south side of the Clyde, where I could either get lost in the warren of the Gorbals or trace my way along the river.

I paused at the end of the street, which opened out onto Clyde Street and the riverfront. I checked both ways as much as I could: the smog had gotten no denser but nor had it lifted; I guessed it had settled in for the night and that gave me some added comfort.

Down here, next to the river, the streets would be empty at this time of night, particularly on a night like this. All the sounds of activity came from the Clyde. I turned right and, after a few yards, ran across the street to the riverside, following it until I could make out the stone arch of the suspension footbridge. The suspension bridge across the Clyde was like a scaled down version of the Clifton Suspension Bridge, with two stone-built arches, one at either end, supporting the steel cables that held the bridge in place. Again I paused to listen out for the sounds of anyone about before passing through the arch and walking quickly across the bridge.

I saw the uniformed copper at the same time he saw me, when I was halfway across the river. It was the black silhouette of his high-crowned peaked cap in the grey-green smog that identified the approaching figure as a policeman. To him, I would have just been a shape in the gloom. But, as soon as he got close, even with my prisoner jacket hidden beneath the army coat, he would see my shoeless feet and generally disreputable mien. In Glasgow, ‘don’t like the look of you’ was grounds enough for a copper to feel your collar until something more substantial could be trumped up. In my case, no trumping-up would be needed. I turned on my heel so fast it was practically a pirouette; my thinking was that, in this miasma, the copper wouldn’t be sure if I had been heading towards him at all, or if he had simply caught up with someone walking in the same direction as him.

‘Hey… you…’ he called out and I picked up the pace, hunching my shoulders and pulling my coat collar up. My balletic skills had clearly not been up to scratch.

‘Hey you… I’m talking to you! Wait there a minute!’ I heard his hobnails match my pace. I didn’t look over my shoulder, instead breaking into a sprint, back the way I had come. More shouts and I could hear him running after me. I had to open enough distance for the smog to cloak me again, but the heavy greatcoat was holding me back.

I had to risk it: when I broke through the stone archway I turned sharp right, then jumped the railings on the riverside, hoping there was enough bank to stop me careering straight into the Clyde. There was, and I dropped flat into some foul-smelling, oily muck. It was all over my hands and, in a moment of desperate inspiration, I smeared my face with it. My hair was black and the mud on my face should make me less easy to spot. I lay low and listened as the copper ran past on the other side of the railings.

I was just about to congratulate myself on my quick thinking when I heard the metal segments in the soles of his boots grate as he came to a sudden halt.