Lennox

CHAPTER ELEVEN

We drove out of the city centre and headed east. I sat in the front passenger seat but had noticed the two large goons in the back seat as I had got into the Riley. As one of the Three Kings, it was no surprise that Jonny Cohen travelled with muscle. It was true that I genuinely liked Jonny and I came as close to trusting him as you could anyone in his position, but being picked up off the street by a crime boss and two of his goons tended to bring out the over-cautious side of my nature.

‘Never mind about the boys.’ Jonny read my mind. ‘They’re not here for your benefit.’

‘What’s this all about, Jonny?’ I asked. We headed out on the A8. Despite Jonny’s reassurances, I felt the need to keep track of our whereabouts. He turned and gave me one of his handsome smiles.

‘We’re going to see a dirty film,’ he said.

Just past Shotts we turned off the main road and into the entrance of a small factory. The uniformed night-watchman raised a finger to the peak of his cap when he saw Jonny and opened the gates to let the Riley through.

I had known that this place existed, but I hadn’t known where it was. Jonny Cohen, like the other two Kings, needed a semi-legitimate business to pass cash and other stuff through the rinse. But I guessed there was more to this place than that: Jonny Cohen was well-known to be a major importer and distributor of hardcore, continental pornography. He was rumoured to supply a lot of the stuff sold south of the border, with a fortnightly truck run to Soho. His enterprising efforts had succeeded in putting dirty magazines and blue movies on the list of leading Scottish exports. And, let’s face it, nobody jerked off over whisky and shortbread.

We parked outside one of the factory’s warehouses and Jonny led the way in.

There were two other men inside the warehouse. One was middle-aged and short, but had the mean, muscled look of an ex-boxer. The other was even older, nervy-looking and dressed like he worked in a bank. They stood next to an eight-millimetre film projector. A white sheet had been nailed up on the facing wall.

‘These two gentlemen are business associates of mine,’ explained Jonny. ‘If you don’t mind, we won’t go into names at this point. All you need to know is that we don’t just import porn, we make it as well. In Edinburgh, as a matter of fact. My friends here are, well, the wank film industry’s equivalent of Sam Goldwyn and J. Arthur Rank.’

‘Mr Cohen gave us a rough description of the woman you are interested in.’ It was the bank manager type who spoke. ‘He also explained how you described her exceptional… magnetism I suppose you’d call it. But it was when Mr Cohen showed us the photograph… May I see it again?’

Jonny nodded and handed him the picture of Lillian Andrews. He examined it for a moment and smiled, tilting it for the ex-boxer to look at. He gave a brief nod.

‘No, there’s no doubt about it,’ he said. ‘That’s Sally Blane, all right,’

‘Sally Blane?’ I asked.

In answer the bank manager handed me the photograph while the boxer switched on the projector and turned out the strip lights. A caption, ‘Housewife’s Choice’, came up on screen. The black and white film played mute, so I couldn’t hear her voice, but I instantly recognized a younger Lillian Andrews as she opened the door to a door-to-door salesman.

‘That’s her all right,’ I said. ‘But she looks different.’

‘Younger. We made it about five, six years ago,’ explained the bank manager. By this time Lillian/Sally was performing an impressively professional blow-job on the salesman. ‘Sally worked for us for about six months. She was a natural. You could say she was custom-made for it. We offered her more money than we have ever offered any of our performers to stay on, but she quit and we never heard from her again. But she was the kind of girl you never forget.’

‘Where did you find her?’

‘We put the word out that we were looking for new talent. One of our contacts put us on to her. She and her sister came along for an audition.’ I tried not to think what an audition for a dirty film might involve. ‘I’m not sure, but I think she might have been working in a knocking-shop in Edinburgh.’

I turned back to the screen. Lillian and the ‘salesman’ were now engaged in full intercourse in what looked like an improbable and certainly uncomfortable angle against a Belfast sink. I remembered the first time I met John Andrews: pompous, brusque, embarrassed; but desperately worried about the woman he loved. This was more than just a marriage for money: it was a set-up.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen enough. So Sally Blane is her real name?’

The bank manager turned off the projector and the lights went on.

‘I couldn’t tell you. All our payments were made on a strictly cash basis. No tax, no names, no pack drill. My guess is that it was a professional name though. Her sister worked for us too and she used a completely different name.’

The boxer placed the film spool back in the can and stacked them with some others. He handed me a brown foolscap envelope.

‘These are stills taken from some of the films Sally made for us.’ The boxer’s voice was cluttered with long, flat Edinburgh vowels. ‘We thought you’d maybe need a copy of them. If you need proof.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. I had a sickening feeling when I thought about the not too distant future: to showing John Andrews photographs of his wife performing sex for money. I should have walked away from this one when I had had the chance. I could still walk away. But I knew I wouldn’t.

Jonny Cohen dropped his two heavies at one of his clubs before driving me back to where my car was parked outside the Italian restaurant.

‘That was good of you, Jonny,’ I said as we parked. ‘I mean, going to all that trouble for something that isn’t of any concern to you. I appreciate it.’ As I made to get out of the car, he placed his driver-gloved hand on my forearm.

‘I won’t say think nothing of it, Lennox. You owe me. It’s a favour I may call in some day.’

I thought about what he said for a moment and then nodded. ‘Fair enough, Jonny.’

I stood and watched the deep-green Riley purr into the distance and felt an indistinct unease somewhere deep inside. I was working for Sneddon. I was indebted to Jonny Cohen. I was getting sucked deeper into a case for which I had stopped being paid. I reckoned I couldn’t be in a much worse situation.

But I was wrong. I could.