Lennox

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I met Jock Ferguson at lunchtime in the Horsehead Bar. I had arranged it with him earlier by ’phone and given him a rough idea what it was I was looking to find out. But with coppers there is always a price. They are inquisitive by nature. Nosy.

‘Why do you need this information?’ Ferguson asked. ‘Is this something we should be interested in?’

‘It’s a case I’m working. Something stinks with it. First of all this guy asks me to find his missing wife, then he tries to pay me off, then his wife flashes her tits at me while her buddy cracks my head open.’

‘You lead a colourful life, Lennox. Where does this company come in?’

‘He owns it. Or runs it. He was none too specific about exactly what it was that they did.’

‘Well, I checked it out all right. If your guy is John Andrews, then he owns the company. CCI stands for Clyde Consolidated Importing. The consolidated comes from the fact that Andrews bought a number of smaller companies and formed one big one from it. They have warehouses down on the Clyde and a big office in Blythswood Square.’

‘What do they export?’

‘Plant, machine parts, that kind of thing. All over. North America, Middle East, Far East… You say you had a run-in with the wife?’

‘That’s one way of putting it. The stitches come out tomorrow.’

‘Were they worth it?’ Ferguson asked.

‘Were what worth it?’

‘The tits.’ Ferguson came the closest he ever did to a smile.

‘I’ve been able to find out that she’s an ex-whore,’ I said, ignoring his question. ‘Maybe still is. Or at least she used to act in blue movies. You know, the kind you guys like to watch at police smokers.’

He gave me a look. ‘Is he crooked?’

‘No. That’s the thing. Seems a straight Glasgow businessman, if that isn’t a contradiction in terms. He obviously didn’t know about his wife’s past.’

‘Until you put him right.’

‘Actually, I’m maybe wrong to say that he didn’t know. When I showed him the pictures-’

‘Pictures? You showed him photographs of his wife fucking? You’re quite a piece of work.’

‘Anyway…’ I tried to live with Ferguson’s disappointment. ‘When I showed him the pictures he wasn’t really shocked. More sad. Resigned.’

‘A set up?’

‘Dunno.’ I took a mouthful of pie with more grease than a tractor’s axle. Glasgow was not one of the world’s culinary capitals. ‘That’s the feeling I get. Doesn’t fit. His wife used to go by another name. However, which is her real and which is her professional name I don’t know. But it doesn’t fit with blackmail either.’

Ferguson shrugged. ‘Well, let me know if you think there’s something going on that we should know about.’

We talked about other things until we finished our pies and pints. In fact, Ferguson was making small talk. Or as close to small talk as he could manage. The one thing he was at pains not to discuss with me was the McGahern killing. The one thing that should have cropped up, even if only to repeat his earlier warning.

The next day I went to my local doctor, who removed the stitches from the back of my head. Which was a relief, because they had begun to itch like a son-of-a-bitch. Afterwards I went into my office and it was there that I got the call. It was a young woman. She spoke with an approximation of a middle-class accent, but Glasgow kept reappearing in it, like an unwanted coarse relative trying to squeeze in through the door of a dinner party. She didn’t give her name, even when I asked directly.

‘All you need to know is that I was a close friend of Tam McGahern. I know you’ve been asking questions about him. I have information you need.’

‘Then just tell me.’

‘Not on the ’phone. Meet me down by the river, at the Broomielaw, tonight at ten.’

‘You know something?’ I said. ‘I never understand why people always say that in movies and some mug always goes along with it… “Not on the ’phone. Meet me in person in some secluded and dark place where you can get your head bashed in with a tyre iron.” Now why should I meet you in a quiet, dark place?’

‘Because the people who are mixed up in this are a dangerous bunch. I don’t want to be seen talking to you.’

‘I’ve got a better idea. It’s called hiding in plain sight. I’ll meet you in the main concourse of Central Station. And not ten, nine. I get wrinkles if I stay up late.’

She began to protest but I hung up.

Central Station was just around the corner from my Gordon Street office, but I decided to go back to my digs first and freshen up. I drove back into the city, parked in Argyle Street and walked up to the station to give me a chance to recce everything out properly.

I turned up early. About twenty to nine. I stood under the main station clock, looking up at the information board as if planning my journey. There were still people milling about the station. The Edinburgh train arrived and a wave of travellers pulsed through the cavern of the station building. Then it became quieter again. Ten to nine.

I became aware of a smallish figure next to me. Actually I became aware of the odour before the figure. A man of about fifty. Or twenty. Serious drinking had fudged the issue. The lines on his unwashed face where grime had entrenched itself in the creases looked as if they had been drawn in graphite onto grey skin. He looked up at me and bared the ruins of his teeth.

‘Y’awright, pal?’

‘The best. You?’

‘Oh you know… cannae grumble. Widnae dae much use. Would you have a few pennies to spare?’ The tramp spoke with the kind of gutteral Glasgow patois that had confused the hell out of me when I had first moved to the city. To start with I thought the city had a large indigenous population of Gaelic speakers. It took me weeks to realize it was in fact English.

‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘You’ve lost your train fare home and you would like me to lend you the money, right? And you promise that if I give you my address you’ll send a postal order to me first thing tomorrow?’

‘Naw,’ he grinned wider. I wished that he hadn’t. ‘Naw, I wouldnae say that at all. I’ll tell you exactly what I want the money for. Drink. I could lie, mind. But the truth is I would like you to spare me a few pennies so I can get pished.’

‘I admire your honesty.’

‘Always the best policy, pal. But I’ll tell you this and it’s no lie: whatever you gie me will be carefully invested. Gie me a couple o’ bob, and I can guarantee that of everybody that will ask you for a handoot in the station the night, naebody else will be able to stay drunk for as long as me. Per penny invested, that is.’

‘I also admire your pitch,’ I said.

‘Thanks, pal. I’m a leading expert in the field.’

I laughed and handed him a half crown and he was gone.

The station clock struck nine. I glanced around again. No mysterious blonde femmes fatales. No heavies with hands tucked into their jackets. I waited another ten minutes. Nothing. Five minutes more and I left the station. My date had obviously decided Central Station wasn’t romantic enough. I walked along Gordon Street past a row of smoking taxi drivers and down Hope Street towards Argyle Street, where I had parked the car.

They jumped me while I was unlocking my car door.

There was a large Bedford van parked close behind me, which I thought suspicious because the rest of Argyle Street was practically empty of parked cars. Because it had pricked my attention I had been half-expecting something and heard them running towards me from the tail of the Bedford. Four of them. Two on either side. Big.

The one who came nearest first swung a length of lead pipe at my head. I didn’t have time or room to duck so I jammed forward and into him, weakening the strength of the swing. I brought my knee hard up into his balls. Really hard. And as he doubled over I hooked my fist up and cracked it into his face. I heard him moan and as he went down I grabbed his wrist and snatched the pipe from him. They were all on me now and I swung wildly. I hit two of them. I got one in the face and he screamed as his cheek split open.

I had two temporarily down, one stunned and one uninjured. I couldn’t win this fight, but it wasn’t a fight they were looking for. They were trying to snatch me off the street and they had lost the element of surprise.

Someone kicked me at the top of my thigh, missing the groin they had aimed for. I took three heavy punches to the side of my face but stayed on my feet. I swung the pipe again and made glancing contact with a head. I was tiring. I took another punch and tasted blood. I hit the pavement and the kicks started to rain in. But then stopped.

I heard the Bedford reverse at speed, a grinding of gears and it sped off. I heard the shrill sound of a police whistle and flat feet running towards me. I dragged myself upright and caught sight of the tail of the van as it swung around the corner into West Campbell Street. A young bobby grabbed my arm and steadied me.

‘You all right?’

‘I’m okay.’ I spat a small puddle of viscous crimson onto the pavement. There was a small crowd gathering around me. A green and orange tram had emerged from the black Argyle Street underpass beneath the huge Schweppes sign on Central Station’s flank. As it passed most of the passengers on my side gawped at me.

‘What was all that about?’

‘No idea,’ I said. ‘They jumped me when I was getting into my car. Maybe they wanted to steal it.’

The young copper eyed me sceptically. ‘Who were they?’

‘How the hell should I know? Like I said, I was just getting into the car when they jumped me.’

‘Did you get the number of the van?’

‘No,’ I lied. ‘’Fraid not.’