Lennox

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I drove to Edinburgh, rather than take the train again. That way I could avoid rush-hour-commuting contract killers. Before I left I ’phoned to say I was on my way. I parked the Atlantic in St Bernard’s Crescent and was shown into the same office as before.

Helena walked into the room and I felt the same kick-in-the-gut reaction.

‘I don’t see you for years then twice in the space of a couple of weeks.’ She smiled and offered me a cigarette from a solid silver box. ‘Am I to infer something from that?’

I smiled. ‘I’m not here on business, Helena,’ I lied, ‘if that’s what you mean. I wanted to see you again. Maybe we could have dinner together?’

She angled her head back slightly, raised the arch of a perfect dark eyebrow and looked at me with her vaguely imperious manner. Like she was appraising me. Sometimes Helena could look haughty. That was when I really, really wanted to fuck her most.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘We’ll eat here. I have a flat on the top floor. Why don’t you come back at seven? There’s a door at the back takes you into the kitchen. If you ring there I’ll come and get you. I don’t want you coming in the front…’ She let the thought die but I knew what she meant: she didn’t want me reminded what her business was.

I stood and picked up my hat. ‘It’s a date. We can talk about old times.’

Her smile flickered. ‘No… not old times. All I want to think about is the future.’

I drove the Atlantic back into the city centre and stopped at a snobby wine merchants in George Street. The guy behind the counter was thirty at the most but striving hard for middle-age. He wore a pair of those ridiculous tartan trousers, known as trews in Scotland, and looked at me as if I couldn’t afford the wine. Truth was, it was a push. The Scots were not great consumers of wine, preferring instead their drinks to double as drain cleaner. In Edinburgh, anything potentially exclusive had a web of snobbery swiftly spun about it, and the guy behind the counter made a point of slowly emphasizing the names of the wines, as if it would help me understand. Having been brought up in New Brunswick I could speak French well, so I amused myself by humiliating him by showing off my francophone skills, asking for wines that didn’t exist and then looking angry when he said they didn’t have them.

I put the bottle of Fronsac in the boot of the car and walked down to a bookstore in Princes Street. A cold wind stirred the dust in the streets and tugged at the raincoats of the glum-faced passers-by. I stopped and looked up at the castle, which towered above Princes Street. There was a flutter in my chest: the same vague feeling of unease. I had had it since I had left Glasgow and at the odd time before that, too. I spun around quickly and startled a young housewife who had been walking behind me, clutching the hand of a pre-school toddler. She passed, as did several others. But I didn’t see what my instinct was telling me should be there. I walked on and into the bookstore, trying to tell myself I was imagining things. But it was still there, that feeling that I was being shadowed. Very professionally.

After parking the Atlantic in Dean Street, I walked to the back of St Bernard’s Crescent. Helena must have been waiting for me in the kitchen, for she opened the door at my first knock. She was wearing a less formal outfit, a deep red dress that exposed her slender arms and long neck, and her hair was loose and brushed her shoulders.

‘Come on up,’ she said. I followed her out of the kitchen and up a tight stairwell that had obviously been intended originally for servants. It was clear she was trying to keep me from seeing the main business of the house. As if I could forget.

I had half-expected her to bring food up with her from the kitchen, but when we got to the attic part of the house, it was clear it was a self-contained dwelling. Her space. Away from business. The rooms she had would originally have been the servants’ quarters but, given the Georgian scale of the house, were still impressive enough. There was a small alcoved section, divided off by a bead screen, behind which something bubbled on a hob and filled the room with a rich, appetizing aroma.

‘The only thing I miss up here is having a piano. There’s one down in the drawing room, but I seldom get a chance to play it.’ I gave her the book I’d picked up for her that afternoon in Princes Street, Coins in the Fountain by John Secondari, and she took the wine from me, pouring us a glass each.

While she cooked I looked out of the window. There was a stone pillared colonnade edging the roof and I could see out across the trees in the crescent below. Edinburgh sat mute and grey under a sky shot through with sunset-red silk. I thought of how I’d been here before, in a different apartment looking out over a different city while Helena had cooked and we had chatted and laughed and deceived each other with talk of the future. In my experience, the future was like a seaside day out to Largs: in principle it sounded great, but when you arrived there it just turned out to be the same old shite.

I suddenly felt tired and wished I wasn’t there. But I smiled as cheerfully as I could when she came through with two plates of goulash.

‘It’s almost impossible to find half-decent ingredients here,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what it is the British have against food that you can taste. That you’d want to taste.’ She laughed and revealed a hint of the girl she’d probably been before the war. She seemed relaxed and I noticed I could hear her accent more. She had left something of the Helena I’d talked to two weeks before down in the house below. Like a formal coat she wore only for business.

The goulash was delicious. As it always had been. We drank the wine I’d brought and then a second bottle she had. We talked and laughed some more, then fell on each other with a savagery that was almost frightening. She scratched and bit me and stared at me wildly with something akin to hatred in her eyes. Afterwards we lay naked on the rug, drank what was left of the wine and smoked.

‘Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?’ she asked, her voice suddenly cold and hard again.

‘I’m here to see you, Helena,’ I said, and almost believed it myself. ‘After I saw you the other week I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About us.’ At least that much was true.

‘There is no us,’ she said, but the chill had thawed a little. She turned on her side and we looked into each other’s eyes. ‘There never was an us. So why don’t you save us both a lot of time and get to what it is you want. Unless you’ve just had it.’

‘Don’t, Helena. It’s not you.’

‘What? To be bitter and cynical?’ She laughed and rolled onto her back again. She stared up at the ceiling and smoked and I took in her finely sculpted profile. ‘We’re both cut from the same rotten wood, you and I, Lennox. So cut the crap and tell me what you want.’

‘Okay, I did want to ask you something, but I did come here to see you. To be with you.’ I sat up and took a long pull on my cigarette. ‘Listen, Helena, someone… a friend of mine… was talking to me the other day. About wanting to get away. To have a new start. Why can’t we?’

Helena turned to me. The only light was the glow from the fire and the red-gold of it etched the contours of her body. When she spoke her voice was low. ‘Stop it. We’ve been here before.’

‘Were we wrong? Why couldn’t it work?’ I realized that, at that moment, I meant what I was saying. ‘My folks have money. I have some money saved. And God knows you must have a bit put away. You said yourself the last time I was here that you dreamed of selling up and starting a new life. We could go to Canada. Away from everyone and everything that’s gone wrong in our lives.’

Helena stood up and pulled her dress back over her body. The ice was back in her voice. ‘The main thing that’s gone wrong in our lives is us. Like I said, Lennox, you and I are both rotten. We blame it all on everything that has happened to us, but the truth is it was always there in us both. It just took a little bit of history to bring it to the surface. Forget what I said before… sometimes I talk nonsense. To keep sane. So why don’t you just tell me what it is that you want?’

Sometimes you feel more naked than others. I stood up and pulled on my clothes, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze.

‘Arthur Parks is dead.’

‘I know.’

‘I’m to find out who killed him.’

‘And what does that have to do with me?’ It was fully dark outside and the dying fire was all the light I had to see her face. But I sensed it set hard.

‘Okay, Helena, I’ll tell you all that I know and what I haven’t told my client yet. And it’ll tell you exactly what I think it has to do with you. Arthur Parks was murdered by someone connected to whatever happened to Tam McGahern, the tough spivvy-type you say you saw Sally Blane with.

‘This is the way I see it, or I’m guessing it… Tam McGahern sees he can’t expand his little empire beyond Glasgow. The Three Kings have him in their sights if he puts a foot wrong. It’s true that Tam McGahern may be a psychopath, but he’s also smarter than the Three Kings put together. And he’s seen that there are opportunities to be had in the big wide world outside Glasgow. So he comes up with a scheme… and here’s where it gets a little sketchy, because I’m not a hundred per cent on what the scheme was, but it’s got to do with the Middle East. So Tam decides to hook himself a few big fish. With me so far?’

‘Go on.’ Helena’s face was suddenly illuminated as she lit another cigarette.

‘So Tam conceives this honey-trap operation, gets together a handful of really classy chippies. Not the usual sort, girls with a bit of class and real lookers. He sets them up in a house in the West End, but my guess is that some of the punters who go there don’t even know they’re whores or that the house is a bordello. Tam was in the Desert Rats and Gideon, so he has an interesting network of friends, including, I think, Arthur Parks. So Tam gives Arthur a cut of the action in exchange for helping him set it all up – creaming off the best customers and sending them to the West End operation. Like I said, I think a few non-punters were also targeted by the girls directly. To start with I thought that this was all a trap-fuck-and-blackmail operation. But they are too selective in their targets. It’s a list of names, Helena. A list of names that McGahern needs to make his plan work. One of them is Alexander Knox, the plastic surgeon. Why they need him beats me. But the main target is John Andrews, the poor mug who marries Lillian not knowing she is really a prostitute and porn-film actress called Sally Blane. Andrews seems to be their main target because they need to use his importing business.’

‘What for?’

‘That I’m not entirely sure of. But I am sure it involves taking things in or out of the Middle East. Anyway, something goes wrong. Tam is targeted by someone who doesn’t like his enterprising spirit, so he fakes his own death by killing his brother. But his hunters aren’t convinced and they do both brothers. Tam exits stage left under his twin brother’s name. But Sally Blane, or Lillian Andrews as she now is, keeps the plan running. Part of that plan is to divert suspicion for the second McGahern death onto me, and then to frame me good and proper for the Parks murder.’

‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ said Helena. She kept the lights out.

‘Maybe they fell out. Or maybe getting rid of Parks, just like getting rid of Frankie, was part of the plan from the start.’

‘I still don’t see what this has to do with me, Lennox.’

‘Parks wasn’t the only one supplying names and helping set up the West End operation. Parks didn’t have the style for it. I got chatting to one of McGahern’s former lackeys, a nobody called Bobby who tells me that McGahern was cracked up on the woman who ran the shop for him. Molly. To start with I think that’s Lillian, but there’s talk of a foreign woman.’

‘Me.’

‘That’s what I don’t know. I hope to God it’s not, Helena. Because if it is, you’ve got yourself into some serious trouble. Whoever did Tam is a serious outfit. And I don’t think we’re talking about gangsters.’

‘You don’t seem to know what you’re talking about, Lennox. There are things you don’t understand. Will never understand.’

‘Are you saying it wasn’t you?’

‘What I’m saying is you don’t know as much as you like to think you know. About me. About anything.’

‘Then enlighten me.’

‘I think you’d better go.’ She stood up and switched the table lamp on. I blinked in the sudden light. Then I saw her face. And I saw in it something I’d never seen before. She looked pale, sad and drawn. But there was something in her expression that was sad and hard and resolute. She handed me my hat.

‘For what it’s worth, Lennox, it’s not me. I told you the last time you were here that I only saw Sally’s Glaswegian thug boyfriend once. Don’t let tonight fool you: I’m usually particular whom I fuck.’

When I woke up the next day I felt pretty crap. I went to ’Pherson’s for a cut and shave and arranged for Twinkletoes to meet me there. Before I went to ’Pherson’s I ’phoned Hammer Murphy. I needed his okay for what I was about to do.

‘What’s to do?’ asked Twinkletoes cheerfully as he strained the suspension of my Atlantic climbing into the passenger seat. I smiled back, trying not to think of how easily he would just as cheerfully have used his bolt-cutters to take me down a shoe size.

‘Danny Dumfries. That’s what to do.’

‘What the fuck you want with him? He’s one of Murphy’s monkeys.’

‘I want to talk to him. More exactly I want him to talk to me. I need you to ease the conversation. And don’t worry, I’ve cleared it with Murphy.’

‘Okay. Just give me a minute.’ Twinkletoes got out of the car, went over to his Sunbeam and took a couple of things out of the boot. He squeezed back into my car even more awkwardly. There was something long and solid hidden in the folds of his raincoat.

The incongruous golden gleam of six hundred quid’s worth of Jowett Javelin parked outside the bleak facade of the club signalled that we would find Dumfries inside. Officially it was a working men’s club and run by a committee. That meant the police could only call by invitation, which in turn meant that regulated licensing hours was as alien a concept as men on Mars.

The reality was that Dumfries’s club was somewhere between a twenty-four-hour boozer and a brothel. There were a couple of rooms in the back that working girls could rent by the hour. The sexual endurance of Scotsmen meant you could squeeze a lot of business into an hour.

As soon as we entered the club we were plunged into dimly lit gloom. The unventilated room was dense with cigarette smoke, a fume of cheap whisky and the sweat of men engaged in the serious physical toil of around-the-clock drinking.

It was quiet as well as dark. When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see Dumfries standing by the bar with a couple of toughs whom I guessed to be employees. There was a neglected snooker table at the back and five or six expert drinkers sat scattered around the place, oblivious to all but the glasses in front of them.

Danny Dumfries was a small, dark but good-looking man in his late thirties, dressed with impeccable taste. Dumfries and his clubs fell loosely into the orbit of Hammer Murphy’s empire, but Murphy allowed him a little more independence than he did his other ‘contractors’. If Dumfries had been fully part of the Murphy operation, I couldn’t have brought Twinkletoes into his club. As it was I had had to get clearance from Murphy before pulling a stunt like this.

Dumfries smiled when we entered, as much in amusement as welcome. My bringing along one of Sneddon’s heavies was making a statement; Dumfries’s smile was the arrogant sneer of someone who feels protected. But, there again, he wasn’t to know about the conversation I’d had with Murphy on the ’phone.

‘Lennox,’ he said, smugly. ‘Taking your pet out for a walk?’

‘Can we talk?’ I said, ignoring the fact that the two heavies had now appeared at our shoulders.

‘It’s a free country.’

‘I mean in private.’

‘I’m more comfortable here.’

‘This is serious stuff, Danny. And it’s as important to Mr Murphy as it is to Mr Sneddon. I’m just looking for some information, but we need to talk in private.’

‘Show the gentlemen the way out,’ Dumfries said wearily to one of his heavies.

Twinkletoes shoved me to one side as easily as if he were parting curtains. He pushed his face into Dumfries’s and pulled the bolt-cutters from inside his raincoat, slamming them down on the bar counter. Several glasses shattered. Suddenly the two heavies looked unsure as to what to do next.

‘Tell yer fuckin’ monkeys to fuck off, Dumfries, ya wee midget cunt. If you don’t, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill one of them, just to make a point. Then I’m goin’ to shove your fuckin’ toes up the other’s arse. After that I’ll start on yer fuckin’ fingers.’

I found myself thinking that if newly appointed General Secretary Dag Hammerskjold displayed similar diplomatic skills when he took office, the UN would resolve the Korean conflict overnight.

One of the heavies moved in on Twinkletoes, who swung the bolt-cutters backwards and slashed him across the temple. Dumfries’s man dropped like a stone while the other made a clumsy move forward. Twinkletoes turned to him and smashed his forehead into the man’s face. When he went down, Twinkletoes stamped on his head and put his lights right out.

‘Take it easy, for fuck’s sake,’ said Dumfries, backing away. Twinkletoes grabbed him by his expensive shirtfront and slapped him hard with the flat and then the back of his hand.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Twinkletoes.

‘Twinkletoes…’ I said. ‘We don’t want him to shut up. We want him to tell us what he knows.’

‘Oh,’ said Twinkletoes apologetically. ‘Sorry.’ He slapped Dumfries twice more. ‘Tell us what the fuck you know.’

‘About what?’ Dumfries yelled. A trickle of blood dribbled from his nostril.

‘Twinkletoes, give the guy a chance. He doesn’t know what we want,’ I said. I turned back to Dumfries. ‘But I’ll give you a clue or three. Blackmail. Tam McGahern. Trapping the great and the good with pussy mantraps.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

Twinkletoes pulled his hand back again. I stopped him with a gesture.

‘Let me try again. Arthur Parks and Tam McGahern. What’s the connection?’

‘How the fuck would I know?’ Dumfries was seriously scared. I understood his fear. I had been scared during my last chat with Sneddon, with Twinkletoes merely lurking in the background. The difference was there was no way I was going to let Twinkletoes indulge his little hobby. The threat should be enough.

I felt uncomfortable about how things had gone. After all of this was over, I would need to operate in this town. For now, I was acting as if I were one of Sneddon’s heavies.

‘I seriously hope you’re not pissing down my back and telling me it’s raining, Danny. This is big shit. As you’ll have gathered, you don’t have Murphy’s protection when it comes to this. And if you’re holding out you’ll have all of the Three Kings on your case.’ I turned to Twinkletoes. ‘Take a break; watch these two. Danny and I are going to have a chat. Where’s your office?’

Dumfries nodded to the back of the club. He showed me into a dingy office and switched the light on. The desk was covered in paperwork and the ashtray spilling over with butts. He still looked scared.

‘Take it easy, Danny, for fuck’s sake. Sit down. I just need information. I’m sorry about Twinkletoes’s enthusiasm, but I’ve been told to travel with him. You okay?’

‘Like you fuckin’ care.’ He slumped into his captain’s chair. I sat on the corner of the desk.

‘This is simple, Danny, just like I said. Tam McGahern got iced because he was treading on the wrong toes. Just whose toes I don’t yet know. But it involved blackmail.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’ Dumfries sniffed and wiped the blood from his nose with a handkerchief. I gave him a cigarette and he lit it with a heavy gold pocket lighter. His hand shook.

‘Listen, Danny. I saw what happened to Arthur Parks. And what happened to Frankie McGahern. These guys are pretty handy with a tyre iron and they like their victims to suffer first. Really suffer. If you’re involved with this, your only way out is by having the protection of all Three Kings. The other thing is that if I don’t give Sneddon what he wants, Twinkletoes out there will give us both a pedicure. So tell me the truth and don’t hold anything back.’

‘I fuckin’ swear I’m telling you the truth,’ he said. I believed him.

‘Okay. But it’s going to be difficult to convince my lumbering chum out there. You better start thinking fast and push out a few names I can squeeze. If you were to start blackmailing punters, who would you use?’

Dumfries stared at the wall for a moment, smoking briskly.

‘What do you think they were up to?’ he asked at last. ‘Blackmailing punters with photographs of them on the job?’

‘I guess so,’ I said.

‘There are a few chancers out there who are handy with a Box Brownie. But if I was going to do something like that, there’s a guy I would use. Ronnie Smails. His main business is taking dirty pictures, but word has it that if you want someone set up, he’s the man to talk to.’

‘Does he work for any of the Kings?’

‘Naw. He’s too fucking far down in the gutter for them to bother with. Trust me, Lennox, you talk to Ronnie Smails for five minutes and you want to have a shower afterwards. He’s a low-rent pornographer and all-round creeping-Jesus.’

I nodded, but found it difficult to imagine Danny Dumfries looking down on anyone from the rarefied atmosphere of the flea-pit he ran. ‘Where can I find Smails?’ I asked.

‘He has a studio in Cowcaddens. He has a front of doing baby pictures, portraits, that kinda stuff. I don’t know if he’s your man, but he’s who I would go to.’ Dumfries wrote down an address and handed it to me.

‘I’ll pay him a visit. You okay?’

Dumfries nodded, but a sparkle of hate flickered in his eyes.

‘Listen, Danny, I’m sorry about the rough stuff, but you shouldn’t have called on your heavies. I can’t control Twinkletoes. I’ll talk to Sneddon and Murphy. Maybe get you a little compensation. Okay?’

Dumfries nodded.

‘Just make sure you don’t ever fucking come back here, Lennox.’