The Deep Dark Sleep

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I waited a full five minutes after the older man had been swallowed up in the dark before I made my way back towards the path. It was only a matter of time before they started to sweep back in my direction again.

As soon as I had the path under my feet I sprinted along it in the dark, again having to ignore the risk of stumbling over something. I slowed down when I thought I was close to where I had left the ‘cat stone’, but everything was so different in the dark. I slowed to a walk and realized that I must have come too far and turned back, cursing the lost time. If my pursuers had worked out that I’d gone for the path, they’d catch up with me any moment.

I found it. Again, it looked totally different in the dark and no longer reminded me of anything feline, but I recognized it from the position I’d left it in. I set off back into the woods, heading in a straight line at right-angles to the path, just as I had planned. This time I really did have something more than squirrels and rabbits to worry about and I kept my pace steady but slow and quiet, crouching low with my knees slightly bent and my gun held ready.

What had taken me ten minutes on the way in took half an hour on the way out. Eventually I found the wall and recognized the mulchy bed of leaves and twigs where I’d landed. That meant that my car was directly behind the wall. I was just about to scramble up the wall when I checked myself. These guys were good. Really good. What if they had worked out that I must have come by car and one of them had checked the road around the estate? Admittedly, that was a lot of road to cover, but they would know it wouldn’t be too far from Dunbar’s cottage.

I could climb over the wall and drop straight into an ambush.

I decided to follow the wall about ten yards further on and climb over as quietly as I could. When I was on top of the wall, I checked to see if I could see the car, but I had chosen too well and it was concealed by bushes. I eased myself down and took the gun from my waistband again. As I edged towards the car, I could see the back of it begin to emerge. I stopped. I had been right. A figure stood by the car, watching the wall next to it with his back to me. It took me a few seconds to work out he was on his own. My guess was the other two were still searching the woods for me. I could see he was younger, leaner and shorter than the older man I’d seen in the woods. He had something in his hand. Not a gun. For a moment I thought it was a large knife but, as I crept closer, I could see it was a baton, like a policeman’s truncheon. They hadn’t expected me to be armed and I hadn’t realized that I had had an advantage. But I decided not to risk it. Turning the gun around in my hand and holding it hammer style, I crept forward until I was right behind the goon by the car.

I let him have it hard on the back of his skull, then twice more on the way down when I didn’t really need to. He was out cold, but all of the tension and adrenalin of the chase in the woods took over and I rolled him onto his back and fixed his face for him. I guess I only hit him three or four times, and not with all my strength, but it cost him several of his teeth and his sense of smell. I wanted the others to find him and see what happened when you went Lennox-hunting but you didn’t make the kill.

I went through his pockets and took everything he had, not taking the time to look at it but stuffing it into my jacket pockets. When I was finished I got into the car. I was shaking: my hands, my legs. That was how it got me. It wasn’t the scares, it was the adrenalin and the testosterone and whatever the hell else your body flooded with. And it never got me at the time, only after.

I had it now, I had had it after the fight in my office, and I had gotten it regularly during the war.

I eventually found the ignition with the key and drove off.

I got back to my digs about nine-thirty. The Javelin was back, parked outside. I could have just gone in and gone up to my rooms, or I could have played who’s-the-gooseberry in Fiona’s living-room, but I didn’t have the stomach for it. Once I’d opened the floodgates like I just had with the goon on the country road, I generally found that I was too quick to get handy again. And I really, really wanted to get handy with that smug little shit.

I headed down Byers Road and along Sauchiehall Street. Something gnawed at me as I drove: maybe the real reason I hadn’t gone home and stood my ground was that I knew, deep down inside, that Fiona would be better off with James White. Brother of her dead husband, dull but reliable type, the kind of steady Joe that I could never be. Maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe it was just that I was no good for Fiona. Or just no good.

I got the same curt nod of recognition from my neckless chum on the door. No meeting with Hammer Murphy this time: I was at the Black Cat to get wet and set about it with great alacrity at the bar. The funny thing about good jazz is that it slows down your drinking and I turned my back to the bar, leaning my elbows on it cowboy style, and listened to the trio who were doing something mellow with a baroque piece; taking the mathematics out of it and playing with its rhythms. When they finished I turned back to the bar and inadvertently nudged the guy next to me.

‘Why don’t you watch what you’re doing?’ he whined, making a big deal of holding his drink up as if I’d spilled some of it, which I hadn’t. He was a big guy, and I could see that he had had a few, but I could tell at first glance that he was no fighter.

‘It was an accident, friend,’ I said. ‘No harm done.’

‘You spilt his drink …’ One of his buddies decided to chip in. But over his shoulder. ‘You should buy him another one. And it was a malt.’

‘No, I didn’t spill it. And like I said, just an accident.’

‘You calling me a liar?’ The big guy, emboldened by his friend’s support, turned to me, square on, but still holding his glass. I sighed, put my drink down and faced him.

‘Look, I didn’t spill your drink, and it was an accident. But here …’ I slapped his hand up and the entire contents of the glass splashed over his shirt, jacket and some on his face. ‘Now your drink is spilled,’ I said as if explaining arithmetic to a five-year-old. ‘And that was deliberate. And yes, I’m calling you a liar. And I’m calling your mother a filthy whore who took sailors up the ass. Yours too, by the way …’ I leaned to one side, smiling, and addressed his chum as if I didn’t want to offend him by leaving him out. ‘Now if either of you two queers are man enough, which I doubt, not to take that, then I’ll happily put the pair of you in hospital. And trust me, you’ve picked the wrong night.’

Glaswegians are as pale-complexioned as it is possible to be, yet I could have sworn both of them turned an even whiter shade.

‘Do we have a problem, gentlemen?’ Neckless the doorman was beside me. Buzzer behind the bar, I reckoned.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said cheerily. ‘These two gentlemen and I are just going outside for a stroll, aren’t we?’

‘Listen, I don’t want any trouble …’ The big guy now looked scared. The doorman wouldn’t care what happened between us if we took it outside.

‘Lennox …’ I felt a hand rest gently on my shoulder and got a blast of perfume. I turned and saw Martha. She smiled nervously. ‘No trouble, Lennox, okay? Why don’t you and me sit down over here and have a drink? On the house. These boys didn’t mean any harm.’

The two guys next to me were now turned back to the bar, doing the don’t-make-eye-contact-with-the-psycho thing. Neckless backed off a little and I let Martha lead me across to the table. I noticed her nod to the barman and our drinks followed us quickly.

I sat and glowered at the two guys at the bar for a while longer, but eventually the jazz started to soak into my bones and dissolve the tension in my muscles.

‘You’ve got to watch that temper of yours, Lennox,’ said Martha. ‘It could get you into bother.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ I said, easing back into my chair. I stopped watching the two guys at the bar, mainly because they were breaking all the laws of probability and never casting a glance anywhere on my side of the room. The next time I looked up, they were gone. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t looking for trouble. Those guys all but picked a fight.’

‘But the way you go at people … the way you lose control … it isn’t right, Lennox.’

‘You think I’m ready for the psycho ward, Martha?’

‘I’m not saying that. I just think you should ease up a little. Someone’s going to end up hurt. Bad.’

‘It wouldn’t ever come to that,’ I said, trying to tuck away in some dark corner of my mind the image of the goon I’d left on a country road with few teeth and a lifetime of mouth-breathing ahead of him. I smiled at Martha. She was pretty and, despite her job, she was a good kid. There was something about her, about the architecture of her face and the high cheekbones that reminded me in a vague way of Fiona White. ‘Enough of the gloomy talk,’ I said. ‘Let’s have another drink …’

I drove Martha home. Which was quite an accomplishment given the amount of bourbon I’d consumed. For a lot of the way I was confused by the sudden presence of so many dual carriageways in Glasgow, but managed to resolve the problem by keeping one eye shut while I drove. Martha had had a few as well, but I’d left her pretty far behind. When we got to her place she made me some of that coffee that came out of a bottle and you mixed with hot water. It tasted like crap but started to do the trick.

Martha’s place was in a newish building with shops on the ground floor and flats above. We had only ever tangoed in my car so this was my first time there and I was surprised at how tasteful it was. The furniture was the Modernist type of thing that was coming out of Denmark and she had a few Impressionist prints in cheap frames on the wall. A small bookcase was filled with book club novels and there was a two-month-old copy of Vogue on the coffee table, to be seen as much as read, I guessed. The place screamed of someone trying to break out of the rut they were stuck in and the bright, stylish, cheerful flat depressed the hell out of me.

We talked for a while and I drunk more coffee, but the booze in my system was messing with my visual recall and Martha began to look more and more like Fiona White to me. I moved in, as we both had known I would, and experienced a lack of resistance that would embarrass an Italian general. We ended up on the floor and her dress became a crumple around her waist. What followed was unlovely and almost brutal and I eased off when I saw a touch of fear in her eyes. I became more gentle and kissed her, but with my eyes closed it was still Fiona White and not Martha I had under me.

Afterwards we smoked and she was quiet. I apologized for being so rough and asked if we could see each other again.

‘I’d like that,’ she said, and I was disappointed to see that she meant it.

It was about ten the next morning when, accompanied by Archie, I arrived to meet the twins at Violet’s home in Milngavie. I had decided against conducting our business in my office because I felt the boarded-up window behind my desk might just have been a little off-putting for clients: a reminder, as it was, that I had added a new option in how you could leave my office.

There were also the fact that when I had called by the office first thing that morning to pick up a few things, there had been a reporter from the Bulletin hanging around the building. Fortunately he was without a photographer and was slow on the uptake. He had asked me if I was Lennox and I told him, in a broad Glasgow accent, that I wasn’t. It was only when I said I was from the City Corporation Licensing Authority and was there to find out about taxis making unauthorized pick-ups that he stopped nodding absently and began to look suspicious.

Archie and I took my Austin Atlantic and drove up to Milngavie. On the way I noticed again the cigar-shaped profile of the Bennie Railplane sitting forlorn in its distant field, hovering over a huddle of sheds, like a discarded prop from a Buck Rogers featurette.

I gave Archie an update of where we were with things, including my suspicion that the man in the photograph was Gentleman Joe himself, and that he was behind the attempt on my life in my office. He asked me how it had gone with Billy Dunbar and I told him I hadn’t had a chance to make the trip, after all. I didn’t really know why I lied to Archie; maybe it was the fact that he was, at the end of the day, a retired copper. The fact that you’d stumbled on a double murder but hadn’t reported it, or the fact that you had pulped some gangster’s face by pistol-whipping him with an illegally held firearm, were the kind of things you didn’t volunteer to coppers, retired or otherwise.

Violet McKnight lived in a detached Nineteen-thirties bungalow, with the obligatory attic conversion above and the obligatory small square of manicured gardens out front. Milngavie was Glasgow’s hadn’t-quite-made-it middle class suburb: a sprawl of identical bungalows set out with the imagination of a vegetable allotment.

I noticed that the Ford Zephyr, still gleaming its Hire Purchase gleam, was parked in the driveway, and when we rang the doorbell we were admitted by Robert McKnight, Violet’s husband. He beamed a car salesman’s smile at us, letting it flicker only momentarily when he saw I was not alone. McKnight was shorter than I had expected him to be, but the shoulders were as packed as I had seen from above. He had a broad, handsome face, but his nose had been busted at some point and had not been professionally set, giving it a twist to the right. The effect was off-putting: even when he was looking at you straight on, you had the feeling he had already started to turn away.

He showed us into the living room, or loungette as they probably called it in Milngavie. Everything was new and immaculate and in what they called the Danish Style. It depressed me to realize I was seeing the kind of look that Martha had tried to emulate in her tiny rented flat and on a much smaller budget.

Isa and Violet were sitting on the sofa. I noticed that they sat almost pressed up to each other, as if physical contact between them was essential to comfort. I introduced Archie as my associate who had been working on the case with me, and the twins invited us to sit.

‘We read all about it …’

‘… in the newspapers …’ they began.

‘That was terrible …’

‘Just terrible …’

‘Tell us, Mr Lennox …’

‘… was it to do with you trying to find out about Daddy?’

I smiled and dropped my hat onto the G-plan. ‘I’m afraid it was. I have to tell you that I actually think that Daddy might have had more than a little to do with it.’

‘You mean …’

‘… Daddy is alive?’

‘That’s the information I’ve been given. Or at least he was still alive in Nineteen forty-two, according to one witness. Just the one, mind. But added to that single witness is the fact that the gentleman who took a swan dive from my office window had tried before to warn me off looking into your father’s disappearance, and when I couldn’t be warned off, he tried to retire me permanently from the case. And that means I am definitely on the opposite side of the fence from Joe Strachan. If I continue to work for you, that could be seen as a conflict of interests. And detrimental to my well-being.’

For once Isa and Violet said nothing but sat in identical silence.

‘So you really do think that Joe is still alive?’ asked Robert McKnight, the salesman’s smile gone from his lips and replaced with a frown of equivalent insincerity.

‘Looks like it. And that’s why I wanted to talk to you both. As I said, I’ve taken this case as far as I can. As far as I am willing.’

‘We quite understand …’ said Violet.

‘… given everything that has happened …’

‘… but we want to be sure …’

‘… that Daddy is alive …’

‘The only way to be sure would be to find him,’ I said.

‘That’s what we mean …’

‘… would you find him for us, so that we can talk to him?’

‘The short answer to that is no. I am in no doubt that if I ever did succeed in finding your father, then I don’t think I’d live long enough to tell you about it. And if I did survive the encounter, I would have to tell the police.’

They both opened their mouths to protest. I held up my hand.

‘Listen, ladies, I warned you from the start that if I found out your father was alive, and where he was, then I could not withhold that information from the police. Now the police are all over this like a rash, and I don’t want to catch it. If they ask me, right now, if I know the whereabouts of Joe Strachan, I can tell them with absolute honesty that I don’t know. And that I don’t know for absolutely sure that he is alive. If you want my advice, I think we should leave it like that.’

‘But we want to talk to him …’ they protested in unison.

‘Let’s face it, ladies, he has been sending you that cash every year for eighteen years. If he wanted to make contact, then he would have before now. If you ask my opinion, and I’m sorry to be so blunt, that money is guilt money. I think your father always planned to disappear, to leave you and your mother behind, whether or not a copper was killed during the Empire Exhibition job. I believe he has a completely new identity in some other part of the country, or the world: an identity he was probably setting up since before you were even born. The only reason he is making his presence felt here in Glasgow again is because I’ve been sticking my big nose in where it’s not wanted.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘Accept that your father is alive, but not in a position to contact you. Keep taking the money and keeping your heads down. That’s my advice and it’s advice I intend to follow myself. By the way, I think it could be a matter of your safety as well.’

The twins looked outraged.

‘Our Daddy …’

‘… would never do anything to hurt us!’

‘Perhaps not, but I think there’s a chance he could have got involved with a very dangerous group of people. More organized, better resourced and more dangerous than any criminal gang. And they look out for each other, as I found out to my cost.’

‘What kind of people?’ asked Robert.

‘Military types. No, not even military types … more the “stay behind” guerrilla groups that were set up before and during the war. They were supposed to sabotage Nazi invaders, that kind of thing, but a lot of them were set up to deal with the Commies if the war should take that kind of turn.’

‘That doesn’t sound like our Daddy …’ said Isa.

‘Not like our Daddy at all …’ added Violet.

‘He wasn’t political.’

‘But you said that he was some kind of war hero in the First War?’

‘He was …’

‘He got medals for it …’

‘He went behind enemy lines and everything.’

‘But he was also nearly shot for being a deserter, isn’t that also true?’

‘That’s all lies …’

‘Lies …’ echoed Violet.

‘Listen, ladies,’ I said as gently as I could, ‘it’s easy, very easy, to build up someone into a hero figure when they’re not around. A lot that I have heard about your father, and everything I have experienced, leads me to believe he was or is a totally ruthless character. I don’t think he ever did anything that wasn’t in his own interest. I’m sorry, Isa and Violet, but I’m going to have to let this one go. And if I were you, I would do the same. This is one gift horse you shouldn’t be looking in the mouth.’

‘Could we talk to the witness you traced?’

‘That would be difficult to arrange,’ I said, without adding that we would need to hire a medium to arrange it. ‘I’m afraid he’s moved away. Permanently.’

Now for my big finale.

‘There is something else …’ I reached into my jacket pocket and took out the photograph. ‘I know it’s not a good photograph, and he will, of course, have aged since you last saw him, but can you identify this man for me?’

I felt a small electric thrill as I placed the photograph on the table in front of the twins. I watched their faces closely to catch the moment when they realized that they were looking at the father they had last seen when they were eight years old.

‘Oh my gosh …’ said Isa.

‘… of course we recognize him …’

‘… even after all of these years …’

I exchanged a meaningful look with Archie. I probably looked smug. I felt smug and I felt I had every right to feel it.

‘Yes … that’s Mr Williamson, all right.’

My smugness came to an abrupt end.

‘Sorry… what did you say?’

‘You asked us if we recognized him …’ said Isa.

‘And we do …’ said Violet.

‘That’s Henry Williamson, our father’s friend.’

I picked up the photograph and looked at it. Henry Williamson. Gentleman Joe’s non-crook friend and supposed First War buddy.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive.’

I pocketed the photograph again.

The twins spent a couple of minutes trying to talk me into contacting their father for them, but I wouldn’t budge and they gave in with amazingly good grace. I told them I’d keep half the cash they had paid me and handed them an envelope with the rest. They refused, saying that they felt they had put me at great risk and at the very least through a terrible experience and they insisted I keep the lot. We debated some more but they were steadfast and I was less so. When I walked out the door, I still had their cash.

Robert McKnight followed us out to my car.

‘By the way, Mr Lennox,’ he said. ‘I think you’re right. I keep telling the girls not to go digging into all of this shite. Like you said, if Joe wanted to get in touch he would have put a note in with the money. I know they’re not happy, but I wanted to thank you for what you’ve done, Mr Lennox. When they think about it, they’ll be happy to know their Da is still alive.’

His eyes lit up with something when he saw my car. ‘Is this yours? The Atlantic?’

‘Yep.’

‘Listen, Mr Lennox, no sales shite. I’d like to do something to thank you for everything you’ve done and all of the trouble you’ve been to. I can do you a really good trade-in … maybes even a straight trade … and get you something nicer.’

‘That’s good of you, Robert, but I’m happy with the Atlantic.’

‘Maybes you are, but with those funny lights and everything … I’m telling you I would do you a favour. Not the usual shite, a real favour. I’d clear it with the boss and I know they’ll be no trouble. Listen, I’ve got just the thing for you: a one-year-old Wolseley Four-Forty-four Saloon, Royal Blue. Hardly anything on the clock. Like new condition.’

‘Like I said, I’m happy with the Atlantic.’

He placed a hand on my arm to halt me. I looked down at the hand but he didn’t move it. ‘Listen, this is a genuine offer. No bull. The Wolseley is going for eight-four-four. Actually eight hundred and forty-four pounds, five shillings and tenpence. I’ll exchange the Atlantic and let you have it for two hundred and fifty quid.’

‘Now why would you do that?’ The deal made no sense, unless there was something wrong with the Wolseley or car salesmen had suddenly developed a passion for making losses. Or consciences.

‘Like I said, to show appreciation. The girls … we all … were shocked when we heard about what happened: that bloke trying to kill you. Call it a bonus. I’ve already cleared the deal with my boss. No catches.’ He handed me a business card with the garage address and number. ‘Why don’t you come down and see it for yourself. I’ll put a reserved sticker on it till you come.’

I looked at the card, then back at McKnight’s face. It was empty of guile, of expression, yet somehow he still managed to look insincere. I wondered which boss it was — the showroom manager or Willie Sneddon — he had cleared the deal with, without anyone seeing the condition of my Atlantic.

‘What would you give me for a Nineteen forty-seven Morris Eight?’ asked Archie. McKnight switched his salesman smile back on.

‘Why don’t you bring it to the showroom and I’ll cut you a deal.’

Archie shrugged. The three of us knew that Archie wouldn’t be offered the kind of deal I’d just been offered. Nobody would. I just couldn’t work out why I had been singled out for such gratitude. In fact, the generosity of others was beginning to trouble me; and the more it troubled me, the more I tried giving myself the same advice I’d given the twins: don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. But the truth was I could buy the Wolseley ten times over, without McKnight’s deal, because I had earned so much money, so quickly from tracking down Paul Downey and his photographs. The easiest money I had ever made.

And that troubled me almost as much as McKnight’s offer.

I dropped Archie back at his house. He asked me if I wanted to come in for a cup of tea, but I said I had to get on. The truth was I had to pick up some of the pieces of my personal life, such as it was. I also had to have a discussion with my new best chums in Saint Andrew’s Square.

Archie was about to step out of the car when I stopped him. I took the envelope from my pocket and counted out a hundred in twenties and handed it to him. As usual, his face retained its unchanging, slack-mouthed dolorousness, but his eyebrows looked like they were going on holiday somewhere on the top of his bald pate.

‘What’s this for?’

‘A bonus. You’ve been a great help, Archie. I wouldn’t have found Billy Dunbar without you.’

The muscles in his face twitched as if someone was running an inconstant electrical current through his cheeks. He was, I realized, attempting to smile.

‘Thanks, chief,’ he said.

‘Think nothing of it.’

Before I headed in to the City of Glasgow Police headquarters, I drove past my digs. No Jowett Javelin.

I was surprised how easy it was to get to see Detective Chief Superintendent McNab without an appointment. McNab parked me in a disused office while he tracked down Jock Ferguson. I was even more surprised when McNab had a young, pretty woman police constable — something that I had always considered a contradiction in terms — bring a tray with three cups, a jug of milk and a huge aluminium pot of tea. I was a sucker for a uniform, so I made sure that I had her name and a telephone number I could get her on before McNab returned.

It was a scene that bordered on the surreal: McNab, Jock Ferguson and I chatting like a bunch of old women over cups of tea and digestive biscuits. I did most of the talking and told them almost everything I had, again skipping the details of my nature trek in the forest. I did tell them that I’d been to see Billy Dunbar, accompanied by Archie, a reliable witness to the fact that Billy and his wife were both breathing when we left.

One thing that I had been expecting was to be hit with my possible connection to the death of Frank Gibson, Paul Downey’s muscular innamorato, but either Jock Ferguson hadn’t made the connection between Downey and Gibson, or he had forgotten that I had asked about someone with that name.

I placed the photograph on the desk.

‘I could have sworn this was going to turn out to be Gentleman Joe Strachan, but it’s not. It’s a guy he used to know. A friend of his called Henry Williamson. From what I’ve heard, he’s straight, but I’m pretty sure the guy who fell out of my window was working for him.’

I stabbed the photograph with my finger. I hoped the emphasis would prevent them asking exactly why I suspected him of being the brains behind the attack. McNab stared at the photograph and frowned. It gave me a bad feeling. The kind of bad feeling you get when the husband of someone you’ve got playful with stares at the smudge of lipstick you’ve got on your shirt collar.

McNab picked up the phone on the desk and tapped at the cradle before sighing and walking out of the room without a word. Ferguson looked at me and shrugged.

McNab came back in and sat down, staring at the photograph.

‘What’s up, Superintendent?’ asked Jock.

‘I’ve asked Jimmy Duncan in records to come up and join us. He works part-time as a civvy clerk, but was on the force until three years ago. He was senior man when I joined as a probationer. There’s not a face in Glasgow that he can’t put a name to.’

We sat in expectant silence for five minutes, then a heavy-built man in shirtsleeves, wearing ugly health service hornrimmed glasses and with a shock of white hair walked in. He may have been pushing sixty, but he had the look of someone you would not want to tangle with.

‘What is it, Willie?’ asked the retired constable-turned-filing clerk, as if the Chief Superintendent was still his probationer.

‘We don’t have any photographs of Joseph Strachan on file, do we? But you saw him, didn’t you, face to face?’

‘Aye, Willie, I did, but that was thirty year back and I didn’t see him for long. Didn’t talk to him or anything like that …’

McNab handed him the photograph. ‘Is that Joseph Strachan. Or could be Joseph Strachan now?’

Duncan looked at the picture for a long time.

‘I don’t know, Willie … I really couldn’t say. It really isn’t a good photograph and people change a lot in twenty year.’

‘I’ve been told that the person in the picture is called Henry Williamson,’ I said. ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’

Duncan looked at me as if I’d spoken to him in Albanian, then McNab gave him the nod that it was okay to answer.

‘Naw …’ He shook his head thoughtfully. ‘I can’t say that it does. Not as far as records is concerned.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, there was a Henry Williamson who had dealings with us right at the beginning of the war. Involved in the Home Guard.’ He looked at the picture again. ‘But I couldn’t say if this is him either. But again I only saw him the once and in passing. I had to drive Chief Superintendent Harrison over to Edinburgh for a conference about the Home Guard. Over at Craigiehall … you know, army headquarters.’

‘Home Guard, you say?’ Jock Ferguson chipped in. He didn’t look up from his tea cup and I could tell he was trying to hide the question behind a curtain of casualness. I just hoped McNab had not seen through it as easily as I had.

‘Aye, that’s right,’ said Duncan. ‘Like I said, Chief Superintendent Harrison was the force liaison with the Home Guard. Of course he was just an inspector back then.’

Ferguson looked across at me, but without much of an expression. I got his meaning though. That morning I had been jumped in the fog, the only people who had known about my interest in Strachan had been Willie Sneddon, who was unlikely to have mentioned it to anybody, and the police officers with whom Jock Ferguson had made casual inquiries.

And one of them, as he had told me, had been Chief Superintendent Edward Harrison.