The Long Glasgow Kiss

CHAPTER EIGHT

By the time I had waited for a tram it was nearly six before I got back to my office. It was turning into another oppressive evening, the air clinging, humid and heavy, and I felt my shirt collar damp at the nape of my neck again. Davey Wallace called me at six on the dot, as agreed. Davey couldn’t drive and I told him to stay put and wait in the Atlantic until I came up. I decided I’d probably take a taxi up to Blanefield and get it to take Davey back home. Riding in a taxi was one of the luxuries in life most Glaswegians only ever experienced on special occasions. Before I went up to Blanefield, I ’phoned Sneddon. I told him what had happened at MacSherry’s place.

‘He knew you was there for me?’ he asked.

‘Not to start with. But I told him later.’

‘Fucking slum rats. I’ll arrange a lesson in respect.’

‘You better send a mob, then. From what I can see, the old guy still has a crew of sorts. And he has a reputation that must have been earned.’ I neglected to tell Sneddon that MacSherry had backed down at the first mention of his name. I was pissed because the old man had tried to turn out my pockets. A lesson in respect, as Sneddon said.

‘Aye? Well, I’ll arrange a change of scenery for him. I bet he doesn’t get out of Bridgeton much,’ said Sneddon, reminding me of the promise Superintendent McNab had made me. There was so much local colour here; maybe ‘fucking off back to Canada’ would do my health a bit of good.

‘I did get something interesting out of the whole encounter,’ I said. ‘Did you know that Bert Soutar went into business with Small Change MacFarlane? Some time around the start of the war?’

‘No…’ I could tell Sneddon was doing the same jigsaw puzzle in his head that I had done in Bridgeton. ‘No, I didn’t. Do you think it’s significant?’

‘Well, this hot deal that turned into a fairy story about boxing academies… it could be that Small Change was covering up the detail and not the principals. Maybe it was something to do with Bobby Kirkcaldy. And maybe the deal was brokered through MacFarlane’s old chum Soutar.’

‘But MacFarlane was going to broker the deal to me.’ I could tell that Sneddon was laying down the fact to see what I would do with it.

‘Let’s not forget Small Change had his skull cracked like an egg,’ I said. ‘My guess is it was all about this deal. He was at the heart of it and was playing for the big money, not for some commission. And I suspect Uncle Bert is involved some way.’

‘You think he battered Small Change’s coupon in?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. But I don’t see why he would, unless something went pear-shaped with the deal, whatever it was. But maybe it was whoever’s been leaving warning messages for Kirkcaldy. One thing I’m sure of is that Kirkcaldy doesn’t appreciate the attention we’ve been giving him. Speaking of which, can I borrow a couple of bodies to take turns watching Kirkcaldy’s place. I’ve just got the one guy and me.’

‘Okay,’ said Sneddon. ‘You can have Twinkletoes. You two seem to get on.’

‘Yeah…’ I said. ‘Like a house on fire… Thanks. I’ll let you know when I need him.’

After I hung up I locked the office and took a taxi down to the Pacific Club. Like the last time I had been here they were just starting to get the place ready for the evening’s trade. The manager Jonny Cohen had running the place was a small handsome Jew in his early forties called Larry Franks. I’d never met Franks before but he seemed to recognize me; he came over and introduced himself as soon as I arrived. He had his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up.

‘Mr Cohen tells me that you’re looking for Claire Skinner.’ He grinned widely. Franks had an accent, difficult to place but there was a touch of London in it. And a touch of something much farther away. It was something you encountered every now and then. The war still cast a long shadow and, even though all but one of the Displaced Persons camps that had been spread across post-war Europe were now closed, there were still huge numbers of people building new lives in new places. Whatever Franks’s history, it hadn’t seemed to suppress his good nature. ‘Can I get you a drink? On the house?’

‘Thanks, but no. And yes, I am looking for Claire. Jonny said you have an address for her?’

‘There you go…’ Franks grinned again and handed me a folded note he took from his waistcoat pocket. I noticed something on his forearm and he tugged his shirtsleeve down, casually. ‘But getting into Fort Knox would be easier.’

‘What do you mean?’ I unfolded the note; it had an address in Craithie Court, Partick, written on it.

‘It’s a pussy pound,’ he said, matter-of-factly and without a hint of lasciviousness. ‘A hostel for unmarried women run by Glasgow Corporation. It’s only a couple or so years old. Claire has her digs there. But they’ve got a matron and she’ll have your bollocks if you try to get in. Strictly no gentlemen callers. You’d maybe be better trying to catch her here the next time she’s singing.’

‘When would that be?’ I asked.

‘To be honest, it might not be for a week or more. I’ve got a new combo booked in for the next two Fridays.’

‘No… I need to see her before then.’ I stared at the note for a moment, my mind elsewhere. ‘I’m looking for Sammy Pollock. Or Gainsborough, as he seemed to prefer to be known. Claire’s boyfriend. Have you seen him lately?’

‘That wanker?’ Franks grinned. ‘No. Not for a couple of weeks.’

‘The last time he was seen was here. There was a bit of a disagreement outside the club, about two weeks ago. Did you see or hear any of that?’

‘No…’ Franks pursed his lips pensively. ‘No, can’t say I did. And nobody mentioned it either.’

‘Right, I see.’ I pocketed the note. ‘Thanks. And thanks for the offer of a drink. I’ll take you up on that the next time I’m in.’

‘Sure.’ His smile was still there but had changed. He was reading my mind and I was reading his. It said: I don’t need your sympathy.

I walked out of the stuffiness of the Pacific Club and into the stuffiness of the Glasgow evening. The taxi was still waiting for me. I got into the back and told the driver to take me to Blanefield. I sat in silence for the whole journey, thinking about Larry Franks’s cheery manner. And the number I’d seen tattooed on the inside of his forearm.

When I got out of the taxi, I could have sworn that Davey Wallace was in exactly the same place, in exactly the same position, as when I’d left him in the morning. We sat together in my Atlantic and he ran through twenty minutes of detailed notes. Twenty minutes of detailed nothing. He was a good kid all right and keen enough to make mustard makers the world over question their calling.

‘You free to do the same shift tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘Maybe a bit longer too?’

‘Sure, Mr Lennox. Anytime. And you don’t need to bring me up here. I know where it is and I can get the tram.’

‘Okay. Meet me up here a bit later. Make it six tomorrow. Nothing’s going to happen during the day, I reckon. How about your work? Will you still be okay for the early shift?’

‘No problem, Mr Lennox.’

‘Good,’ I said. Of course it wasn’t a problem. Having to cross the Himalayas wouldn’t have been a big enough problem to keep Davey away. I gave him a fiver. ‘You get off home now.’

‘Thanks, Mr Lennox,’ said Davey with reverent gratitude.

This was not a good use of my time. I sat watching Kirkcaldy’s place for three hours without anything happening. Then Bobby Kirkcaldy arrived, presumably after a day at the gym in Maryhill. He turned more than a thousand pounds’ worth of Sunbeam-Talbot Sports, its soft-top folded down, into the drive. Kirkcaldy was a successful professional boxer, but even at that he seemed to be able to stretch his finances impressively. Maybe he had a paper round.

I leaned back in the driver’s seat, sliding down to get some support for my neck, and tilted my hat over my eyes. No point in being uncomfortable. It still felt clammy and I had the window wound open, but the air outside was clammy and sluggish and there was no breeze to cool me down. I was going to have trouble staying awake. I turned on the radio but all I could get was Frank Sinatra talking his way through another forgettable tune. I decided to keep my brain active by going over where I was with everything.

There was a tie-in with Small Change’s murder all right. Bobby Kirkcaldy was up to his neck in something that didn’t follow Queensberry rules. There was a connection between Small Change and Kirkcaldy through Soutar. Here I was trying to avoid getting any deeper into dodgy dealing and all the time I was being sucked deeper and deeper into Small Change’s murder.

In the meantime, my other case — my one-hundred-per-cent legitimate case — was getting nowhere. I decided I would try to get in touch with Claire Skinner the next day, but I knew it wouldn’t get me anywhere. Sammy Pollock had dropped off the face of the earth. It took some doing, and I was beginning to worry that it was the kind of dropping that could only be done professionally. And then there had been Jock Ferguson’s reaction to the name Largo. If it was the same Largo who Paul Costello claimed to know, then it was someone outside the normal gangster circle, yet someone important enough to be instantly recognizable to Glasgow CID.

I wasn’t given to much deep personal reflection; maybe because I had seen in the war where deep personal reflection got you: mad or dead. But sitting there in a car outside a probably crooked boxer’s house in the countryside outside Glasgow, I suddenly felt homesick.

Blanefield sat above Glasgow. The sun was lower now in the sky and filtered into tones of gold, bronze and copper through the haze above the city in the valley below. I experienced another of my reminiscent moments: Saint John had similar sunsets. The industrial heart of the US lay in Michigan and the dense, grime-filled air would drift north and west, exploding the Maritime Canadian sun into garnet beams and spilling red into the Bay of Fundy. But the similarity ended there. I thought back to those days before the war. Things had been different. It seemed to me people had been different. I had been different.

Or maybe I hadn’t.

A car pulled up behind me. A bottle-green Rover. I didn’t need to turn around to see that the driver was Twinkletoes. Either that or there was an unscheduled eclipse of the sun. He came around to the passenger door of the Atlantic and tapped on the window. I opened the door and he got into the car, causing me to be impressed with the Atlantic’s suspension.

‘Hello, Mr Lennox…’ Twinkletoes smiled. ‘Are you well?’

‘I’m well, Twinkle. You?’

‘In the pink, Mr Lennox. In the pink. Mr Sneddon sent me up here to take over watching Mr Kirkcaldy’s place. Singer’s going to take over from me until morning.’

‘It’ll be a long night, Twinkle.’

‘I’ve got the radio,’ he said. ‘I find jazz has a molly-fying effect on my mood.’

‘I’m sure it does. Who do you like listening to?’

‘Elephants Gerald, mostly,’ he said with a smile.

‘Who?’

‘You know… Elephants Gerald. The jazz singer.’

‘Oh…’ I said, trying not to smirk. ‘You mean Ella Fitzgerald.’

‘Do I? I thought it was Elephants Gerald. You know, one of them jazz names. Like Duke Wellington.’

‘Duke Ellington, Twinkle,’ I said. I noticed the smile had fallen away from his face. It was time to go. ‘But I could be mistaken. Enjoy, anyway. I’ll catch you later.’

I left Twinkletoes sitting in Sneddon’s Rover, watching the Kirkcaldy house, reassured by his promise that he would be most abb-steamy-uzz in performing his sentry duties. I went straight back to my flat. Again, as I closed the common entrance door behind me, I heard the sound of the television in the Whites’ flat being turned off. I headed straight up the stairs to my rooms and set about making myself some real coffee and ham sandwiches with bread that should have been used at least two days before, unless I had intended to use the slices as building materials.

I had just sat down to start eating when I heard the downstairs doorbell ring and Fiona White answer it. There was a brief exchange then the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. It wasn’t that I was inhospitable, but I was not in the habit of receiving callers at the flat. In fact, one of the reasons I had established the Horsehead Bar as my out-of-hours office was because I kept this place pretty much off the radar of everyone I dealt with. So, before I answered the knock on the door, I went to the dresser drawer where I put my sap whenever I hung up my suit jacket and slipped it in my pocket. I opened the door, stepping back as I did so, and found Jock Ferguson framed in the doorway. There was another man behind him. Bigger and heavier. He was stretching a pale grey suit with extremely narrow lapels over huge shoulders and had a straw trilby type thing with a broad blue hatband on his head. He had a big face that was a little too fleshy to be handsome and his skin tone was several summers darker than the locals. The one thing that was missing was a sign around his neck proclaiming God Bless America. Seeing Ferguson at my door and in such strange company took me aback for a moment.

‘Jock? What are you doing here?’

‘Hello, Lennox. Can we come in?’

‘Sorry… sure. Come on in.’

The big American grinned at me as he entered. He took off his pale straw hat and revealed the most amazing haircut I had ever seen. His salt and pepper hair had been crew-cut, clipped almost to the skin around the back and sides but bristled upwards on top. What made it truly amazing was the skill of his barber in making it perfectly, absolutely flat across the top. The picture of a hairdressing engineer, scissors in one hand, spirit-level in the other, leapt to mind.

‘Lennox, this is a colleague of ours from the United States. This is Dexter Devereaux. He’s an investigator, like you.’

‘Call me Dex,’ said the grin beneath the flat-top.

I shook the American’s hand, then turned to Ferguson. ‘You said Mr Devereaux is an investigator like me…’ I asked. ‘Or do you mean an investigator like you?’

‘I’m a private eye. Like yourself…’ Devereaux smiled collegially at me. ‘I’m here on a private investigation. Criminal, but private.’

‘Okay… so what can I do for you?’ I asked. I realized we were all still standing. ‘Sorry… please sit down, Mr Devereaux.’

‘Like I said, call me Dex… Thanks.’ Ferguson and the American sat down on the leather sofa. I took a bottle of Canadian rye and three glasses out of a cupboard.

‘I take it you guys aren’t so on duty that you can’t have a drink?’

‘Speaking personally, I’m never that much on duty,’ said Devereaux. He took the whisky and sipped it. ‘Mmmm, nice…’ he purred approvingly. ‘I thought you guys only ever drink Scotch.’

‘I’m not a Scotch kinda guy,’ I said, and sat in the armchair opposite. Devereaux eyed my apartment, his eyes ranging casually across the furniture, the bottles on the sideboard, the books on the bookshelves. But it was the same apparent casualness of a pro-golfer preparing for a swing.

‘You’ve got a lot of books,’ he said turning back to me. ‘You got any Hemingway?’

‘Nope,’ I said. ‘No Hemingway. Just like I’ve got no blended Scotch. So what is it I can do for you, Mr Devereaux?’

‘Please… Dex. As for what you can do for us… you mentioned John Largo to Detective Ferguson here, I believe.’

‘I asked him if he knew him or anything about him.’

‘And what do you know about John Largo?’ Devereaux turned his eyes from me while he sipped the whisky.

‘All I know about Largo is his first name is John, and I only know that because Jock here inadvertently told me. And now I know that he’s some kind of really big fish, because someone is prepared to fly a twenty-dollar-an-hour private detective across the Atlantic on his account. And that, I’m afraid, is all I know. Other than someone who was a friend of someone who has gone missing knows him. And now he’s gone missing himself.’

‘Paul Costello. I told you about his father,’ Jock Ferguson explained to Devereaux, who nodded almost impatiently, but with his smile still in place. There was something about the exchange that told me all about the hierarchy of this relationship. This may have been Ferguson’s town, but Devereaux was calling all the shots on this case. Whoever Largo was, whatever he was into, it was big.

‘Who’s the friend of Costello who’s gone missing?’ Devereaux asked, and took another sip of whisky. Again, question and action both done with professional casualness.

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Mr Devereaux,’ I said, returning his smile. ‘Client confidentiality. My client doesn’t want the police involved.’

‘You’re Canadian?’ asked Devereaux.

‘Yep. New Brunswick. Saint John.’

‘That’s practically Maine. I’m from Vermont.’

‘Really? That’s practically Quebec.’

Devereaux laughed. ‘You’re not wrong there. D’yah know we’ve got the highest percentage of French Americans in the States. Higher even than Louisiana. That’s where my name comes from.’ He laughed. ‘Vermont-French, I mean, not Louisiana.’

‘Yes. I did know that, as a matter of fact. Like you say, New England’s just over the border from Saint John. And New Brunswick is bi-lingual.’

‘Ah, yes…’ Devereaux gave a sigh of exaggerated satisfaction at our exchange. I got the feeling that the hands-across-the-water act was about to come to an abrupt end. ‘You know, Mr Lennox, it really would be a big help to us if you could see your way to telling us who your client is.’

‘Can’t do it, Mr Devereaux. As an enquiry agent yourself, you should know that. But that’s the only thing I can’t do. I’ll help you in any way I can. Who is John Largo?’

Devereaux looked into his glass. Jock Ferguson hadn’t touched his whisky. When Devereaux looked up, he was still smiling, but the thermostat had been turned right down.

‘You can’t expect us to trust you, Mr Lennox, if you don’t trust us. Let’s be honest, I’ve seen Detective Ferguson’s colleagues at work. The police here seem mighty interested in Mr Largo too. If you were taken in for withholding evidence, then it could be a long and painful process.’

‘I don’t give up my clients, Dex. Not for a beating, not for cash, and most definitely not because of threats.’ I stood up. ‘I think you gentlemen should go.’

Devereaux held up appeasing palms. ‘Okay, okay… take it easy, colleague. Truth is, I can’t tell you too much about Largo. But you’re right, he’s a big fish. And he’s here, somewhere in Glasgow. I’ve heard all about your Three Kings… some half-assed Jock Cosa Nostra crap. Let me tell you… sorry, I can’t keep calling you Mr Lennox — what’s your Christian name?’

‘Just call me Lennox. Everybody else does.’

‘Let me tell you, Lennox, John Largo could snuff out all Three Kings in the bat of an eye. The difference between Largo and the Three Kings is the difference between shark and pond scum. The shark doesn’t know or care that the pond scum’s there, but he could destroy its universe with a flick of his tail. From what we know about him, John Largo is a step beyond being a criminal. He practically constitutes a threat to the security of the United States. A particularly dangerous, clever and well-resourced threat.’

‘So what is he doing in Glasgow?’

‘He’s spent the last five years setting up an operation that spans the whole damn world. He’s put together different elements in different countries, like links in a chain, until the chain reaches here.’

‘Let me guess… this is only the second last link in the chain? That’s why you’re here.’

Devereaux’s grin widened. He turned to Ferguson. ‘You know, you were right, Jock. He is a smart cookie.’ He turned back to me. ‘Yeah. Your family came from here, right? I mean, you’re of Scottish descent?’

‘That’s right. My folks shipped out from Port Glasgow.’

‘Yeah. Along with hundreds of thousands… millions of others. Russians, Jews, Germans, Poles… they all came through this port, along with the native Scots who immigrated to Canada and the US. This is one of the big departure points, Lennox, like Marseille or Naples or Rotterdam. Not just for people. Largo has something he wants to get to the States and he has people in New York waiting for it to arrive. People who have the infrastructure to make the most of Largo’s commercial opportunity.’

I sipped my whisky and nodded. ‘Let me guess, these people didn’t leave for the US from Glasgow. More like Palermo and Naples.’

‘Like I say, you’re a smart cookie, Lennox. I hope you’re smart enough to see the bigger picture. And it’s a very big picture.’

‘How do I know that you’ve not been sent over here by our spaghetti-eating New Americans?’ I said.

Devereaux gave a laugh that I didn’t like. ‘Detective Ferguson can vouch for me. And if that’s not good enough for you, you can call Superintendent McNab. The City of Glasgow Police are being very supportive.’

‘That’s sure big-hearted of them,’ I said.

There was a pause more pregnant than a Gorbals girl after a weekend in Largs.

‘Okay… Here’s the thing,’ I sighed, and said in my best okay-you-got-me-I’m-going-to-give-you-the-goods tone. ‘My client is a public figure. Like I told Jock, I’m investigating a missing person. And the person who’s gone missing is a relative of my client. A close relative. I went around to his apartment and Paul Costello lets himself in with a key. Costello thinks I’m a cop. When I tell him I’m not he asks me if Largo sent me. We end up having a bit of a heated discussion. I ask him who Largo is and he brushes me off, says Largo’s someone he owes money to. That’s it. All of it. Then a few days later Costello’s pop calls me in and I go through everything I’ve just told you. Then he tells me Paul’s gone missing.’

‘Just like your client’s relative?’ Jock Ferguson took his first sip of whisky.

‘That doesn’t mean it’s connected.’

‘What about this Bobby Kirkcaldy?’ asked Devereaux. ‘Jock here said you’re involved in some kind of case with him and it was when you were asking him about Kirkcaldy that you mentioned Largo.’

I waved my hand vaguely in the air. ‘No… that’s not connected in any way. It was just while I was talking to Jock that I thought I’d ask if he’d heard of this Largo. By the way, I have been asking all over town about Largo. No one has heard of him.’

‘That’s no surprise,’ said Devereaux. ‘Like I told you, Largo works on a different level.’

‘My point is, could we be talking about two different Largos? Like I said, I didn’t even have a first name for him until Jock mentioned it. Maybe it’s not John Largo at all.’

‘It could be,’ said Devereaux. ‘But we know he’s here in Glasgow and your mention of him is the only lead we’ve had in months.’

‘Aw, for God’s sake, Lennox…’ Ferguson suddenly vented his frustration. ‘Just tell us who your client is. All we have to do is go around and talk to Jimmy Costello and he’ll tell us.’

‘Then you’ll have got it from him and not from me. And I wouldn’t be so sure about Costello as a source of information.’ I sighed. ‘Look, I’ve told you all I can, which is about all there is to tell. So why not end the Mexican stand-off and you tell me what you know about Largo and what it is he’s involved in and I tell you if it fits with anything else that’s been happening?’

Devereaux stood up and put the straw trilby over his perfect, level lawn of hair. ‘Maybe we will. Thanks for your time, Lennox. Next time the drinks are on me,’ he said with his customary good-natured grin. Which was why I couldn’t work out why it sounded to me like a threat.

Ten minutes after they had left there was another knock on the door. Opening it revealed the figure of Fiona White. She was wearing a pale pink shirtwaister dress with capped sleeves. She was also wearing a disapproving look. It was an ensemble I’d become accustomed to.

‘Please, Mrs White, come in…’ I offered, knowing that she wouldn’t. She never did. Her pale green eyes glittered coldly but I noticed that she’d put on fresh lipstick before coming up.

‘Mr Lennox, I’ve told you how I feel about policemen coming to the door. After the last time you were arrested…’

I stopped her with a held-up palm, as if I were halting traffic. ‘Listen, Mrs White, you’re right that one of the gentlemen who called was indeed a policeman. But I’m sure you noticed that one of them was American. He’s in the same line of business as I am.’ I paused to let this impressive fact sink in: I was operating on the international stage. I looked at her face. It had sunk, without trace. ‘They didn’t come here to arrest me or question me, Mrs White. They came here as colleagues, to ask my opinion on a case. And as regards the last incident… I thought we were clear on that. A misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that you, yourself, were instrumental in clearing up.’

She looked at me coldly. I really, really wanted to warm her up, to find the last, faint ember of muliebrity and breathe on it until it caught fire again. And I think she knew it.

‘Well, I’d be obliged if you did not conduct business from this house.’

‘Detective Inspector Ferguson is a friend of mine, Mrs White. His visits to me are as much social as business. And, as you are aware, I don’t have a habit of having guests of any kind here.’ It was the truth. I never brought women there, and I had done all I could to keep this place separate from everything else that went on in my life. A refuge, almost. I sighed. ‘Please come in and have a seat, Mrs White. I’d like to talk to you about a couple of things.’

‘Oh?’ Something even colder and harder fell like a shutter across her eyes.

I seasoned my smile with a little impatience and indicated the sofa. Fiona White somehow managed to fill her acceptance brim full with resentment and marched past me. She didn’t sit on the sofa but in the armchair, perched on its edge in a stiff-shouldered posture that was no ease and all temporariness.

‘What is it you want to talk to me about?’

‘I’ve lived here for two years, Mrs White, and I’ve paid the rent regularly and without delay. Including the six months last year when I was out of the country. I don’t make noise; I don’t drink myself stupid and sing the ballads of ol’ Ireland into the wee small hours; I don’t bring young ladies up to look at my etchings. All in all, I consider myself to be a pretty model tenant.’

Fiona White looked at me silently with the same flinty defiance. If I had been expecting confirmation of my credentials as a tenant, it was not forthcoming.

‘It’s just that I get the impression that I somehow disappoint you as a tenant,’ I continued. ‘That you somehow wish that you hadn’t accepted me for the tenancy. If that’s the case, Mrs White, then tell me now and I’ll take it as notice to quit.’

‘It is entirely up to you whether you stay or go, Mr Lennox,’ she said, a hint of fire now behind the ice. ‘I really don’t know what you expect me to say. It sounds to me like it’s you who disapprove of me as a landlady. I apologize if my manner offends you. If that is the case, by all means you are free to leave.’

‘I don’t want to go, Mrs White, but I want to feel free to have the occasional caller, or for you to take the odd telephone message for me, without being made to feel that it is a huge imposition for you. Listen, I understand that you would not have chosen to divide your house up and let in a lodger. But you have and I’m here. And if it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. I’m not to blame for the circumstances that made this flat available.’ I stood up and went over to the sideboard. I took the same bottle of whisky and poured myself a glass. There was a bottle of Williams and Humbert Walnut Brown Sherry on the sideboard and, without asking first, I poured a glass for Mrs White and handed it to her. For a moment she looked as if she was going to shake her head. Instead she took the glass from me wordlessly.

‘If you want to stay, then stay,’ she said. ‘But don’t expect me to issue you with a merit badge just because you fulfil your contractual obligations as a tenant.’

She took a sip of the sherry. I could have been imagining it, but I thought I detected something easing in the rigid shoulders.

‘I like it here,’ I said. ‘I told you that. I also like being able to do anything I can for the girls.’ I referred to Fiona White’s daughters.

‘We don’t need charity, Mr Lennox. We don’t need anything from you.’ The thaw had been brief and false. She put the sherry glass down on the table and stood up abruptly. ‘If that’s everything, Mr Lennox, then I’d better get back to the girls.’

‘What is it you resent about me, Mrs White?’ I said. ‘Is it that I’m a Canadian? Is it my line of work? Or is it simply the fact that I’m here?’

That did it. We moved from a chill in the air to a positive Ice Age.

‘And just what is that meant to mean?’

‘I mean that I’m here. That I came back. I survived and your husband didn’t. Sometimes I think you resent me because I represent everyone who did come back from the war.’

She turned and headed for the door. I went over and placed my hand on the door handle. I was going to open the door for her, but she clearly misread my intent and pulled at my hand on the knob. It was a tight grip: warm, slim fingers strong on my wrist. She was close to me now, her body inches from mine. I could smell the sherry on her breath. The scent of lavender on her neck. We both froze for a moment, our eyes locked. She was breathing hard. I wasn’t breathing at all. It was a second that seemed to last forever, then she snatched open the door and stormed down the stairs.

‘Goodnight, Mr Lennox,’ she said, her back to me, her voice unsteady.

‘Mrs White… Fiona…’

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, and without looking round, she slammed the door of her flat behind her.

I went back into my flat and poured myself another whisky. Probably to celebrate my diplomatic skills and to commemorate the last time I had been in a situation so charged with sexual tension. I idly wondered what had happened to Maisie MacKendrie, with whom I’d danced at the Saint John Presbyterian Church Social when we were both fifteen.

But that wasn’t all I reflected on. I sipped at my whisky contemplatively. I had a lot to contemplate.

Dex Devereaux, for example. And how it was mighty big of the City of Glasgow Police to be so cooperative. To the point of subservience.