The Long Glasgow Kiss

by Craig Russell

  THE LONG GLASGOW KISS

  Also by Craig Russell

  Lennox

  The Jan Fabel Series:

  Blood Eagle

  Brother Grimm

  Eternal

  The Carnival Master

  The Valkyrie Song

  THE LONG GLASGOW KISS

  CRAIG RUSSELL

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by

  Quercus

  21 Bloomsbury Square

  London

  WC1A 2NS

  Copyright © 2010 by Craig Russell

  The moral right of Craig Russell to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any

  information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 84724 968 5 (TPB)

  ISBN 978 1 84724 969 2 (HB)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  businesses, organizations, places and events are

  either the product of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or

  locales is entirely coincidental.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  For Marion

  THE LONG GLASGOW KISS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Some concepts are alien to the Glaswegian mind. Salad. Dentistry. Forgiveness.

  Until the night Small Change MacFarlane died, I had no idea just how unforgiving Glasgow could be. My education in vindictiveness was about to be completed.

  It was mid-heat wave hot and sticky and I had an even hotter and stickier date with Lorna MacFarlane the night her father was murdered. I had parked my Austin Atlantic up above the city on Glennifer Braes, from where you could see Glasgow stretched out below, dark and sullen in the muggy night; but, to be honest, we didn’t take in much of the view. Looking back, it’s ironic to think that two members of the MacFarlane family had been on the business end of a blunt instrument at roughly the same time.

  Lorna was quite a bit above the usual Glasgow standard: she was pretty, with strawberry blonde hair and a knockout figure. Like most lowlifes made good, her bookie father was always striving for a touch of respectability and had sent Lorna to a fancy boarding school in Edinburgh. The aim had probably been to turn her into a proper little lady, but whatever languages were taught there, I had found out in the back of my Atlantic that when it came to French, Lorna was a natural linguist.

  If I had to describe my relationship with Lorna at that time, the word shallow would fit best. Mind you, it was an adjective that could have been applied to almost all my relationships with women. Lorna and I were, however, particularly mutually undemanding. She was killing time until she landed the right type of husband material, and me … well, I was just doing what I always did. If events hadn’t taken the turn they had that night, I think we would have drifted apart without acrimony. But that night, up on Glennifer Braes, we had no idea what was ahead of us.

  My ignorance was especially blissful. I was completely unaware that a blood debt was about to be extracted, or what a Baro or a bitchapen were. And if someone, on that humid, too-hot summer evening had mentioned the name John Largo to me, I would have assumed they were talking about a character in a Wild West movie. Which would have been apt, in a way: the West didn’t get any wilder than Glasgow.

  But John Largo was no cowboy. He was what the French would call an éminence gris. A shadow. A very dangerous shadow with a long reach.

  After our back-seat tango, I drove Lorna home to Pollokshields. Glasgow had its own social geography, meaningless to anyone from outside the city but all-important to its minority of middle classes. Glasgow, by and large, was a classless sort of city where the only thing that counted for anything was how much money you had. The Glasgow accent was common across social boundaries; intelligibility or, more correctly, the comparative lack of unintelligibility, was the only indicator of status. The result was that social prestige tended to be determined by geography, or more subtle social indicators such as proximity to a toilet that flushed or whether your grandmother still lived in a slum.

  When it came to the accounting of turf, Small Change had done well over the years, better than almost any other bookie in Glasgow, but he hadn’t earned the kind of cash or respectability to spring him over the Clyde, out of the Southside and up the Glaswegian social ladder. The MacFarlane residence, therefore, lay in Pollokshields, on the south side. The house itself was large, detached, and the usual unimaginatively sturdy, Scottish, Victorian sandstone villa in a street of near-identical unimaginatively sturdy, Scottish, Victorian sandstone villas, all following the usual Presbyterian imperative to temper prosperity with anonymity. In a search for some kind of distinction, almost all the houses in the street had names, not numbers, and when we reached Ardmore, there was a knot of black police Wolseleys blocking the drive.

  That’s usually my cue to see how far and how fast I can travel in the opposite direction, but Lorna started to panic and, parking on the street, I went with her up to the house. It was clear something deeply unpleasant would be waiting for us. It was: six-foot-six of tweed and oxblood brogues that went by the name of Detective Superintendent Willie McNab.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked and McNab ignored me.

  ‘Miss MacFarlane?’ He spoke to Lorna solicitously and I was impressed at how convincing his human being act was. ‘Could you come with me please?’ He steered her into the lounge, first casting a ‘and don’t you fucking move’ look over his shoulder at me.

  I smiled. It was nice to be noticed.

  I was left standing with the cop doing guard duty on the front door. He was a big lad, a Highlander, like ninety per cent of the uniforms in the City of Glasgow Police. Highlanders were recruited for size not intellect and they were easy to bewilder with shiny beads or electricity: it only took me a couple of minutes to wheedle some information out of him. Small Change MacFarlane, Glasgow’s most successful bookie and Lorna’s father, was, apparently, lying stretched out on his study floor, ruining the Wilton with several pints of O-negative.

  ‘Whee think he whass chust in the door from the races,’ my new Hebridean copper chum confided musically. ‘He whas a bhookie you know. Somewhone clobbered him whith a statue hof his favourite greyhound … Billy Boy.’

  I frowned my dismay. ‘What are the odds of that?’

  When McNab reappeared in the entrance hall, I was still on the threshold but could see past him, through the door and into the living room. Lorna was sitting on the sofa, distraught, and being comforted by her stepmother. I took a step into the house but was halted by McNab’s huge hand on my chest.

  ‘And what exactly was your involvement with Jimmy MacFarlane?’

  I decided to continue our communication by glares and I gave McNab my best ‘Take your fucking hand off me’ look. It was as effective as if I’d spoken to him in Nepalese and the restraining hand remained planted on my chest.

  ‘Small Change? None,’ I said. ‘I’m a … a friend of his daughter, that’s all.’

  ‘How good a friend?’

  ‘Well, let’s say we’re seeing a lot of each other at the moment.’

&nbs
p; ‘And that’s your only connection with James MacFarlane?’

  ‘I’ve met him a few times. Mainly through seeing Lorna,’ I said, omitting to mention that Small Change had promised me a couple of tickets to the forthcoming big fight between local boy Bobby Kirkcaldy and the German Jan Schmidtke. The fact was that the first thing I’d thought about on hearing of his demise was whether Small Change had managed to earmark the tickets for me before getting his head pulped. I decided that expressing such sentiments would expose one of the less appealing aspects of my nature. There again, it maybe wasn’t that bad: my second thought had been to wonder how long it would be after her father’s death before Lorna would be in the right frame of mind for some more back-seat wrestling.

  ‘No other business?’ asked McNab. ‘You haven’t done any work for him? Snooping?’

  I shook my head, suddenly feeling sullen. I looked down at the hand on my chest. A stout fist uncoiled. Thick fingers, flaky knuckles. Crisp white shirt cuffs beneath tweed.

  ‘We’ll see and make sure to keep your nose out of this, Lennox,’ he said. ‘This is police business.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of getting involved.’ I frowned; I was confused by McNab clearly feeling the need to warn me off. ‘What was the motive?’

  ‘Well let’s see …’ McNab rubbed his chin with his free hand in mock thoughtfulness. ‘MacFarlane was one of Glasgow’s richest bookies and greyhound breeders. He just came back from the races with a bag full of cash which we can’t locate … let me think … Got it! Crime of passion.’

  ‘You should stick to what you’re good at, Superintendent, and leave the sarcasm to me.’

  ‘And you leave the police work to me. This is a simple robbery. We’ll get this one all by ourselves, Lennox. A couple of days and we’ll have the bastard in custody.’

  ‘Ah,’ I smiled, and nodded appreciatively. ‘The Scottish legal system at work. A model of fairness and justice where every man is considered innocent until proven Catholic.’

  I could picture the scene. Housebreakers, as burglars were called under Scottish law, tended not to use violence. I imagined a procession of the usual suspects having the crap beaten out of them at police headquarters. In the movies, police detectives were always reassuring people they questioned that it was ‘just routine’. I wondered if that was the line the City of Glasgow Police used: ‘We won’t keep you long … it’s just routine. A few more boots in the ribs then you’ll be able to pick your teeth off the floor and leave …’

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ McNab interrupted my musings.

  ‘You’re in the business of asking questions, Superintendent,’ I said, without adding that usually the answers were beaten out of the mug being asked. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Why don’t you fuck off to Canada?’

  ‘Is that a question or the new slogan of the Canadian immigration bureau? It’s catchy, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘You’re quite the wag, aren’t you Lennox?’ He looked past me, or over me, out beyond the garden, as if he wasn’t fully focussed on our conversation. Then, suddenly, he locked his eyes with mine and leaned in. His face in mine, his hand on my chest, there was no question about his focus now. ‘Do you remember our last little chat in St. Andrew’s Square?’ McNab referred to the City of Glasgow Police HQ.

  ‘How could I forget? You, me and that charming lad from the Hebrides with the wet rag wrapped around his fist.’

  ‘If you don’t cut the wisecracks I could arrange a reunion … Keep your lip buttoned Lennox. Answer my question: why don’t you fuck off back to Canada?’

  ‘I like it here,’ I replied, ignoring the logical pickle of answering his question with my lip buttoned. ‘The Glasgow air agrees with me. If I were to leave, my pleurisy would probably clear up – and it’s taken me such a long time to perfect it.’ I sighed and gave a shrug. ‘I don’t know, maybe one day I might go back. When I’m ready.’

  ‘I’d give it some serious thought if I were you.’ He dropped the hand from my chest. It had been there so long I felt the warm, heavy ghost of it through my jacket and shirt. Point made and taken. Superintendent Willie McNab could put his hand on anyone in Glasgow, any time and for as long as he wanted. ‘There’s a lot of people I know who don’t like you, Lennox. People who still think you know more about the McGahern case than you let on.’

  ‘Then they’re wrong.’ I threw a hasty, fake smile over my discomfort at McNab once more digging up dead history. Very dead history. ‘I keep telling you, Superintendent, there’s a lot less to me than meets the eye. Can I go and talk to Lorna now?’

  ‘Just remember to keep your nose out of this business with MacFarlane.’ Lighting a Player’s, McNab took a long draw, then blew a jet of smoke out into the muggy Pollokshields night. ‘Or I’ll arrange a change of scenery for you myself. Am I clear?’

  ‘Crystal … If there’s one thing I can say about your veiled threats, Superintendent, it’s that they’re all threat and no veil.’

  Maggie MacFarlane poured me a Scotch while I sat and consoled her stepdaughter. Lorna’s real mother had died ten years before and Jimmy ‘Small Change’ MacFarlane had remarried. Maggie, his second wife, couldn’t have been any more than ten years older than Lorna.

  When some men achieve a certain age, provided they’ve also achieved an appropriate bank balance, they give up the family saloon for a flash sports car, all sleek lines and curves, and an exhilarating ride that makes them feel for a moment that they’re young again, even if they can’t quite cope with the horsepower. Second wives can be like that; Maggie MacFarlane was definitely like that, and at our initial meeting, the first time I called to pick up Lorna, Maggie had somehow given me the clear impression that if I ever wanted to take her for a quick spin, then that was just fine by her.

  ‘How are you holding up?’ I asked Maggie. Truth was she was holding up just fine. A little too fine.

  ‘I just can’t believe it,’ she said, handing me the Scotch and pouring herself one. ‘Poor Jimmy. Who would do such a thing?’

  I took my Scotch and put my arm around Lorna and persuaded her to take a sip of the whisky. She was at that stage where the crying had stopped and she simply sat ashen and still. She coughed and screwed her eyes tight as she swallowed the Scotch. The fire in the whisky seemed to catch light in her expression and she glowered at Maggie.

  ‘I have a few ideas,’ said Lorna in a low, spiteful mutter. Happy families. I was upset for Lorna’s sake; but I glanced at my watch: it was past closing time. And it was fast getting past the time when my secret knock could get me into the Horsehead Bar.

  I decided to break the tension. ‘Did you find the … I mean, was it you who found Mr MacFarlane?’ I asked Maggie.

  She sat down on the chesterfield opposite us, crossing her legs with a hiss of silk on silk. It was, of course, the most inappropriate time for me to take a look at her legs and I made a great effort not to. As usual, I failed. Her lips were deep crimson around the cigarette she lit: some fancy foreign brand with filters and a band of gold paper.

  ‘I was at a friend’s place in Bearsden,’ she said, holding me in a steady blue gaze. ‘I got back about an hour ago. When I got here I knew something was wrong because the front door was ajar. Then, when I went through to Jimmy’s study …’ She dropped her eyes and took a long slug of Scotch.

  ‘What did the police say?’

  ‘Not much. Just that they think it was a robbery. Someone who knew Jimmy would be coming back with the night’s Shawfield takings.’

  ‘Have the police mentioned any names?’

  Maggie was about to answer when McNab came into the living room without knocking. Knocking was something other people did.

  ‘Miss MacFarlane, could I ask you a few questions?’ He looked at me pointedly before adding: ‘In the kitchen might be best.’

  Maggie waited until Lorna and McNab had gone before answering. ‘No. No names. But I would imagine they have some ideas.’

  I gave a low laugh.
‘They’re not ideas people, the police. Thinking has an annoying habit of getting in the way of a conviction.’

  When Lorna came back from talking to McNab she was in tears; an effect his company often came close to having on me. I went back to dutifully comforting her, and stayed with daughter and stepmother without as much as once asking if Small Change had happened to mention anything about boxing tickets before his untimely demise. I was nothing if not a gentleman.

  From what I could pick up it looked like McNab was probably right: Small Change had had his brains bashed in for the night’s takings he had brought back. It would have been a tidy sum all right, but not so tidy as to be worth hanging for. And if McNab was personally involved in the case, then someone would definitely hang. I actually found myself grateful that I had the most solid of alibis.

  I hung around until about two a.m., by which time the police had gone. I promised to ring in the morning and left.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The streets I drove through to get back to my flat were deserted and I reflected that there were probably cemeteries more lively than Glasgow at two in the morning. That was probably why I was so aware of the headlights in my rear mirror. I wasn’t sure if they had been with me since Pollokshields, but they had certainly been there for long enough for me to become suspicious. I didn’t pull over outside my flat – instead I drove along Great Western Road and turned into Byres Road, taking a random right into a silent residential street lined with sandstone tenements and semi-detached houses, soot-stained darker than the night sky above them. The lights in my mirror held back as far as they could without losing me, but nonetheless followed my arbitrary route. Again completely at random, I pulled up outside a tenement, stepped out of the Atlantic, locked the door and walked with a sense of purpose into the tenement close.

  The car drove past. An Austin. One of the big jobs. Black or dark grey. The kind the police cruised around in. I saw a driver and passenger, but I couldn’t make out either figure other than that one of them had shoulders to make Atlas jealous. Small Change MacFarlane was a big enough fish all right, but I didn’t see why his case warranted so much attention. I didn’t see why I warranted so much attention from the police, given my tangential involvement. The car cruised around the corner and I heard the synchromesh get a grinding as it did a three-point somewhere out of sight. Stepping out of the shadows, I went back to my car and leaned against the wing, my arms folded, patiently waiting for the unmarked police car to drift around the corner. Sometimes I can be too smart for my own good.