The Long Glasgow Kiss

by Craig Russell

  I was just mentally complimenting myself on my excellent management of the situation when a mule kicked me to the right of my spine, just above the kidney. I heard two lungfuls of air pulse out of me and I was in that panicked, winded place where filling your body with oxygen fills the universe. The big guy in the raincoat who had kicked me grabbed my arms and pulled me back from his bonnet-sprawled partner. I was still struggling to catch a breath but knew if I didn’t pull myself together I was in for a kicking. Suddenly the big guy let go of me and I leaned forward, my hands resting on my knees, and pulled long deep breaths into my emptied lungs. I turned to see something that didn’t make any sense, then turned my attention back to my bloody-faced chum who was pulling himself up from the bonnet of the Wolseley. I now knew I only need concern myself with him: the thing that hadn’t made sense when I had turned around was seeing Alain Barnier behind me, very efficiently beating the crap out of the rain-coated thug.

  But I still had my hands full and kept focussed on my chum who was now pulling himself upright from the bonnet of the Wolseley. I took a step forward, ready to hit him when he came up. He wasn’t as stupid as I had taken him for, because he read my movement and, bracing his elbows on the bonnet, he swung his foot out and up. It was a vicious kick but it missed its target and I was able to grab his ankle. I gave his leg a hard yank and his body slid off the car’s bonnet like a ship being launched from a slipway. He came down onto the pavement hard and there was the sickening sound of his skull against the kerb. He lay still and for a moment I was genuinely worried that I had killed him. He put my mind at rest by giving a low moan.

  I heard the commotion continue behind me: Barnier and the other guy. Also shouts coming from the direction of the Carvery. I turned to see what was happening. The big man in the raincoat looked the tougher of the two goons and was certainly the bigger. I reckoned he would be more than a handful for Barnier, but when I turned around I saw that the undersized trilby had been knocked off his head. There was blood coming from a cut on his temple as well as from the mess of his mouth. It was Barnier who fascinated me: he stood back from his opponent; almost calm. I could see his eyes move, constantly checking the big guy’s hands, feet, face, as if reading every intention, anticipating every move. The big guy staggered forward and swung a clumsy, desperate hook at Barnier, who stepped back gracefully as if allowing an elderly lady to pass him on the boulevard. It was then I saw how the Frenchman had been doing so much damage to his opponent. He seemed to lean his entire body back and his leg swung round and up, the side of his foot like a scythe through the air. It slammed into the side of the big man’s head. Costello’s goon toppled like a felled tree.

  I took a few backward steps until I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Barnier, both of us ready should our playmates get up from the pavement. There was a huddle of people behind us on the steps of the Carvery and in the distance I heard the urgent trilling of a police car’s bells.

  ‘I ’phoned them,’ Barnier said to me in French and without turning to me. He was a cool one all right. ‘So we better get our story straight.’

  The goon whose head I had cracked on the pavement hauled himself upright, leaning on the wing of his car. He looked across at Barnier and me. His eyes were still a little glazed but he was focussed enough to see that we were ready to deal with any more fun and games and clearly decided that the playtime bell had rung. He picked up his pal’s trilby and poked him with his foot, muttering something about the police. The two goons clambered clumsily into the Wolseley and drove off.

  ‘Who were your chums?’ asked Barnier, again in French.

  ‘Dissatisfied customers,’ I said.

  ‘You best come back inside and get cleaned up.’

  I nodded and started to follow him into the Carvery, ignoring the arrival of a black police Wolseley 6/80. When we got to the front door, Barnier delivered me into the care of the geriatric bellboy who escorted me down some red carpeted stairs to the gents’ toilets. There was an attendant there who looked shocked, so I guessed that my face must have been a mess. However, when I looked in the mirror above the wash-hand basins, it didn’t look too bad and I asked for a wet towel to hold against my cheek to keep it from swelling up and bruising too much. While I waited for the towel, I washed my hands and face, cupping some cold water and running it over the back of my neck. I had to ease myself up slowly from the basin, pressing a hand gingerly into the small of my back, where the raincoat had kicked me. I was getting too old for this.

  I dried myself off, straightened my collar and tie and got my elderly bellhop in the monkey jacket to dust down my jacket before helping me on with it.

  ‘Perfectly dreadful, sir,’ he said with genuine dismay. ‘Perfectly dreadful that one can’t mind one’s own business without being accosted and robbed in the street.’

  I nodded and smiled wearily. That was obviously the story Barnier had given them when he told them to call the cops. I pressed the damp towel to my cheek. The old hop disappeared back up the stairs and came down a minute later with ice wrapped in a napkin. I was impressed he could move so fast. I leaned against the porcelain tiled wall and held the ice to the side of my face. After a few minutes I tipped both the hop and the toilet attendant and headed back up the red-carpeted stairs to the lounge. When I got there, Barnier was at the front door talking to the two police constables. It was the tenor of the place that the uniforms had to stay at the front door, not even being allowed to conduct their interview in a staff room or office. Whatever it was that Barnier had said to them, they were clearly satisfied with it and they headed off back to the car without taking a statement from me. The one thing I noticed about Barnier was that there wasn’t a mark on him and the impeccable grey flannel was still impeccable. He came over to me, slapped me on the shoulder and grinned.

  ‘I think you could do with another cognac, no?’

  ‘I could do with another cognac, yes,’ I said.

  We went back and sat at the same booth. ‘What did you say to get rid of the cops?’ I asked.

  ‘I told them that you were my cousin from Quebec and that you couldn’t speak a word of English. I told them that the two guys outside had tried to rob you and that I and the manager in here had seen the whole thing. I gave them a phoney description of the car and sent them on their way.’

  ‘They didn’t want to speak to me?’

  ‘I told them you spoke only French and that you were going home in a couple of days and that you did not want the complication of pressing charges or having to delay travelling.’

  ‘And they were satisfied with that?’

  ‘This is the police we are discussing, my friend. Dealing with a foreign national who is about to head off home is complicated. And if there is one thing I have learned about policemen the world over, it is that they do not like complications. Now, why not tell me what that was really all about. Has it some connection to young Mr Pollock’s disappearance?’

  ‘Yes. Or at least in a way. Sammy Pollock was hanging around with Paul Costello. He’s the son of Jimmy Costello. Have you heard of Jimmy Costello?’

  Barnier gave another Gallic shrug and shook his head.

  ‘Costello is a crook and a thug. Small-time stuff, but he has a small gang. Our two dancing partners would be paid-up members. Costello also has a waster of a son. It takes something to be such a wash-out that you’re a disappointment to the underworld, but that’s what young Paul is. Anyway, he was hanging around with Sammy Pollock before he went missing. He also had a key for Sammy’s apartment. I took it from him and we had a frank exchange of views. So frank that I think I may have cracked the odd bone.’

  ‘And Papa Costello is not pleased?’

  ‘It would appear not. But, to be honest, I don’t think he gives a shit. That outside was him going through the motions. He maybe doesn’t really care about me giving his son a slap, but he has to be seen to take exception. Big people for appearances, our criminal fraternity chums …’

  ‘Well, I th
ink you may receive a return visit from your friends. Or their colleagues.’ He arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Maybe I should hang around you. That was pretty fancy foot-work.’

  ‘Savate. French Foot Fighting. It is sometimes called the jeu Marseillais because it became very popular in Marseille in the last century. Sailors, you see. The idea is that if you are fighting on a ship at sea, then it is better to have a hand free to hang onto something if the ship is pitching.’

  ‘Yeah …’ I said. I’d heard of savate, but what I’d seen outside had been something more. ‘But I thought that savate was a type of street fighting. Dockers and sailors. If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t strike me as someone who spent his youth brawling in the backstreets of Marseille.’

  ‘Do I not?’ Barnier replied. ‘Perhaps not. But if there’s one thing I have learned in life, it’s that people are very seldom who we think they are. Anyway, savate has become a little gentrified over the years. A sport. Alexandre Dumas fils studied it.’ I watched the Frenchman’s cruel, handsome face. The smile he framed with the trimmed moustache and goatee beard had something knowing about it. And something melancholic. He struck me as a weary, sad Satan.

  ‘Well, whatever its origins,’ I said. ‘I was glad of it. Thanks for your help out there. And with the police.’

  Barnier gave a small shrug.

  There seemed to be nothing more to say to each other and my feet took me back out onto the street and to my car. This time there were no heavies waiting for me. For the moment. I would have to deal with the Costello situation sooner or later. As I opened the door of the Atlantic, I looked back towards the Merchants’ Carvery. Barnier was at the window of the lounge bar, watching; just as he must have done when he saw Costello’s men jump me.

  Barnier bothered me. I had no reason to doubt what he had told me about his relationship, or lack of it, with Sammy Pollock. What was bothering me probably had nothing to do with that at all. It was just that there was something about the Frenchman. Some shadow he dragged around with him. And for a wine merchant, he certainly knew how to handle himself.

  I called in at Lorna’s on the way back to my flat. I had hoped that the cold compress had stopped the side of my face swelling up and bruising too much, but it was still tender to the touch and Lorna noticed it as soon as I arrived.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked as she let me in, but her concern was grief-dulled and she was content with a dismissive shrug and a mumbled ‘It’s nothing …’

  We sat in the living room, alone. Maggie MacFarlane was out. Making arrangements, she had told Lorna. I wondered how many of those arrangements would involve the matinee idol I saw pull up the day before.

  Lorna looked tired and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. I spoke softly and soothingly and did all of the right things that a sensitive suitor should do. After a while, and when the moment seemed to open up and allow it, I asked her about the visitor in the Lanchester–Daimler. She looked at me blankly for a moment.

  ‘Tall, dark hair … moustache,’ I prompted.

  A look of dull enlightenment crossed her expression. ‘Oh yes… Jack. Jack Collins. He was Dad’s partner. And he’s a family friend.’

  ‘Partner? I didn’t think that your father had a partner.’

  ‘Oh, no, not in the bookie business. Jack Collins is involved with boxing. He arranges matches. I think he’s like an agent or promoter for some of the fights. He and my father were putting together some fights. They had set up a company together. Jack and my dad were … close. Jack really is like a member of the family.’

  ‘They weren’t involved in arranging this Kirkcaldy–Schmidtke fight, were they?’

  ‘No … nothing as big as that. Why are you asking?’

  ‘Just curious,’ I said. ‘Why was he round here yesterday?’

  ‘He’s been helping sort out some of the business stuff.’

  ‘I see. Helping your stepmother?’

  Lorna looked at me puzzled. Then it dawned on her. ‘Oh no. Nothing like that. Trust me, I wouldn’t put it past Maggie. I wouldn’t put anything past Maggie. But I don’t think Jack is in the slightest bit interested. Apparently he has a string of glamorous girlfriends.’ She made an attempt at a mischievous smile, but her sadness washed it away as if it had been drawn in sand. ‘Like I said, Jack and Dad were very close. There’s no way Jack would …’

  ‘What did he want? Last night, I mean?’

  ‘Just to see if he could help. And he was looking for some papers that Dad had.’

  ‘Did he find them?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  I had a drink with Lorna and she clung to me again when I was leaving. I fought down the sense of irritation that seemed to well up inside me. Again Lorna was breaking our contract of being mutually undemanding. I was, I thought to myself, a real piece of work.

  When I got back to my apartment, I used the ’phone in the hall to call Sheila Gainsborough at the number she had given me for her agent. The same light, effeminate voice answered. I asked to speak to Miss Gainsborough: there was a sigh and a silence, then she came on the line. I went through the progress I had made, which didn’t take long.

  ‘Have you heard from Sammy at all?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing.’ The transatlantic voice sounded tired and strained. ‘I was hoping …’

  ‘I’m still looking, Miss Gainsborough. I spoke to the Frenchman, Barnier. He doesn’t seem to know Sammy that well after all.’

  ‘Doesn’t he?’ She sounded surprised. But only vaguely. ‘Sammy mentioned him a couple of times. I thought they knew each other.’

  ‘Oh, he does know Sammy. Just not that well.’

  We talked for another few minutes: there was little more she could tell me and there was less I could tell her. I promised to keep her fully informed of progress.

  After I hung up I felt something dead and leaden in my chest. Every time I thought about Sammy Pollock, the picture darkened a little.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When the war ended, Britain had committed itself to a more equitable society. Maybe that was why, when Beveridge and company were planning the Welfare State and a fair deal for all, Willie Sneddon, Jonny Cohen and Hammer Murphy were coming up with the Three King deal. The whole idea had been to divide up Glasgow equally between them. Fair shares.

  The cake may have been cut up equally, but somehow Willie Sneddon had managed to grab most of the icing. Of the Three Kings, Sneddon was by far the richest. No one really knew – but many suspected – how he had managed to amass just quite so much wealth. It was a quandary that had no doubt cost Hammer Murphy more than his fair share of sleepless nights trying to work out. Truth was that, if you knew Willie Sneddon, it wasn’t that much of a mystery. There was something dark, cunning and devious about his nature, even more than you would expect from your average crime lord. Sneddon was a wheeler and dealer. More than just a criminal, he was a criminal entrepreneur, always seeking out that extra angle; always trying to find some new way of squeezing a penny out of a situation.

  I knew – although I never discussed it with him – that the bulk of Jonny Cohen’s money did not come from his clubs and other rackets. The main source of Jonny’s income came from large-scale criminal acts: robberies mainly, break-ins, long firm frauds, the odd bit of extortion. With Jonny Cohen – and Hammer Murphy, for that matter – the bulk of their earnings came from big hits which yielded large sums of cash. The big score. Willie Sneddon was in the same line of business, but everyone knew that he had so many other deals and rackets running at the same time that he had a steady, constant cash harvest. Added to all of this there was the other dimension of his activities: Willie Sneddon the businessman. Sneddon had displayed genuine acumen for legitimate business, even if it had been founded on stolen, extorted or counterfeited cash. Like most big league crooks, he had started a number of seemingly legitimate concerns, fronts through which to launder dirty money. Where Sneddon had distinguished himself from the usual ro
bber barons was in the way he had been able to turn these fronts into genuinely successful and legitimate businesses.

  But it never took much scratching to expose the brass crook under the gilt veneer. The fact was that wherever there was a shilling to be made, crooked or legit, Sneddon had the nose to sniff it out.

  All of this meant that Sneddon, unlike the recently deceased Small Change MacFarlane, had been able to make it across the social Rubicon of the Clyde. And then some. The Sneddon residence, a large mock-baronial mansion on a plot of land so big it could have had its own Lord Lieutenant and council, was in the leafiest and most upmarket end of leafy and upmarket Bearsden. I knew that he counted a High Court judge, a couple of shipyard owners, and several other captains of industry amongst his neighbours. I wondered how the judge felt about sharing a laburnum and privet border with Glasgow’s most successful criminal. But there again, Willie Sneddon had attained the level of wealth and influence within the city where some of the people he had dealings with no doubt thought it bad taste to bring up some of the more dubious origins of that wealth.

  And, of course, the odd brown envelope stuffed with cash would have helped. Glasgow was a city where anything could be bought. Even respectability.

  I couldn’t put off seeing Sneddon any longer. He would be looking for news and the only news I had for him was that putting me on the Bobby Kirkcaldy case was a waste of time and that Maggie MacFarlane had confirmed that Small Change never kept a secret appointments diary.

  It wasn’t raining. There was a more than half-hearted sun behind a milky veil of cloud and the air wasn’t heavy and oppressively humid as it had been. I got up, shaved, and dressed in a pale blue silk shirt with dark burgundy tie and a two-button two-piece: deep blue with a touch of mohair spun through it. It had no weight and hung well and had cost me an arm and a leg. Deep blue socks and burgundy Oxfords. I brushed the shoulders of the suit jacket, donned it, and straightened my tie in the mirror. I put on my new hat, a skinny-brimmed Borsalino, and checked myself in the mirror. Damn, this suit hung well. It seemed such a shame to bag it down with the weight, but I was expecting that I would, sooner or later, run into Costello or a member or two of his robust entourage.