I made it to the top of the hill and seemed to be on the edge of a golf course. There was brush and some meagre trees to give me shelter and I looked down at where the road swept around the edge of Lyle Hill. The view was breathtaking: out across the Clyde to the mountains of the Cowal Peninsula. Immediately below was Greenock on one side and Gourock on the other. And, further out, the Tail of the Bank. This had been the departure point for my parents when they took me, as a baby, to start a new life in Canada.
But what struck me most about what I was looking at was the fact that Barnier had stopped at the monument that commanded the best of the view. The memorial was in the form of a vast white ship’s anchor, the shaft of which thrust dramatically up into the sky. But instead of having the usual rode-eye at the top, the anchor shaft had two beams cross it, one shorter than the other. A Cross of Lorraine. As a piece of civic sculpture, it could not have been more dramatic. And I knew something about what it commemorated.
I watched Barnier. It was difficult to tell if he was waiting for someone or if the monument had some particular significance for him. He stood as if reading the inscription on the base. Then he turned and leaned against the border rail, with his back to me, and seemed to be gazing out over the Firth of Clyde. He stood there for a good ten minutes before turning and heading back towards his car. I cursed inwardly. I had been sure he was going to meet someone, and the monument seemed an ideal place for a rendezvous. But I had probably just watched too many Orson Welles movies.
I scrabbled down the side of the hill as fast as I could to get back to the Atlantic. If Barnier turned back down the hill then I would have to hurry or lose him. As I scrambled, fingers of tree branch snagged at my suit to impede my descent. My hat came off a couple of times and it was only by some nifty goal-keeping that I saved my Borsalino from the mud. I burst out from the green web of bushes and onto the road, a few feet from where I had parked the Atlantic.
You see it all the time in Westerns. The settlers look up from the pass and spot the menacingly still and silent silhouettes of mounted Apaches or banditos up on the hillside looking down on them. The Badlands.
Port Glasgow was Scotland’s equivalent of the Painted Desert, and when I came out onto the road again there were three Teddy Boy Comancheros waiting by my car. My gut feeling was that there was nothing professional or organized about this encounter: it had nothing to do with my tailing of Barnier and was just your run-of-the-mill Scottish small-industrial-town thuggery. I reckoned that they were all about nineteen. They clearly identified themselves with the emerging Teddy Boy fashion, but none of them had been able to put together a complete assembly. Instead one wore the thigh-length jacket, one had drainpipe trousers and the jacketless third thug had had to settle for a bootlace tie.
Between them they had enough oil in their hair to lubricate a battle ship and an array of skin conditions impressive enough to keep a dermatologist on a stipend.
‘This your car, pal?’ the youth with the Teddy Boy jacket asked. He was clearly the leader; maybe that was why he’d got the jacket. He was leaning against the wing of the Atlantic and looked relaxed. A bad sign. Confidence in any kind of physical encounter is half the battle. The other two just looked at me with a dull-eyed lack of interest, as if this was something they did every day, which it probably was.
‘Yeah, this is my car,’ I sighed, brushing the worst of the leaves and mud from my suit trousers.
‘We’ve been looking after it for you,’ said one of the others. I had to concentrate hard: I hadn’t brought my Greenock phrase-book with me. It had taken me years to understand the Glasgow accent. But Greenock was beyond the pale.
‘I appreciate that,’ I said with a smile. I took my keys out of my pocket and headed to the door. No rush now. I was going to have to let Barnier get away. I had more immediate problems. The leader in the Edwardian jacket slid along the wing and positioned himself in front of the door.
‘Well, it’s like this. You could’ve come back here and found your tyres all flat and fuck knows what else. But we was here to make sure nobody touched it. So we think that you should maybes give us a couple of quid, like.’
His two mates took up position on either side of me, squaring their shoulders. Not much to square.
‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘Very enterprising of you. But the trick is to ask for the money first, Einstein.’
He furrowed his brow. Not anger, just uncertainty about the insult. I realized he didn’t have a clue who Einstein was. I was going to have to learn to keep my references simple. I sighed and reached into my pocket and the frown on his pimply brow eased. It shouldn’t have.
They were just kids. I knew that and I didn’t want trouble. But I knew they would have beaten the crap out of me so they could empty my pockets and probably steal the car, given half the chance. In the army, I learned that if there’s a threat, you have to neutralize it. And I’d done more than my fair share of neutralizing. So I decided to feel sorry for them later.
I drew the sap out of my inside pocket and, again in a single, continuous movement, backhanded the lead Teddy across the temple with it. The youth on my right lunged forward and I jabbed out the hand I held my car keys in. The key split his cheek and chipped against his teeth. He screamed and staggered back, clutching his bleeding face. The third thug reached into his pocket and started to pull out a razor. I swung the sap at him, not taking time to aim properly. By luck it caught him on the side of his weak chin and he dropped stone-out. The first guy started to ease himself up from the ground and I dissuaded him with the heel of my Gibson across his mouth. The thug with the keyhole in his cheek was running back down the hill, still clutching his face and crying.
Pulling the lead hooligan out of my way, I got into the Atlantic and headed back down Lyle Hill. Halfway down I passed the running, crying youth. I rolled down my window and, beaming a smile at him, asked him if he needed a lift. I guessed he preferred to walk because he just stared at me wildly, turned on his heel and started running in the opposite direction, back up the hill.
I pulled over to where Barnier had parked. The monument was set in a rectangle edged with railings and a gate repeating the cross of Lorraine motif. I got out and stood, taking in the view for a moment before reading the inscription on the base of the monument:
THIS MONUMENT IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAILORS OF THE FREE FRENCH NAVAL FORCES WHO SAILED FROM GREENOCK IN THE YEARS 1940–1945 AND GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE BATTLE OF THE ATLANTIC FOR THE LIBERATION OF FRANCE AND THE SUCCESS OF THE ALLIED CAUSE
On the other panels, specific Free French vessels were mentioned: the submarine SURCOUF, the corvettes ALYSSE and MIMOSA. But, as everyone knew, while the monument may have been officially dedicated to all of the Free French sailors who had been based in Scotland during the war, it had a very special significance for a particular group of Frenchmen. And related to a particular event. Something that had happened before the Free French forces were officially formed. Something that happened right here, within sight of the spot where the monument now stood.
And Alain Barnier seemed to be connected to it.
I didn’t see the road as I drove back to Glasgow. And I didn’t think much about what had brought me to Greenock. Someone was poking away again at that curled-up sleeping thing and had switched on the light in the room at the back of my brain. I saw a name. Maillé-Brézé.
But the ghosts of dead French seamen weren’t the only things that were nagging at me. I should have been happy that I had stopped beating on the three thugs as soon as they no longer represented a threat to me. That I had displayed an element of restraint. Even a few months earlier, once I had the advantage, I would have given them a serious hiding. A hospital hiding. I should have been happy. But I wasn’t.
The truth was that I had still enjoyed it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was a good seat. It wasn’t ringside. It wasn’t two, three or even four rows from ringside. But as I sat there in my black tie and tux, I had a pret
ty good view of the fight even if I had an even better view of the back of Willie Sneddon’s head as he sat ringside with his guest, a Glasgow Corporation councillor and head honcho of the Planning Department. The only thing that impeded my view was the curtain of tobacco smoke that hung in the air. It hung more heavily over the front two rows. The cigar class rows.
I sat next to my dates. Sneddon had been able to swing an extra couple of tickets for me and I had done my own little bit of suborning hospitality. Jock Ferguson was the kind of copper usually immune to inducement, but he had leapt at the chance to see the title fight. And it would do me no harm to patch up the bridge between us a little. Everyone knew, because the movies told us so, that the FBI was incorruptible, and anyway Dex Devereaux was not, officially, a peace officer while on this side of the Atlantic. So he had nothing to lose by accepting my invitation.
It had been remarkably easy to get the tickets from Sneddon. As soon as I told him I wanted to sweeten a couple of coppers, he handed over the tickets without a word of complaint.
I sat there and watched as the fighters – Schmidtke first, then challenger Kirkcaldy – made their way into the ring. Schmidtke was a German and there remained a huge anti-German sentiment throughout Britain. But despite all of the problems of poverty, sectarianism, violence and drink that afflicted them, Glaswegians were a warm bunch. I had been brought up in Atlantic Canada amongst open, friendly people. Maybe that’s why I liked it here. In any case, there was no booing or jeering when Schmidtke entered the ring, just a polite, restrained applause. There was an explosion of cheering and whistling as soon as Kirkcaldy entered the ring. There is no greater passion in Glasgow than pride, and Kirkcaldy was their boy.
As the bout began, I felt strange sitting there with the knowledge that only I, Sneddon and Bert Soutar had: that Kirkcaldy was stepping into the ring with a time bomb ticking away in his chest. I watched him move fluidly and without effort, just as he had the last twice I had seen him fight – without a hint of any deficit of stamina. It was not the most exhilarating of fights. Schmidtke seemed to be pacing himself, and both boxers were out-fighting, each keeping his opponent at a distance and weighing up any potential strategic weakness. It was not Schmidtke’s usual style and the second round was as uninspiring as the first. Both fighters seemed over-cautious and unwilling to open up.
When the third round went the same way, I could sense my fellow spectators becoming restless. I could understand why Kirkcaldy was circumspect about launching any kind of energy-sapping onslaught, but I couldn’t see why Schmidtke was holding back. Unless Schmidtke’s thinking was that if it ended up going the distance, there was always the tendency for a split decision to go the title-holder’s way.
But, there again, there was always the chance that Kirkcaldy had come to an arrangement that would allow him to end his career with a championship belt.
It was in the eighth round that I guessed I had been wrong. The German came out of his corner with the same tentativeness as in the previous rounds. His head low and defence tight.
It was the simplest of errors: Kirkcaldy swung an uncharacteristically loose right. It wasn’t so much that Kirkcaldy telegraphed the hook, as announced it with a gold-edged invitation complete with the times for carriages. The German answered the RSVP with an arcing hook that hurt me just to watch it connect. It lifted Kirkcaldy off his feet and he shoulder-slammed the canvas. Half of the spectators, including Jock Ferguson, leapt to their feet and there was a deafening explosion of shouts. The referee backed the German towards his corner with a hand to the chest and started counting out Kirkcaldy. The Scotsman shook the crap out of his head and stood up swiftly, bouncing on the balls of his feet and nodding to the ref. Once you’d kissed canvas, if you wanted to avoid a technical knock-out, you had instantly to convince the referee that you were okay, usually with an overdone display of bright athleticism. The ref backed Kirkcaldy into a neutral corner and checked his eyes before retaking the centre of the ring and indicating, with a gesture like drawing curtains, for the fighters to come together and recommence the match.
The German’s massive shoulders dipped and rose as he came out of his corner. There was a new energy in them. Kirkcaldy tried to outflank every new attack, but the German just kept driving him into the ropes, raining in vicious hooks.
I could see it now: Kirkcaldy’s face was pale, almost white, the lividity of the bruises around his eyes stark against his whiter skin. He launched an attack to drive Schmidtke back, but the German stood planted, rooted to the canvas, his bulky arms working like pistons, driving one blow after another into Kirkcaldy’s body.
Again it was clumsy. Schmidtke caught Kirkcaldy a legal hair’s breadth above the belt. Kirkcaldy dropped his elbows, bringing his guard down. Two successive jabs to his face, followed by a vicious, ugly bolo punch stunned the Scotsman. Then Schmidtke made his delivery. The dazed Kirkcaldy was probably the only person in the auditorium who didn’t see it coming: every single ounce of Schmidtke’s weight behind a roundhouse right that seemed to take an age to connect. But it did. Right on the side of Kirkcaldy’s jaw and the Scotsman went limp and crashed into the canvas. The German had his hands above his head grinning a gumshield grin and jumping on the spot before the referee had finished his count.
Everybody was on their feet, shouting, cheering and some booing now: less with hurt nationalistic pride and more with suspicion that they had just been witness to amateur dramatics instead of professional boxing.
I stood too, but I wasn’t applauding. I was watching the referee, Uncle Bert Soutar, and a fat, middle-aged man in a dinner suit and with a leather Gladstone bag crouched over Kirkcaldy. Even the German had stopped his triumphal dance.
The noise of the crowd was still deafening, but I felt as if a curtain had been pulled between me and them; as if I was the only person really seeing what was happening in the ring.
‘Christ … he’s dead …’ I said, my voice so drowned out by the crowd that I barely heard it myself.
‘Waddya say?’ Dex Devereaux shouted, still clapping, leaning in towards me.
I still watched the scene in the ring. Bert Soutar and the doctor were now helping Kirkcaldy to his feet. Kirkcaldy nodded vaguely to them, and Schmidtke, with a relief I could feel four rows back, embraced his defeated opponent. Kirkcaldy was helped from the ring to the cheers and jeers of the spectators.
After the fight, Dex Devereaux, Jock Ferguson and I made our way to the exits. I had hoped to talk to Willie Sneddon, but I’d lost sight of him. My guess was that he would not be a happy bunny. No matter what other schemes Kirkcaldy had come up with and cooperated with, he had cost Sneddon money. Costing Sneddon money was not something it was advisable for anyone to do. I did see Tony the Pole though. I excused myself from Ferguson and Devereaux for a moment.
‘Whaddya say? Whaddya hear Tony?’ I said smiling.
Tony didn’t smile back. ‘Iz a fugging dizgraze, Lennogs,’ he said gloomily, ignoring our traditional greeting. ‘A load ov fugging bollogs. Whit vaz zat like?’
‘Not a good night for you, Tony?’
‘Ziz fuggin carry-on haz cost me a fugging vortune.’
‘I suppose none of the local bookies will be happy with this result.’
‘Naw? You’d be zurprized, Lennogs. Not everythink iz vat it zeems. Zere’s at leazd vone baztart iz goin’ home happy.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, almost yelling to be heard. But Tony the Pole had been collared by a punter energetically waving a betting slip.
‘Azk Jack Collins aboot zat. Aye … you go an’ azk Jack Collins …’ Tony called, before turning his attention back to his punter. I left him to it and rejoined my guests.
I took Ferguson and Devereaux to the Horsehead Bar. It was well past closing time and Ferguson made a point of finding interesting something far off and down the street while I gave my coded knock. There were as many as twenty regulars inside the pub. Big Bob was on the bar.
‘We’re not looking for waiters
, Lennox,’ he said, grinning inanely and taking in our dinner suits and black ties. ‘What’ll you be having then?’
‘You know Inspector Ferguson, don’t you Bob?’ I asked.
Bob eyed Ferguson and sighed. ‘On the house, obviously.’
I indicated a quiet table in the corner for Ferguson and Devereaux to take their drinks over.
‘For fuck’s sake, Lennox,’ said Bob when they were out of earshot. ‘Who the fuck you going to bring next … the chief constable?’
‘I wouldn’t do that, Bob. I always take him to the Saracen’s Sword … classier joint. Anyway, I thought this was the night-shift canteen for the City of Glasgow Police.’
‘Aye, a dozen or so bluebottles who think their uniform entitles them to limitless free fucking beer. If I start on the management ranks it’ll be handouts as well and I’ll be truly fucked.’
‘Don’t worry, Bob,’ I said. ‘Ferguson is a straight copper.’
‘Aye? They’re the ones you’ve got to watch.’
Ain’t that the truth, I thought, as I took my drink and joined Devereaux and Ferguson in the corner.
‘So,’ said Devereaux. ‘What did you think of the fight?’
‘I really thought our boy would have given that kraut bastard a run for his money,’ said Ferguson. ‘But it was a bit of a walkover in the end.’
‘You?’ Devereaux nodded in my direction. ‘What did you think, Lennox?
I shrugged. ‘You never can tell with these things.’
‘Really?’ said Devereaux. ‘I think someone could tell the way that fight was going to turn out.’
‘A fix?’ Ferguson looked up from his beer. ‘You think it was rigged?’
‘Four, five rounds of dancing around each other, then the door’s left open for a couple of killer punches? You bet it was rigged,’ said Devereaux.
‘But Kirkcaldy’s on his way to the top. Everyone thought he had a good chance of picking up the European belt tonight. Why would he throw a fight?’
The Long Glasgow Kiss Page 27