It had changed. They'd installed a wall-mounted tape recorder since my last visit, but I doubted if Newman and Hardy ever switched it on. They were waiting, the two of them on the same side of the desk. I sat down opposite them and lit up another Camel.
"Do I get a phone call?" I asked.
"Later," Hardy said.
"In the morning," Newman said.
"And are you holding me on anything?"
"Drunk and disorderly," Hardy said, smiling.
"And resisting arrest," Newman added.
"Do you guys have to do that?" I asked.
"Do..." said Hardy.
"...what?" said Newman, and they both smiled at me. It was like being smiled at by a pair of hungry tigers.
"Tell us about McIntyre," Hardy said.
"Tommy McIntyre? I was round at his shop earlier," I said. "I'm looking for something and I thought he might be able to help me find it."
I expected them to ask what it was that I was looking for, but either they already knew or they were saving it for later.
"John Harris, Jimmy Allen, and now Tommy McIntyre," Newman said. "All dead, all with the same M.O., and all not long after talking to you. Are you beginning to see a pattern here?"
"Tommy's dead? When? I only saw him this..."
I didn't get a chance to finish.
"Tommy's hoor Mandy eyeballed you this afternoon, and we've got the cab driver who took you to The Rock at ten past eight. Your wee business card was in Tommy's jacket pocket, with the time-'eight o'clock' written on the back. Do you want to bet your prints are in the shop?" Hardy said.
"And we've got a wifie who says she saw you on the bus yesterday with John Harris. She said you were acting pally with him," Newman said.
I shivered.
"Can I at least get my clothes back?"
"Forensics," Newman said.
"Might take a while," Hardy said.
"Now about Pervy Tommy?" Newman said.
I told them my story, from start to finish. The only thing I left out was who I was working for, and what I was looking for.
"That trip to Dunblane?" Hardy said.
"Awfully convenient for you," Newman said.
"Aye," I said. "I suppose it's the only reason I'm not sitting here charged with murder?"
"There's time yet," Newman said.
"Plenty of time," said Hardy.
It was all down hill from there. They went over my story time and time again, looking for cracks, hoping for an inconsistency. I chain-smoked Camels, and they got more agitated. There was a window high on the wall above me and thin watery sunlight was beginning to seep in when they finally stopped.
Newman left the room, while Hardy just sat and stared at me. Newman came back with a pile of clothes and dropped them on the table in front of me. The stink of stale vomit assaulted my nasal passages.
"No blood. No bits of Tommy McIntyre," he said. "And the coroner is now saying that the wounds were caused by an animal-some kind of exotic snake he's never seen before."
"That doesn't mean you're off the hook," Hardy said.
"Aye. We'll be keeping an eye on you," Newman said.
"I know," I said. "Don't leave town, stay in touch, all that happy-crappy."
"Aye. You know the drill," Hardy said.
"Just hope that nobody else you talk to turns up dead," Newman said.
"You mean like the pair of you?" I said, and smiled as I saw a momentary shock in both their eyes. I had finally got to 'Stan and Ollie'.
That thought kept me mildly happy as I dressed then signed at the desk for my watch, keys, wallet and lighter. I felt sure I should have had more money in the wallet, but I wasn't in a position to argue.
* * *
The sun was just coming up as I left the station and headed down the steps to Maryhill Road. An office cleaner passed me, and she looked me up and down before turning up her nose.
"Rough night, son?" she said.
I grunted at her, and lit another cigarette. Combined with my first fresh air for twelve hours, it brought on a fit of coughing.
She stepped back away from me.
"If you're going to throw up, do it over in the bushes," she said, pointing me over to her left. "It's my turn to do the steps, and I don't need any more shit than I get already."
I nodded-I wasn't ready to speak again just yet.
The rain had finally stopped, and the streets glistened silver in the new sun. Milkmen and paperboys were out and about, and young executives keen to make their mark revved up their BMWs.
The town was waking up for the day, but it was welcome to it. I trudged wearily home, dropped my clothes on the bedroom floor, and fell into bed. I was unconscious in seconds.
4
I didn't wake up again till gone one o'clock in the afternoon. I stood under the coldest shower for ten minutes, and even then it took two coffees and a cigarette to get my brain into gear. There was a pervading stink of stale vomit in the bedroom, and it was only then that I remembered the sickness on my trousers. After consigning all of yesterday's clothes to the washing machine I went to search my admittedly sparse wardrobe.
I had to settle for a very old pair of black jeans that were faded to a charcoal gray, and a white cotton shirt that had been pulled and twisted until it looked like I carried several bags of potatoes under it. I partially covered it with a black waistcoat, but I looked too much like an extra from The Godfather that it had to go. I found an old black cord jacket that looked slightly better. All I needed was Doug's spectacles and I'd look like a schoolteacher. And least I didn't look like I meant to kill anybody.
I realized that I felt ready for work, raring to go. Sometime during the night, or maybe during my sleep, I'd finished mourning Wee Jimmy, and my maudlin period over Liz had passed for a couple more months.
I poured another coffee. It had stewed to a thick black consistency that was just about what I needed at that point.
I was ready. I sat at my desk and lifted The Little Sister from the drawer. Five minutes later I was lost completely, and it was only when I lifted my coffee and found it was cold that I came back. I'd been away, to somewhere where men were men and lost woman with problems were not all that they seemed. I knew what he meant.
I noticed with a shock that it was getting on for three o'clock. Tonight was the night that Durban went out to play with his 'old folk', and I meant to find out what went on-I'd have to get a move on if I wanted to be in place at the right time to follow him.
I checked the weather before going out, and realized that I'd need a coat. I chose my long cream Macintosh. I belted it up, turned up the collar, and did my Bogey impressions in front of the mirror for a while. I still couldn't keep a cigarette in my mouth for more than five seconds at a time-I'd never fathom how he did it. I decided against the trilby. I'd bought it a long time ago, but never had the nerve to wear it out in Glasgow. There's only so much abuse that I was prepared to take.
There was no mail in the box at the bottom of the stairs, not even any bills, which was just as well-I was spending my fee just about as fast as I was making it. In that last hour before Newman and Hardy turned up in The Rock, I'd bought too many drinks for people I didn't know, and they were only too happy to take them. Then again, I'd just made a couple of hundred pounds while locked up in a police station. That story might get me some of the drinks back the next time I was in.
I had a long look around the parked cars when I got to street level, but there were no police-types loitering in the area. Either Stan and Ollie weren't having me followed yet, or policemen had got a lot better at blending in with their environment.
Although it was raining, the sun, low in the sky and slanting through thin cloud, hurt my eyes, and I was seriously thinking about investing in a pair of sunglasses. Then I remembered that I lived in Glasgow-it wasn't worth it, not for ten days out of a year.
Old Joe was in his usual place behind the counter in the newsagents. He saw me coming and waved two packs of cigarett
es at me-Camels in one hand, Marlboro in the other. He raised an eyebrow. I plumped for the Marlboro; my throat wouldn't take much more of the others.
He also handed me an early edition of the Evening Express.
"I missed you this morning, Derek. Out working?"
"Aye. Something like that," I said, but didn't elaborate. Joe had one of the loosest mouths in town, and it wouldn't be good business if it got around that I'd spent a night with Glasgow's finest boys in blue.
Not that the news wouldn't get around quickly enough anyway-the bush telegraph was highly efficient in this part of Glasgow. I just didn't see why I should be the one to set it going.
Joe seemed distracted, though. He had begun talking again almost before I'd answered him.
"It's a shame about auld Jimmy. Who would dae a thing like that to an old man? Hanging's too good for the likes of them."
I muttered something that I hoped sounded like agreement, not wanting to get drawn into the argument. Joe believed that all of societies ills would be cured by bringing back the birch, locking up everyone under the age of twenty-one, then putting them in the army. He also advocated the automatic death penalty for anything involving bodily harm, forced repatriation for all non-whites, and the cutting off of body parts for theft.
Some days I knew how he felt and even came close to agreeing with him, but today wasn't one of them.
"Anyway," he said, "the funeral's tomorrow-twelve o'clock at St Bridget's in Clarkston. Will I see you there?"
"Aye, sure," I said. "I'll come and see the old chap off. Somebody's got to."
"Oh, you needn't worry on that score. The old man had plenty of friends. There'll be a big turnout."
I gave him a wave as I left. He went back to standing still behind the counter. The old man stood there, day in, day out, for more than fifteen hours. He had a wife who took over to allow him time to eat, but the rest of the time he stood there, from six a.m. to nine p.m., every day including Christmas. It was either dedication or stupidity. I wasn't sure which, but I wished I had his stamina.
I also wished he'd find something new to sing-it had been 'Just One Cornetto' for ten years now, and at times I could cheerfully strangle him. Today, though, I gave him a smile as I left. I didn't tell him that three of the people I'd talked to in the last forty-eight hours were dead. He'd probably stay behind the counter and wait for it to come for him.
It was only when I got to the car and threw the paper down on the passenger seat that I noticed the headline:
UNCLE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN
Pawnbrokers close all over the city as terror strikes
Beneath that there was an old picture of Tommy McIntyre and some sparse details of his murder. From the story it was obvious that the police weren't giving out any info. I guessed that some of the more prurient information came from Mandy. Sure enough, on page three there was a full-length picture of her in a bikini. I nearly choked when I read the text.
* * *
Mandy McDowell, 29, a glamour model, was the last person to see the deceased alive. She had entered his shop in search of some fashionable lingerie to wear at a photo shoot later in the day. McIntyre, 58, known in the trade as Pervy Tommy, had obviously been attracted to her charms and made a crude pass at her. She left the shop, disgusted. That was at seven o'clock yesterday evening, barely an hour before the police found his mutilated body in the back office.
"He was an old pervert," Miss McDowell sobbed. "But nobody deserves to die like that."
* * *
'Glamour model'? '29'? The reporter obviously hadn't looked too closely. On second thought, maybe he had-the picture that accompanied the piece had obviously been airbrushed.
Some smarter reporter had linked Tommy's death to auld Jimmy's, but that was all they were able to do. 'Stan and Ollie' wouldn't give them any more unless they thought it would advance the case. I knew that from long experience.
I checked the full article three times, but my name wasn't mentioned, not even as someone helping the police with their inquiries. I said a prayer of thanks for small mercies as I drove away.
Twenty minutes later I was back in the coffee shop opposite Durban and Lambert's premises, nursing another cup of strong coffee and trying not to wallow too deeply in self-pity. It wasn't working too well-a night in the cells has that kind of effect on a body.
It wasn't as if it was the first time I had been pulled in. The first had been while I was still a first year student.
We had been out on the town-the happy wanderers, Doug, three others, and myself hitting all the bars in Byres Road. Doug and I had come out of the Aragon, having failed as usual to pull any nurses, when three policemen approached us. Two took me to one side while the third led Doug and the others off. Ten minutes later I found myself in Patrick police station, being grilled on suspicion of rape.
I knew I was innocent, but they didn't. It was 'Where were you on Tuesday 20th, November' and 'Did you know Caroline Moore' and 'Where did you get rid of the knife you used to threaten her'. After a night of none-too-friendly questioning, they let me go. When they finally caught the right man his picture was plastered all over the front of the evening paper. For me, it was like looking into a mirror.
That had been the first time. Others had followed, several times for being found in the street too drunk to move, once for doing a favor for Wee Jimmy that turned into somebody trying to kill me, and me having to put somebody in hospital to save myself.
More recently I'd been brought in under the kindly eyes of Newman and Hardy on one pretence or another, and for various degrees of seriousness. Nothing before had ever been as bad as last night, though.
The waitress asking me if I wanted 'some fancies' jerked me awake. I hadn't noticed that I was in danger of falling asleep over my coffee. I fought off the urge for facetiousness and politely refused. Maybe I was getting more mature. On the other hand, maybe I was just tired.
Eileen wasn't on duty-I didn't know whether to be happy or sad at the fact.
"Is Eileen around?" I asked the waitress, who had just moved along to the next table.
"No, sir," she said. She was polite, but her eyes told a different story. "She's got the day off. But Mr. Durban's still in the shop."
So Eileen had told the other waitresses? That didn't bother me-if anything happened in the antique shop from now on, I was sure to get to know about it, now that they knew there was a tenner available for the right information.
There wasn't much activity around Durban and Lambert's, and I found my mind wandering, trying to make connections, but I still couldn't figure out who had killed the three men, or what it had to do with the amulet. I suspected that Dunlop was at the center of it all. I'd have to get round to interviewing him, and sooner rather than later. Thinking of him reminded me that I hadn't talked to my client for more than thirty-six hours.
This time her phone rang three times before she replied.
"Mr. Adams," she said, before I even spoke. "Are you any closer to finding it?"
"Every day in every way I'm getting closer and closer," I said. I didn't get any laughs this time.
"My husband is most anxious that you retrieve it," she said. "He is getting ill with worry."
"You could try singing to him?" I said. "A bit of light opera? 'Three Little Maids from School' maybe?"
I heard the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.
"You have been a busy boy," she said. "But don't get distracted with peripherals. The amulet is the thing you're getting paid to investigate, not my private life."
I wasn't too sure that they weren't inherently intertwined, but I let it ride for now.
"I need to talk to your husband," I said.
Her voice rose, and I heard anger in it.
"No," she almost shouted. "Find the amulet. And find it fast."
"But..."
"No. Don't you understand? If you don't find it soon, maybe even tonight, then more will die. Many more."
A cold chill
settled in my spine.
"If I find out you were responsible for any of those deaths, I'll make sure you rot in hell," I said.
She gave a hollow laugh.
"I probably will anyway, Mr. Adams...I probably will anyway."
Then she hung up on me again.
I rang Doug.
"Hey, Derek." he said. "I came round to The Rock last night, and Tom at the bar said that the boys in blue had you. And I heard about Tommy McIntyre. Is everything okay?"
"Hunky dory, " I said. "I'm now a major suspect in three murders, my client is pissed off with me, and I spewed up all over Stan Newman's shoes. Things couldn't be better."
"Well, hold on to your hat," Doug said. "Here comes a newsflash. It's just been on the television that police want to interview an old Arabian gentleman who has been seen in the vicinity of two of the murders."
"They never told me about that," I said.
"They were probably waiting for you to mention it," Doug said.
"Aye. That's their style."
I thought for a bit.
"Did you find out anything more on Dunlop or the Amulet?" I asked.
"Just one thing," Doug said. "But you'll like it. Artie Dunlop is the great-grandson of the Dunlop who wrote the book, the archaeologist at the dig in Ur."
I thanked him, promised him a couple of free beers, and went back to my coffee.
I knew already that the name must be significant... now I had it confirmed. Things were beginning to fall into place, and I now had a theory concerning a feud over the artifacts brought back from the dig. All I had to do was find out who the feuding parties were and I'd finally have a cast-iron suspect. At the moment, all I had was Durban.
After an hour I noticed that two people had gone in to the antique shop and not come back out.
The first was a grandiose lady in high heels, fur coat and hat, looking like a refugee from one of those BBC character dramas set in an old country house. I was willing to bet that her handbag contained an expensive compact and perfumed handkerchief alongside some of those exclusive Russian cigarettes with the gold band around the filter.
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