10
A Stranger in Town
‘See that wee guy sittin’ over there?’ said Morag. ‘No, not that table, the one next tae it. Drinkin’ the half pint of lager. Don’t stare at him, he’ll see you.’
Jack looked across at the customer, trying not to make it obvious. He couldn’t see anything particularly unusual about the man. Not the expected midget: only from the perspective of a heftilybuilt woman of five foot nine would he have been described as ‘wee’. And in the West End, an area packed with more eccentrics and actual lunatics than the rest of the country put together, it would take more than short stature to get you noticed. A complete circus act would have been accepted as routine. Maybe it was the fact that he was only drinking a half pint. In Byres Road that was unusual.
‘What about him?’ asked Jack. ‘He looks ordinary enough. It’s not compulsory to be a nutter in this area, it just seems that way.’
‘I think he’s followin’ you.’
‘Following me?’
‘I think he might be a private detective.’
‘You’re not serious. Why would anyone put a private detective on to me?’
‘You tell me.’ Morag looked at him appraisingly, a sly smile on her lips. ‘You’re somethin’ of a mystery man, Jack Morrison. All the girls think so.’
‘I’m flattered,’ said Jack. ‘I lead a quiet life, that’s all. I’d planned to spend the winter in the Caribbean on my yacht, but my wages wouldn’t stretch that far.’
Morag laughed. ‘If they did, I’m workin’ in the wrong pub.’ She was a barmaid in Tennent’s and was spending her break in the Centurion. ‘Maybe your wife wants a divorce.’
Jack sensed a fishing exercise in progress. Maybe Morag liked him more than he realised. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard from the local bush telegraph that I’m already divorced. Anyway, it was my wife that needed to be followed, not me.’
‘Sorry,’ said Morag. ‘I didnae know. Honest.’
‘It doesn’t matter. What makes you think he’s a private eye?’
Before Morag could reply, a customer appeared at the counter. While serving him, Jack managed to sneak a glance at the supposed detective. Medium height and build, youngish, casually dressed. Quite unremarkable, but of course that was how a detective would want to look; a pipe and deerstalker might give the game away, even in the West End. The stranger saw Jack looking at him, finished off his drink and left the bar.
Back with Morag, he said, ‘Well, that’s him away. What made you notice him?’
‘He was in Tennent’s while you were on your break. He kept lookin’ at you.’
‘You never said anything about it at the time.’
‘I never thought anythin’ of it. Then, as you were leavin’ the bar, he took a photo of you.’
‘He did?’ Jack remembered the camera flash, but hadn’t realised that he was the subject.
‘Then he follows you in here, has another half pint and buggers off. What more do you need?’
‘Not a lot,’ said Jack. ‘It can’t be a coincidence. But would a trained detective blow his cover like that?’
‘He wasn’t to know that we’d have our breaks in each other’s pubs. That was just bad luck.’ Then she had a new thought. ‘Maybe he isnae a private dick, maybe he’s an undercover cop. You shouldnae have robbed that bank.’
‘You shouldn’t have had that second drink,’ said Jack. ‘You’ve your work to go back to.’
As the pub got busier during the build-up to closing time, Jack kept a look out for the stranger, but he didn’t reappear. There was probably no reason why he should. He had no idea why anyone would want to have him watched, and became more and more convinced that nothing unusual had taken place. It was quite common for people to do pub crawls of Byres Road, and if you stuck to half pints in each place you might have a fighting chance of waking up next morning. He may just have been photographing the interior of Tennent’s bar – whose architectural merits, admittedly, had escaped Jack before – and Jack had got caught in the shot accidentally. Maybe he was just a tourist, a timid Southsider sampling the heady pleasures of the Wild West. In that case he should have waited until the weekend, when an impromptu cabaret was certain to develop, staged by that week’s volunteer troupe of drunks.
When he left his work just after eleven thirty, Jack had almost forgotten about the incident. Then, a few yards down Byres Road, he saw the stranger again.
He was standing in a shop doorway, beside a bus stop. At first Jack wasn’t sure, then, while walking past, he turned his head and briefly looked the man in the eye.
It was him. The nearest street light was close enough for the man’s face to be clearly visible. The man returned his gaze impassively, with no hint of recognition. Jack walked on down the road, his eyes fixed in front of him. With any luck his interest would be attributed to the idle glance of a stranger, or someone who thought he had recognised a friend.
As he made his way towards the end of the street, Jack became convinced that he was being followed, but forced himself not to look round. A couple of blocks from the junction of Byres Road and Dumbarton Road, he stopped in order to cross the road, first checking for traffic in either direction; this enabled him to look back the way he had come without it appearing obvious.
There were people scattered about, at intervals. But there was no one he recognised, or who appeared to be following him. He crossed the road and proceeded down the side street that led to his home.
As he was opening the security door at the close mouth, he again glanced back the way he had come. Nothing unusual. He went up the stairs to his flat.
Jack’s flat was on the edge of Partick, where the inflated West End prices were less prohibitive than in Hyndland or North Kelvinside. This was not only due to the location, but because the houses tended to be smaller, built towards the end of the nineteenth century for the less expansive needs of the working class. The building had been stone-cleaned and refurbished during the grant-financed clean-up a few years previously, and the dirty grey Glasgow tenement of fifteen years ago was now (in the estate agent’s words) a ‘handsome, blonde-sandstone block of flats’. All this, of course, was reflected in the price Jack had paid when he bought the flat the year before. The owner who had coughed his way through the sand-blasting probably now lived in Hyndland or Bearsden.
The flat was comfortable, handy for his work and the university where he was a student. Though much more modest than the semi-detached Southside villa where his ex-wife Margaret still lived, it was sufficient for his needs, and Margaret’s buy-out of his share in their former home had given him enough money to buy the flat on a low mortgage. It had also provided him with enough capital, along with his barman’s wages, to see him through his university course. If he didn’t squander it all first.
He made himself some supper, watched TV for a short while, then went to bed. He wasn’t particularly paranoid by nature, and by now the mystery man was almost forgotten as his mind wandered into other areas.
He thought of Morag. What had happened tonight? Casual flirting, or was there more to it than that? She was quite attractive, if you liked big women. A few years younger than him, but not a teenager. Did she fancy him?
Did he fancy her? Possibly, but not as much as he fancied Annette. Nor was he yet fully recovered from his split with Margaret. He didn’t like the idea of entering into a relationship he was lukewarm about, just for sex. That was the advantage of paying for it. It was an honest commercial arrangement between consenting adults. There was no deceit, there were no false declarations of love. No commitment and no guilt.
And no money in your bank account.
Before it came to that, the situation would have to be resolved. He had now been with Annette four times and, since the first time, had never chosen anyone else, or felt the need to. Candy was sexy and good fun, but that was all there was to her and once had been enough. He had tried Miranda a couple more times, but once he had got over being dazzled by her beaut
y and the realisation that such a lovely creature was there for the asking, she had proved somehow unsatisfactory. She was always perfectly pleasant and proficient at her job, but otherwise seemed a little remote. You didn’t feel that you had made contact with another human being, except on a purely physical level. That was no doubt enough for many men, and had satisfied him at first. But with Annette he felt that he had made some human connection. He enjoyed her company and she seemed to like his. And how had he ever thought her less attractive than Miranda or Candy? He didn’t think that now.
What was he doing? Ignoring the possibility of a normal monogamous relationship for another, strictly limited, monogamous union that was certain to bankrupt him? Was Annette worth the loss of his capital and his future career prospects?
At times like this, lying alone at night in his single bed, he sometimes thought that she might be. But by daylight he would see it differently. He would have to slow things down, think it all through. Soon.
11
Justine
From the beginning, Annette wasn’t sure what to make of the new girl. She was very good-looking, not quite in Miranda’s class – who was? – but, bearing in mind the constant craving for novelty shown by some customers, quite attractive enough to make the other girls want to keep clear of her shift. It was nothing personal, just that the competition was already stiff enough.
It wasn’t the girl’s appearance that caused Annette to wonder about her. That only happened when she opened her mouth.
Edna had told Annette about the new start the day before. ‘Claudia wanted moved to an evening slot, so I’m puttin’ her on wi’ you and Candy. I’d like you to look after her, show her the ropes. You’ve got a bit more sense than Candy.’
As well as more free time, thought Annette. Trust Edna to make it sound like a privilege. Take on the job of training officer, for no extra pay, and show the newcomer how to steal your customers. Just the sort of perk she needed.
‘Has she worked anywhere else?’ Annette asked.
‘No,’ said Edna. ‘She’s completely new to it. Remember an’ tell her that the condoms are free.’
Edna bought condoms in bulk and supplied them to the girls free of charge, an uncharacteristic act of generosity which she liked to remind them of from time to time.
The new girl arrived the following morning, promptly at eleven, just after Annette herself. She seemed a little nervous, but that was understandable. She looked no more than twenty-one, damn her.
‘I’m Annette,’ said Annette. ‘Have you made up your mind on a name?’
The girl looked puzzled. ‘How dae ye mean?’ As soon as she spoke, Annette noticed the discrepancy. She obviously took care over her appearance, and was clean, well groomed and carefully made-up, quite classy in fact. However, she had obviously dropped out of finishing school before the elocution lessons.
‘Most of the girls use a false name. I don’t bother myself.’
‘I never thought about it. What’s the point?’
‘The customers like you to have a name that’s a wee bit exotic. What’s your name anyway?’
‘Effie.’
‘I’d change it.’
‘You think so?’
‘Only for in here. You don’t have to alter your birth certificate or anything. Some of the girls think it helps them to keep their work and their personal life separate.’
‘I’m only daein’ this for a wee while, till somethin’ else turns up.’ Where have I heard that before? thought Annette. ‘You see,’ the girl continued, ‘my man walked oot on me. Just like that. Nae warnin’. No’ a word. I don’t even know where he is. An’ I’ve got a wee one tae look after an’ a mortgage tae pay. It’s a nice hoose, I don’t want tae give it up. I wouldnae normally do a thing like this. It’s just for a wee while, till I get back on my feet.’
A wee while on your back to get you on your feet, Annette thought. She shouldn’t be cynical. The girl seemed to mean it.
Now that she had started talking, Annette couldn’t get her to stop. She told Annette all about her man Joe, and what a great guy he was, until he did his Houdini impersonation. His folks had seen him since, so she knew he was OK, but they claimed not to know where he was staying, though she didn’t know whether to believe them. She told Annette all about her nice new house, in a good area, and all the lovely furniture she had. All about her wee girl Moira, who was eighteen months old, who was being looked after by her mother, who’d murder her if she knew what she was working at. All about her pal Lizzie, who’d done this job for a wee while, and who said it wasn’t all that bad and that the money was good. All about a score of other things, and then the same ones again, and then again, in a different order. Above all, about how Joe had so suddenly vanished, and how she still couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t long before Annette began to form her own theory.
Eventually, Annette managed to steer her back on course. Already the first customer had arrived and gone off with Candy, a trend that could too easily continue for the rest of the day. They discussed names for a while, and finally settled upon Justine. It was a nice name, she’d heard it on some TV programme or other, and Annette was able to assure her that none of the other girls were using it. Then Annette gave her a brief rundown on some basics: the prices to charge, the amount of Edna’s cut, the importance of keeping her cabin tidy so that customers would find no distasteful traces of their predecessors, plus a few other tricks of the trade picked up from trade with the tricks. Justine sat through it all with a look of slight puzzlement, as if she didn’t understand any of it, or couldn’t quite believe it.
Candy returned and added some characteristic wisdom of her own. ‘The mair ye tease them, the quicker they’ll come. It helps you keep up the turnover an’ keep doon the wear an’ tear.’
‘She’s the last of the romantics,’ said Annette.
Justine still looked bemused. Another customer arrived, one whom Annette recognised, though he wasn’t stuck on any particular girl. He was reasonably young, presentable and, as far as Annette could remember, a quiet and pleasant guy with no abnormal tastes. As good a choice as any to break in a new girl. Annette and Candy let Justine look after him and, after a short session of strained small talk, he obligingly chose her.
Annette and Candy watched them go off. Justine had been abnormally quiet from the time the customer had arrived, probably a good move, though she hadn’t planned it that way. However, the customer’s action in choosing her seemed to pull the cork out. She was already yattering non-stop before they had left the lounge. ‘You know this is ma first day an’ you’re ma first customer? I’ve never done this before. I’m only daein’ it for a wee while tae get some money, because I’m on my own wi’ a wee one tae look after. Are you married, have you any kids? You know I wouldnae do a job like this if it wasnae . . .’
Annette couldn’t make out any more, but felt confident that Justine would be halfway through her autobiography before they reached the cabin.
‘Is she half daft or what?’ Candy asked.
‘She’s nervous. She’s never done it before.’
‘Never at all? Is that why her man left her?’
‘You know what I mean. Anyway, he’ll probably find it a turn on, knowing he’s her first customer.’
‘Maybe,’ said Candy. ‘Looks to me like she’s a coupla cans short of a party pack.’
‘You just don’t like the competition.’
‘There’s nae competition. You wait and see.’
Another customer arrived, and Candy spirited him off in record time, as if to prove her point. Then a third appeared, while the other two girls were still engaged, and Annette was able to make a start.
Justine seemed to settle in fairly well – at least there were no major crises as far as Annette could tell. Her looks and novelty value made her popular, but it was a busy day and Annette reckoned that she lost fewer customers to Justine than Candy did. At any rate her takings weren’t noticeably down. Candy’s probably w
ere, but Annette didn’t waste any time worrying about that. Glasgow’s licensed traders would survive the unexpected dip. Justine’s daughter and her nice house were probably a better cause.
Candy herself accepted the competition with good humour. She was too good-natured to get seriously bitchy and, Annette suspected, didn’t expect that there would be any long-term threat.
Annette didn’t see Justine again until the same shift on the following week. Since then, Justine had done one other daytime shift along with different girls; Edna had confined her to two shifts until she settled in, though she was also kept in reserve to fill in for absentees.
She was still proving popular, though mainly with customers who hadn’t met her before; Annette noted at least one who’d chosen her the previous week, and who now reverted to Candy. Annette didn’t have much time to speak to her until the mid-afternoon lull, between the business men on extended lunch hours and those who sneaked off work early; presumably they had to spend some time earning the money to pay for their expensive habits. Candy was working, but Annette and Justine were waiting in the lounge. Annette had already noticed that Justine’s loquacity was undiminished.
‘How are you getting on?’ Annette asked.
‘Fine,’ said Justine. ‘You know, that’s a really nice big guy, that last one I had. I was tellin’ him all about Moira, my wee girl. He’s got one the same age. We had a right good laugh, talkin’ aboot the things they get up to. You know what it’s like, though yours are older, aren’t they? Anyway . . .’
I’m surprised you remembered I had kids, thought Annette. I must have got a word in more often than I realised.
‘. . . I says to him, what are you daein’ spendin’ your money in a place like this when you’ve got a wife an’ a wee girl tae look after?’
‘You said what?’
‘Just kiddin’ him on, like, you know. Anyway, he says, I’ve got a good job, they don’t go without. That’s good I says, that means you’re lookin’ after two wee girls, yours an’ mine.’
Murder in the Merchant City Page 5