We propose to continue this policy until the Rosevale Sauna is no more than a dirty memory, fast fading in the minds of Partick’s decent citizens. We do not think that will be long.
We have been encouraged by the many letters of support for our crusade. Such has been the success of our campaign, that we intend to target another of these cesspits in the near future.
To those it may concern: we are watching you. And so are thousands of our readers.
‘What do think of that?’ said Les, when Jack gave him back the paper. ‘These guys must be havin’ to dae a bit of explainin’, eh?’
‘The man must be a nutter.’ Though this was undoubtedly true, Jack realised that the campaign would probably be commercially effective. He doubted if he would ever again throw away a copy of the paper unopened, and the same probably applied to most other people, whether or not they were in danger of seeing their photograph.
‘Oh aye,’ said Les, ‘but it’s a laugh, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t see the joke. I think it’s a gross invasion of privacy.’
‘Only for guys who pay for nookie. You’d never catch me doin’ that. I’d cut it off first.’
Jack was unsure why such a choice would ever be necessary. But Les’s reaction was typical of most men. If they were all telling the truth, it was a real mystery how so many women made a living selling sex.
‘Anyway,’ said Les, ‘why are you gettin’ so hot under the collar? If I didnae know how many women you’re fightin’ off, I’d think you had somethin’ tae hide.’
‘What women?’
‘Oh, come on! What about your neckin’ session last night, wi’ some bimbo young enough tae be your daughter?’
‘How’d you hear about that?’
‘You were in Tennent’s, for God’s sake! Probably everybody in the world saw you. Was Morag there?’
‘Oh aye.’
Les shook his head. ‘Two women after your body an’ you take one of them into the pub where the other works. Either you’re daft or spoiled for choice. You couldnae point some of your leftovers my way?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Jack. ‘Let me know if you’re in danger of amputation.’ Not being prone to sexual boasting, he had been about to explain the truth about Alison, then decided against it. He wouldn’t be telling any lies, and it was unlikely to get back to Alison. Better to be mistaken for a Romeo than be suspected of frequenting saunas.
Also, having such a reputation was something of a novelty. He found that he was quite enjoying it.
16
. . . And Thickens
Jack returned to the Merchant City on the following Monday, having first carefully checked the street for lurking photographers. At first there was no sign of Annette, though he had phoned to make sure she was working that day. On his way to the lounge he passed Miranda leading a customer to the cabin.
‘Hi there,’ she said, giving him her usual dazzling smile, which he had once found so irresistible. Now it had less effect. He responded politely.
The only other person in the lounge was the woman called Claudia, who had been replaced by Justine on the Tuesday shift. Now she seemed to have taken Sylvia’s place on Mondays. She responded to Jack’s nod with the sort of look that she might have given a plague-bearing rat. He sat down on the sofa, keeping a safe distance from her. There was a silence while she looked him over. Jack felt somewhat nervous in her company. He got the feeling that in a moment she might threaten to beat him up if he didn’t choose her. She could probably manage it too.
Then she said, ‘You waitin’ for Miranda?’
‘For Annette.’
Claudia nodded, as if this confirmed his rodent qualities, and turned towards the television, ignoring him. Any of the other girls would have offered him a drink, even knowing that he was waiting for someone else. But this didn’t seem to be Claudia’s policy.
Even without the lesson of his previous visit, Jack reckoned he would still have waited for Annette, though Claudia was sexy enough in her own way. Alone among the women, she seemed to be excused the regulation white medical uniform. Instead she was dressed entirely in figure-hugging black – a low-cut top, tight leggings and shiny high-heeled shoes – that matched her short black hair and dark eye shadow. She was a big-boned woman, with a full figure, though not particularly tall and with no trace of surplus fat. She looked about Jack’s own age.
Another customer arrived, a skinny, nervous-looking man in early middle age. Claudia gave him the same reception as she had given Jack. At least it seemed to be nothing personal.
The newcomer sat between Jack and Claudia, legs pressed together, hands clasped round his knees. Claudia didn’t even speak to him and, after her initial disgusted inspection, ignored him completely. After a short silence, during which the man seemed to be summoning his small reserves of courage, he said, ‘Could I have a drink, please?’
‘Help yersel’,’ said Claudia, without looking round from the television.
The man got up and poured himself a cold drink. He resumed his place and there was a further silence. Jack got the impression that he was in a quandary, unsure whether Claudia was intimidating him into choosing her or into leaving her alone. Eventually, he said meekly, ‘Can I have a massage, please?’
‘Go through to Cabin Three,’ said Claudia, again without looking round. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
He did as he was told. Claudia continued to watch the TV for at least five minutes, then got up and left the lounge.
Jack was now in even less doubt that it was worth waiting for Annette. He poured himself a coffee and sat on his own for a further ten minutes. Then Annette arrived.
She seemed pleased enough to see him. ‘Hi, Jack.’
‘Hello, Annette.’
‘All on your own?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Sitting here, waiting for you.’
She seemed about to say something, but didn’t. ‘Good. Are you ready to go through?’
Jack drank the last of his coffee and put the cup down. ‘Lead on.’
‘We’re in Cabin Four.’
While he was waiting, he listened for sounds from the cabin next door, but could hear nothing. Claudia had probably rendered her victim unconscious already.
Annette soon returned. She didn’t keep her customers hanging about, Jack noted.
She began the massage and, unusually, there was silence at first. They usually chatted for a while, though Annette knew when to bring it to a close. Eventually she said, ‘How did you like the new girl?’ Jack fancied that the remark wasn’t as offhand as she tried to make it sound.
‘Oh, fine.’
‘Good.’
‘We’ve got a lot in common.’
‘Oh?’
‘Oh aye. We’ve got the same make of Hoover.’
There was a pause, then Annette burst out laughing. ‘We’ve all heard about that wonderful machine. You must have a really clean house.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
After that, the atmosphere was more relaxed and it was like old times. At one point, the silence from next door was briefly broken by a loud, shuddering moan.
‘Is she murdering that poor guy or what?’ Jack asked.
‘Probably.’
‘Not my idea of a good time.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Annette seemed to make a special effort to please him. When they’d finished and he had paid her, she leaned forward and gave him a brief kiss on the mouth. It was only the second time that he’d been given this privilege. He knew that some of the girls didn’t like kissing their customers, wanting to hold something in reserve for real lovemaking.
What was the significance of Annette’s brief peck? A friendly gesture for a good customer, or something more? He wasn’t sure, but he felt encouraged.
He had put his robe back on and was ready to return to the shower room. Instead, he stood opposite her as she pulled up her stockings and put her white coat back on. She loo
ked at him a little curiously.
‘I was wondering . . .’
‘Yes?’
He hesitated. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘I really like you. I won’t be trying any of the other girls again.’
‘That’s up to you.’
‘I mean, I think we get on well together. We’ve got the same sense of humour. I get the impression that you . . . well . . .’
‘You’re a good customer.’
If there had been some reserve between them earlier on, it was nothing compared to the gulf that had now opened. Jack’s anxiety increased. ‘What I was thinking . . . I was wondering if you would like to go out with me sometime? For a date. Away from here.’
Annette said nothing, but stared at him as if his words hadn’t registered.
‘What I meant was . . .’
‘I heard what you said,’ said Annette. ‘I know what you meant.’
17
Citizen Kane
Martin Kane’s day started off badly over breakfast, when his wife gave him his daily instructions. After that it continued to deteriorate, until late afternoon when he managed to fit in a visit to the Merchant City Health Centre. That proved to be interesting in a way he hadn’t expected.
Such little pleasures were all the more enjoyable because of the difficulty in bringing them off. His father and his wife between them had such a tight grip upon both his daily schedule and his finances that it required much ingenuity to skim off enough time and money for an undetected piece of self-indulgence. Luckily his wife and his father didn’t actually collaborate on a daily basis regarding the times when custody of Martin passed from one of them to the other; this was because they didn’t like each other, otherwise they would certainly have plugged such an obvious hole in their coverage.
‘You’ll need to be home by six o’clock at the latest,’ his wife Rose told him over breakfast. ‘I’ve got to be at Mary’s for half past. I’ll make Sheena’s tea if you clear up.’
‘Do I get some as well?’
‘Is that supposed to be a joke? You could always get your father to loosen his grip half an hour earlier, and we could eat together as a family. But that would be too much to expect. Oh, and make sure Sheena finishes her homework before the TV goes on. You’re far too soft with her.’
‘No, I’m not.’ Martin tried to catch his daughter’s eye, but Sheena sat looking down at her breakfast cereal, collaborating in her parents’ practice of discussing her as if she wasn’t there. ‘How’s Kathleen getting on?’ he asked his wife.
‘You mean when will she be well enough to come back? Probably next week. Meanwhile, between us I’m sure we can look after our own daughter for a few more days.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Martin, no longer putting up even a token resistance. Direct confrontation never worked with Rose. Cunning and subterfuge were the only ways.
‘Oh, and you’ll have to take Sheena to school. I’ve got an early meeting.’
‘So have I.’
‘Not before you see your father at ten,’ said Rose. ‘I checked your diary. You can think up the excuses for your latest piece of incompetence, whatever it is, while driving Sheena to school. You don’t need to do it in the office.’
Sheena was unduly quiet in the car. Martin tried to strike up a conversation several times, then gave up. What did his daughter make of these humiliations, he wondered, which her mother daily heaped upon her father without any concern for their possible effect upon an impressionable child? Did Sheena even notice? Who knew what went on in a kid’s mind?
In his own way, Martin loved his daughter. She was the one good thing in a world where he was constantly having shit flung at him. But he had little expertise in dealing with a paternal emotion like this, and there always seemed to be a gap in communication between him and Sheena. At times their relationship seemed as formal as that between him and his wife; both were symbolised by the home Rose had created for them, which bore more resemblance to an antiques showroom than a place to live in. Sometimes he thought that Rose thought more of her house than of him; in fact there wasn’t really much room for debate about it.
Delivering Sheena to her private school in the south side of the city didn’t involve a major diversion in his journey from Newton Mearns to the factory in Dennistoun. However, it caused him to be slowed down in traffic which he usually managed to avoid.
He passed the time, and eased the frustration a little, by working on the plan to murder his wife. He tended to alternate between this and the scheme to do away with his father. He knew that both of these projects were impractical, and he would never in any case have the courage to do anything about them. But thinking about it gave him a great deal of pleasure. Maybe he could devise a way of setting them against each other. Then he could just stand back and let them fight it out to the death. It would be close, but his money would be on Rose.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she were simply to keel over, from some unexpected, fatal disease? Nothing that could be pinned on him, of course. No matter what she put in her will, she couldn’t avoid leaving him some of her money. He had checked that with a lawyer. He hoped that this advice, bought for the price of a drink in the golf clubhouse, was sound.
And once the old man had popped off, Martin was sure he’d really be able to do something with the family business. He was fed up being held back by his father’s caution and then blamed for everything that went wrong. The elder Kane claimed that, singlehandedly, he had built up the business to what it had been ten years ago, and that with Martin’s help it had then slid back to the position it occupied today.
He arrived at work just after nine thirty. The factory was an old building, erected before the segregation of industrial estates, and a group of post-war council houses faced it across a main road. On both the front of the building, facing the yard, and on its side wall, facing the road, there was the same large notice:
KANE’S LEMONADE
Quenching the thirst of successive generations.
On the wall facing the road, there was also a smaller notice, a garish red in colour. By contrast, it lent the main notice considerable dignity:
KANE’S KOLA
The Kool Alternative
Martin parked his car in the yard and bustled into the office suite in his usual businesslike fashion, as if he were hurrying back from an important meeting.
‘Morning, Martin,’ said the painted old cow behind the reception desk.
‘Morning. I got held up. Anyone looking for me?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Never mind, send me in some coffee.’
‘OK, Martin.’
There was something insolent about her manner, he was sure of it. Who the fuck did she think she was talking to? Just because she’d been with the company for the last thirty years it didn’t mean she owned the place. He did. Or he would do, one of these days.
He went to his father’s office a little early, just before ten. With anyone else he would have been deliberately late, just to remind them of their place in the pecking order. But not with his father.
Kane senior was on the phone, and waved Martin towards the seat in front of his desk. The old man was really showing his age these days, Martin thought. Still not quite sixty, but he looked a lot more. How much longer was he going to insist upon running the place? Until he dropped, probably. Though with any luck that wouldn’t be too long.
Andrew Kane replaced the receiver and regarded his son wearily. He looked as if he might agree with Martin’s diagnosis. ‘Martin, Martin,’ he said finally. ‘What am I going to do with you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, how can I use you in a way that’ll justify the exorbitant salary you draw, without giving you enough power to push the company under?’
‘Hang on, what are you . . . ?’
His father silenced him by lifting up a brightly-coloured presentation folder from his desk. ‘I’m talking about this feasibility study. The one that you ordered and somehow f
orgot to tell me about.’
‘Uh, I knew you were busy, and . . .’ How had the old man found out? That little bastard Anderson had told him, he was sure of it.
Andrew Kane opened the folder. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got here. “Kane’s Krunchy Knuts. The snack that keeps you chewing between meals.” Krunchy Knuts? With a K? That isn’t a misprint, is it?’
‘No. We’ve agreed before that we need to diversify.’
‘Oh yes, that was when I was still stupid enough to listen to you sometimes, the time when Kane’s Krisps were launched.’
‘They’re doing all right.’
‘They’re just about breaking even, as long as we keep bribing half our soft drinks customers to keep taking them as part of a package deal. If we start pushing nuts at them as well, we’ll end up losing them altogether. Soft drinks are still what make our profit, reduced as it is. We’re basically a soft drinks company, always have been and always will be. We actually know how to make the stuff. Apart from the Kane’s Kola disaster.’
Glasgow’s answer to Coca-Cola. As it turned out, the sales didn’t even come remotely near those of Barr’s Irn-Bru, the answer Glasgow had already thought of. But the old man had gone along with it at the time. Why did it have to be Martin’s fault? ‘I don’t agree,’ he said. ‘I think we should . . .’
‘I don’t care what you think.’ Kane senior lifted the report and dropped it into his waste bin. ‘That’s where this nonsense belongs. How much did it cost us anyway? No, don’t tell me.’
As usual, Martin didn’t bother to argue further. His time would come. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘No, get back to your work. What have you got on this afternoon?’
‘I’m giving some of the West End pubs another try, see if we can . . .’
‘OK then, get on with it,’ said Andrew Kane, waving him away.
That was typical of his father, to treat Martin’s sales efforts as a waste of time. Did he think their products sold themselves, for Christ’s sake?
Back in his room, he called in Dave Anderson. It was time this upstart was put in his place. His father listened to him too much, was even thinking of making him a director, for God’s sake!
Murder in the Merchant City Page 8