Murder in the Merchant City

by Angus McAllister

  To hell with it. His body had already decided what it wanted. ‘Are you free for a massage?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so. Go through to Cabin One.’

  Usually they kept you waiting, but very little time passed before she joined him. She wasn’t really all that big – probably about his own height – but her presence filled the small room. She took off her dress and stood before him wearing only a flimsy bra and panties, stockings and suspenders, and knee-high leather boots. All of these black. Unlike other girls who seemed to spend half their lives under sun lamps or blowing their immoral earnings on package tours, her white skin contrasted starkly with her clothes. Her body was in excellent condition, her full figure firm and unblemished. She stood still for a moment, legs apart, hands on hips, letting him see what he was getting. She wasn’t actually holding a whip, but he almost felt the presence of one. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘lie on your face.’

  He obeyed and she began to massage his back with oil. Usually they gave you a choice between oil or talcum powder, but democracy wasn’t part of her act. Her touch was firm, but light, her black-varnished fingernails scampering about his body like tiny-clawed mice. Soon he wanted to turn over, for her to continue on the front of his body, for things to escalate, but she continued to massage his back long, long past that point.

  Eventually, he said, ‘How long . . . ?’

  ‘Shut your face!’ He did, and she carried on for several minutes more.

  Then she said, ‘Turn over on to your back.’

  And he complied. ‘I take it you do extras?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s nothin’ extra aboot ma routine. It’s all mainstream.’ Her voice had now coarsened from the more polite tones she had used earlier, her Glasgow accent more pronounced. For men who liked a bit of rough.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘What is it you do?’

  ‘You’re gonnae find oot real soon.’

  ‘I mean, what’s the choice? What do . . .’

  ‘There’s nae choice. You’ll dae as ye’re telt.’

  ‘Oh. How much will it . . . ?’

  She lifted out the plastic wallet from the pocket of his robe, where it hung behind the door, and flicked through the banknotes inside. ‘You’ve got enough.’

  After that he surrendered. Normally he liked to be in charge, a role-reversal from his situation at home. But this was a new type of domination, much more interesting than the kind he suffered daily at the hands of Rose. Claudia’s bra and panties were now gone, though the stockings and boots remained. The massage of his front took for ever, fingers and breasts being jointly employed as implements of delicate torture. Eventually things did escalate, and then she was climbing off him, removing the condom with a tissue.

  He continued to lie on the narrow massage table as she dressed and helped herself to several banknotes from his wallet.

  ‘You gonnae lie there a’ day?’

  He sat up and swung his legs over on to the floor, a picture of obedience, for which he was well trained. She stood watching him as he put on his robe, her expression a mixture of friendliness and contempt. Hers was a good act.

  ‘You’ll be back for more,’ she said. It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Well . . .’ he said. A few minutes earlier that was exactly what he’d been thinking, fervently, with no room for argument. But as his powers of reasoning returned from the lower half of his body, he realised that this might be considerably risky. That Annette bitch had recognised him. Fuck!

  But somehow Claudia had anticipated him. ‘It doesnae need tae be here,’ she said. ‘We can go where there’s better facilities.’

  She handed him a business card. It contained a phone number and two lines of printing:

  CLAUDIA’S VAULT

  Strictly for Pleasure

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t want anything too kinky.’

  ‘Aye, ye do. Once you’re in ma clutches, you never get free. I’ll tease you tae the limit of your endurance.’

  ‘Uh, I’m sure you will.’

  ‘You’ll phone me soon.’ She opened the cabin door and stood back. ‘Now get the fuck oota here.’

  He did as he was told.

  Annette and Justine looked up, startled, as the changing-room door suddenly opened.

  ‘Youse two still here?’ said Claudia. ‘Come on, there’s punters waitin’.’

  They emerged into the corridor, like fugitives from a priest hole. At first Justine held back.

  ‘He’s no’ here,’ said Claudia. ‘You’re a’ right.’

  The lounge was empty, but there was someone in the sauna and sounds of activity from the shower area. Annette had used the time to get Justine cleaned up. She was looking good, though her mask of sophistication remained fragile. She seemed less talkative these days, and that helped.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ said Claudia. ‘He’ll no’ be botherin’ you again.’

  Annette giggled. ‘Where did you hide the body?’

  Claudia smiled, but said nothing further.

  Annette didn’t press her. They would find out soon enough. A customer came in from the shower. Annette knew him. He was a quiet man, who never gave any trouble. She nudged Justine and whispered in her ear. ‘Go on, get the man a drink.’

  The shift change came, as usual, at five o’clock. Annette, Justine and Claudia were replaced by Miranda, Misty and Melanie. Annette had offered to drop Justine off at the bus station, and they went off together to the street where Annette’s car was parked. Apart from the one extremely unlucky incident, Justine had got through her first day reasonably well, and had even made some money. Annette, too, had done all right. The competition was much stiffer when she was on with either Miranda or Candy.

  As Annette was unlocking her car, they saw a man walking towards them. Annette recognised him, but at first couldn’t place him. At the same time, he noticed her and beamed at her as if they were old friends. ‘Hi there, Annette. How’s it going?’

  Annette remembered who he was. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. Do you know Justine? Justine, this is Derek, Miranda’s husband.’

  Justine and Derek shook hands and the three of them stood chatting for a moment or two. ‘You two just finished?’ Derek asked. Annette nodded. ‘I’ve just dropped Miranda off for her evening shift. It’s a hard life, eh?’ he added, winking at them. ‘The wife working, having to make my own tea.’

  As before, Derek was expensively and fashionably dressed. Quite the dapper man about town.

  ‘Have you just finished work, Derek?’ Annette asked.

  It was a rather pointed question, but it didn’t produce the slightest dent in Derek’s affability. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m between jobs just now. Miranda’s the breadwinner; I’m the house husband. Never mind, she keeps me in the style to which I’ve been accustomed.’ He winked at them again. ‘I’d better get going. I’m meeting some friends for a drink. See you later, girls.’

  They said goodbye and watched for a moment as he carried on up the street. Annette remembered what Miranda had said about her husband, about his attitude to her work, shortly after their previous encounter. That Derek was ‘cool about it’. This now seemed like something of an understatement.

  Justine seemed to have reached a similar conclusion. ‘Is that Miranda’s man?’ she said. ‘He’s a real smoothie.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘Have they got any weans?’

  ‘I don’t think so. No, they haven’t. I asked her once.’ That would interrupt her career, Annette supposed, and neither of them would want that.

  Justine shook her head. ‘I think that’s terrible. I mean, you and me, we’re doin’ it because we’ve got tae, because we’ve got weans tae feed and we’ve no’ got a man any more. But they don’t have weans, he just lets her work as a . . . at what we dae, an’ lives like a king. What kinda man would dae that?’

  Th
ere was a word for it. On the other hand, Justine’s attitude was rather old-fashioned. If you believed (as Annette did) that there was nothing to be ashamed of in what she did for a living; if you also believed (as she did) that it was perfectly acceptable for the woman to be the family’s wage earner, then, logically, there was nothing wrong with being a man in Derek’s position.

  Unfortunately, they were in an area of human relations where logic didn’t always rule. And did the bugger have to be so bloody smug about it?

  ‘I know what you mean,’ she said to Justine. ‘But I suppose it takes all kinds.’

  30

  Another Return Visit

  For several months after the third murder, Jack remained estranged from Annette. A week after their argument, he phoned her and they met for a drink to talk things over. A week after that they had their postponed cinema date. Annette had calmed down and no longer blamed him for speaking to the police. The source of the press leak had been identified and Annette had her job back. They should have been able to carry on from the point where they left off.

  But somehow they couldn’t quite manage it. A shadow had been cast over their relationship, a shadow caused by the nature of Annette’s job. It would probably have happened eventually, but the publicity surrounding the last murder had highlighted the problem at an earlier date.

  Was he being fair in his attitude? He was aware of the arguments to the contrary: there was nothing wrong with what Annette did, only the prejudice and double standards of society caused the problem; she always practised safe sex and had regular blood tests; the sex she had with customers wasn’t real lovemaking, it didn’t qualify as unfaithfulness to your regular partner. In any case, as a former client, what right did he have to criticise?

  The reasoning was sound, but emotionally he remained unconvinced. And so their relationship lapsed. However, he found it less easy to forget her. In a way it was even worse than in the old days, when he could at least see her on a commercial basis. But he couldn’t go back to that now. And she had spoiled him for other women, working ones or otherwise. Even Morag gave up on him and acquired a boyfriend. It was a frustrating period.

  Meanwhile, he passed all of his first-year exams and worked extra hours in the bar over the summer. His financial position improved. Annette never disappeared entirely from his thoughts, but took enough of a back seat to let him get on with his life.

  Then, one evening in late autumn, Candy reappeared in the Centurion. Once again she showed up on a weekday, with two other women, though Jack couldn’t be sure if they were the same ones as before.

  ‘See thae three over there?’ said Les. ‘They’re on the game.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Jack said. ‘How much did they charge you?’

  ‘Very funny. Joe MacBride told me. They came intae the Aragon while I was on my break.’

  ‘How does Joe know? Personal experience, or did somebody tell him?’

  ‘Joe knows aboot these things,’ said Les. He grinned furtively at Jack, like a schoolboy sharing a dirty joke. ‘I’m telling you, they’re all at it. An’ they’re not bad, eh? Especially that blonde. I wouldnae mind at all.’

  ‘Stop smoking for a month, then maybe you’ll be able to afford her.’

  ‘No’ me,’ said Les, ‘If I want my photie taken, I’ll go tae a booth in Central Station. Anyway, you’ll never catch me payin’ for it, no’ in a million years.’

  It was odd, Jack thought, how many men had the same attitude, yet remained obsessed by the subject. Every time a new issue of the North Clyde Advertiser appeared, Les would be the first to check out the latest batch of men to be caught with their pants newly back on. By now the Rosevale Sauna had closed, but before that, as the photo opportunities outside that particular establishment had begun to dwindle, the paper had begun to target another sauna. This one occupied a small, self-contained building in a back lane off Sauchiehall Street. It wasn’t in a residential area, and was located even more discreetly than the one in the Merchant City, but that didn’t seem to deter the paper’s self-righteous crusade. At one point their cameraman had been mysteriously beaten up – and duly awarded martyrdom in the editorial column – but this had caused only a temporary pause in their campaign.

  So far Les had failed to see a photograph of anyone he knew, but he continued to be hopeful.

  At that moment, Jack was concerned about a more immediate risk of exposure. Normally he’d have paid little attention to a rumour promoted by Les, but this one he knew to be true, in Candy’s case at least. How was it going to look if she came up to the bar and greeted him like an old friend? Or was his face still indistinguishable among the scores of other men who passed through her life? He knew from Annette that she wasn’t half as scatterbrained as she appeared.

  As the girls came to the end of their drinks, he watched to see what would happen next. With any luck, they’d be on a pub crawl and would leave the bar. But no, they wanted another round, and Candy was getting up to buy it. And Les was serving another customer.

  Candy arrived at the counter in her usual seductive fashion. ‘Hello there, darlin’, how you doin’?’ She gave him the order, continuing to address him in a similar manner. Jack relaxed a little, and responded to the banter. He realised that Candy would greet an old friend, or accost a stranger, in exactly the same way. It was her natural instinct to come on to all men she met, new or familiar.

  Then, as he was handing over her change, while Les was still busy at the other end of the bar, she said in a low voice, ‘Why don’t you give Annette a wee ring, Jack? She misses you.’

  She immediately resumed her previous manner and left with the drinks, leaving Jack wondering if he’d imagined the message.

  When these drinks were finished the girls went on their way. Candy waved over to him from the doorway. ‘See you, sweetheart.’

  ‘Well, you definitely seem tae be quoted,’ said Les. Right then he reminded Jack of a panting little terrier.

  ‘It’s a gift.’

  ‘For that blonde bit, I might just dip intae ma life savings.’

  ‘If you had any.’

  ‘If I had any.’ He went on to elaborate upon what he would like to do to Candy. It was all very unoriginal, and Jack had a feeling that he’d heard it all before, the last time Candy had paid their bar a visit.

  ‘What about your principles?’ asked Jack. ‘What about getting your picture in the paper? What about getting murdered?’

  Les sighed. ‘For her it might be worth it.’

  Jack said, ‘What’s that guy Washington got against the punters who go to saunas?’

  ‘Who’s Washington?’

  ‘The owner of the North Clyde Advertiser. He was on the telly, after that last murder.’

  ‘He just wants more people tae buy the paper.’

  ‘It’s free.’

  ‘OK, so he wants more people tae read it.’

  ‘It certainly works with you,’ said Jack. ‘But there’s more to it than that. You should’ve seen him when he was on the telly. He more or less said that the punters who got murdered deserved what they got. Makes you even wonder if . . . Jesus Christ!’

  Les jumped, and looked around him. But no one new had entered, and the scattering of customers still had drinks. ‘Fucksake, what is it?’

  ‘I’ve just remembered. Jesus Christ!’

  ‘You’ve just remembered what?’

  ‘After the last murder,’ said Jack, ‘the police interviewed Morag and me, showed us some photographs. A few weeks later they had us back to look at a line-up. Washington was in it. I recognised him from the telly. We just assumed he was there to make up the numbers.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Les. ‘You mean he might’ve been a suspect?’

  ‘Think about it. Why else would someone like him get involved in a line-up?’

  ‘But what about the guy you an’ Morag saw? The one you thought was a private detective?’

  ‘No,’ said Jack. ‘That wasn’t Washington. We were suppo
sed to be looking for that other guy, but he wasn’t there.’

  ‘So maybe the paper man was just an extra.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Jack. If he was a suspect, then the police hadn’t been able to prove anything. Because now, three months later, he was still at large. Still interfering with the democratic rights of hardworking business men (and barmen) to treat themselves to a bit of clandestine sex.

  31

  Room Service

  The Trongate Hotel had been built a few years earlier as part of the Merchant City refurbishment and, just as this renewal process had so far only partially reversed the decades of decline, so the hotel had not yet entirely realised its up-market ambitions. Had it been situated a few hundred yards to the north-west, nearer George Square and the city’s main shopping areas, it might have proved more attractive to business visitors and tourists. It had excellent modern facilities, tucked behind a preserved nineteenth-century façade, part of the fine Victorian architecture that had made the area a target for renaissance. However, it was a little too near Glasgow Cross and was not quite free from the shadow of the East End, where the regeneration was proving more of a long-term project.

  Denied the richest tourists and the most prestigious conferences, the hotel management had to look at other ways of attracting business. One recent initiative was a discreet arrangement with Edna Brady, proprietress of the nearby Candleriggs Sauna. Her ready supply of high-class girls, who would not attract notice in the hotel’s lounge area and corridors, helped to entice some visitors away from the Grosvenor and the Hilton. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. The high cost of visiting massage, designed to cover the expense of taxi fares and travel time to outlying residential areas, yielded a higher profit when the girl and her customer were only a short walk apart.

  Perhaps Annette should have taken it as a compliment that she, along with Miranda, was a preferred choice for hotel visits. Both were such unlikely-looking representatives of their profession that the Trongate Hotel’s more conventional guests were spared any distress by their presence. Annette certainly preferred the hotel to home visits: abandoning her own territory for that of the customer meant surrendering part of her control over the situation, and it made her uneasy. A hotel was more neutral ground. However, it meant working in the evenings, often on Friday or Saturday, with the extra cost of childcare eating into her takings. And the Merchant City was not yet an area where she felt happy walking about at night, even for the short distance to the hotel or to the street where her car was parked.