There was a dark area behind King Street where he saw a group of shadowy figures. Cautiously he approached them. They looked as if they were half unconscious with either drink or drugs, or both.
‘I’m looking for a friend,’ Mr McKay said. ‘He came into a bit of money recently. Do you know him? Have you heard of anybody like that?’
There was a shaking of heads and mutters of ‘Naw’ and ‘Sorry, son.’
He moved on down the lane to where another few men were squatting and drinking from a bottle of Buckfast tonic wine. He got no response from them at all.
Back on King Street he hesitated, not sure which way to turn. It could be that the man he was searching for was no longer on the streets, but living it up in a hotel. His only hope, he reckoned, was finding one or more people who knew, or had even heard about the change of fortune, the sudden acquisition of money, by one of their number. But the homeless tramps he’d come across so far were suspicious of him and obviously saw him as not one of them.
The rain became colder and heavier and he hugged his anorak tighter around his body. He was exhausted and miserable. Yet being at home for long empty evenings made him feel worse. His thoughts about Jenny became unbearably painful. And thoughts about the money and the man who’d stolen it. To think of anything was better than suffering desolation and guilt. Finding this man gave him something to concentrate on, gave him a purpose to live for.
He went along as far as the Tolbooth, on its island in the middle of the traffic. It was all that had survived of a much larger building that had once housed the courts and prison. People were chained to the walls here and prisoners’ ears were nailed to the Tolbooth door. Further along, in the Gallowgate, there had been public hangings and nothing was better attended. The last hanging attracted over 100,000 people. How he would have enjoyed seeing the bastard who stole the money hanged. But hanging would be too good for him.
Where to go now? He stood across from the Tolbooth hunched into his wet anorak, his glasses blurring with rain. Should he go up the High Street or along the Saltmarket? Jenny had told him that the Saltmarket had been the place where middle-class burgesses of the town had houses fronting on to the main streets. Booths, or early shops, were situated in the lower halves of the houses, with the living accommodation above. Along the narrow vennels and wynds were other buildings which housed the craftsmen of the town – tanners, skinners, fullers, weavers, fleshers. The candlemakers moved to what was now known as Candleriggs. They were blamed for causing several great fires in the town. At one time, a third of the town had been destroyed by one of these fires and over a thousand families had been made homeless.
He kept thinking of Jenny’s face, bright with interest and enthusiasm as she spoke about Glasgow’s history. Often they’d come here on their way to Glasgow Green and when they reached the ancient green, she’d say, ‘This is the site of a thousand battles, Norman. Can’t you just feel the atmosphere?’
He couldn’t but always hugged her arm, enjoying her enthusiasm.
‘Battles here were fought by the people. The battles for “one man one vote”, “one woman one vote”, “a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work”, to mention just a few. Then there’s the fairs, festivals, all sorts of entertainments and sport. This is the heart and soul of the social history of Glasgow, Norman.’
All he had known it as was the original home of both Celtic and Rangers football clubs. His only other interest in history was contained in the Trades Hall and Merchants House. He had always had a serious interest in his job and how trade had developed. He had worked up from the bottom to being manager and he had always been proud of how hard-working and conscientious he had been. And how meticulously honest. Until now.
If the money had still been there, he would have returned it to the shop. It was no use to him after Jenny had died. But he had been prevented from doing that by some stupid thieving bastard who’d probably never done a hard day’s work in his life.
Fury quickened his steps and before he knew it, he was at the entrance of Glasgow Green. He couldn’t bear even to look at the place, and shrunk away from it. Soon, he was passing the area where Oliver Cromwell had stayed while in Scotland. A minister called Boyd had verbally attacked Cromwell from the pulpit at a sermon Cromwell attended. The minister’s hatred of Cromwell infuriated Cromwell’s secretary, who told Cromwell that he should have the man beheaded. Cromwell declined and instead invited the minister to dinner. Jenny had always liked that story. She was a forgiving person. She had never even shown any bitterness at having to suffer her terrible illness and imminent death.
He had.
She was a Christian but he had lost whatever faith he once had. What kind of God was it – if there was a God – who could allow a beautiful, loving woman like Jenny to suffer so much?
Somehow, he got back to Argyle Street. He cursed the rain. No doubt most of the tramps were sheltering inside hostels for the homeless and the like, not hunkering about in lanes getting soaked. His whole evening had been a waste of time. He could have wept.
On the way home, he went into an off-licence and bought a bottle of whisky. He managed to drink a third of it before he reached the isolated villa on the outskirts of Bishopbriggs. He dreaded the ordeal of returning to the house and all the memories it contained. The drink knocked him out before he reached the bed upstairs and he awoke next day on the sitting room settee. He was still dressed, except for his soaking wet anorak, which, thank goodness, he’d managed to discard before collapsing unconscious.
Hurriedly, he washed and changed into clean clothes. He didn’t wait to eat anything or even drink a cup of tea before leaving for work. He couldn’t stay in the house a moment longer than was necessary. Only with a struggle did he manage to resist the temptation to swallow down a mouthful of whisky.
On arrival at the shop, he went through his usual routine, hoping that no one would see any difference in him, or suspect any difference. His only worry on that score was Miss Eden, with her usual piercing stare. At last he had time to go up to the canteen for a cup of hot, reviving tea. He didn’t feel he could face any food but forced himself to eat a piece of toast. Then he had Mrs Goodman’s morning meeting to cope with. His head was thumping and his mouth had gone dry again. Somehow, he got through the meeting. The buyers seemed to be taking up most of Mrs Goodman’s attention, instead of the managers, this morning. He returned to his office to attend to phone calls, before making his routine inspection of the departments. All the time, he longed for a drink. He needed to drink himself into oblivion again.
Now not only thoughts of Jenny returned, but thoughts of the thief who’d taken the money began to obsess him. He had tried all that he could think of by searching around the lanes and closes and back streets. What else could he do?
‘Are you all right, Mr McKay?’ Miss Eden’s voice jerked him back to his present surroundings.
He shook his head. ‘I’m finding it difficult to cope. My poor wife, you know …’
‘Yes, we are all so sorry, Mr McKay. If you ask me, you really need to take some time off to recover. I’m sure Mrs Goodman would agree. There’s no need in your present circumstances to struggle in to work every day. Why don’t you speak to her?’
Nothing would help. It would only mean longer hours alone in the villa. But he nodded. ‘Maybe I will. We’ll see. Thank you for your concern, Miss Eden.’
He did not ask for any time off and had no intention of doing so. Just the thought of having nothing to do all day was a nightmare. His only comfort was alcohol. So far, he had at least managed to refrain from drinking while he was at work. Every evening, on the way home, however, he would go into a pub and drink himself practically unconscious. Eventually, a thought occurred to him – something that could help him in two ways. He’d have company and at the same time, he might be able to find the thief.
He remembered the homeless people he’d seen, groups of shabbily clothed men. He could buy some shabby clothes from Paddy’s Market and
join them. Probably the reason nobody spoke to him before was because he didn’t look like one of them. This way he would get to know them. Then he might, in time, get to know the thief. The chances were that a man like that had already squandered the money on drink and drugs and would be back on the streets again. Or somebody would know something about him.
Paddy’s Market was situated along the Bridgegate where a railway bridge crossed overhead. At this point, the narrow Shipbank Lane led to a flea market, as Paddy’s Market was sometimes called. It was started in the nineteenth century by Irish immigrants, when it sold second-hand clothes to poor people who lived in nearby hovels. The traders sold their wares on the pavement and still did to this day. They had been offered decent premises but had refused, preferring to sell their second-hand goods in the traditional way.
Mr McKay picked his way gingerly between the coats, jackets, dresses, trousers, skirts and other garments spread out on the pavement. He bought a pair of shabby brown trousers, a green and white striped collarless shirt, a navy waistcoat, a jersey, a dirty-looking raincoat, and a woollen hat. At the last minute he decided on a down-at-heel pair of shoes that were his size. His own shoes would look suspiciously good quality. He had bought them in the shoe department at Goodmans. Everything in Goodmans was of the highest quality. Before returning home, he went into an off-licence and bought a couple of bottles of Buckfast.
Later that night, he discarded his smart coat, his business suit, shirt and tie and polished shoes and dressed in everything he had bought at Paddy’s Market. Then, under cover of darkness and with one of the bottles of Buckfast wine in his pocket, he made his way back into town.
16
The police had received a phone message telling them that a bomb had been planted in Goodmans of Glassford Street and a call had immediately come from the police to the store. The bomb had been set to go off within the hour and blow the whole place up. The store had to be evacuated immediately. This was a dreadfully difficult and complicated thing to do.
Miss Eden found herself having to take charge and do most of the organising. Mr McKay was confused and, to put it bluntly, completely useless. This was so unlike him. Mr McKay had always been calm, clear-headed and competent in any emergency. Of course, Miss Eden thought, the poor man was not himself just now. He should have taken her advice, spoken to Mrs Goodman, and got a spell off work to give him some time to recover.
‘Will everyone please leave the building immediately,’ she repeated over the intercom. ‘Everyone gather outside in the street as quickly as possible.’
She went around the departments shooing everyone away as calmly as she could. It was difficult enough accomplishing this feat because of all the customers in the store, plus the staff. An extra worry was the opportunity for theft while all this was going on and her attention was diverted from her normal detective duties.
It was understandable in these harrowing circumstances that she completely forgot about her lunch date with Andreas. She had reached the ground floor and was shepherding the last of the staff outside when she spotted him. He was at the front of a mass of people now filling Glassford Street. The crowd were also spilling over into Wilson Street, Argyle Street and Ingram Street.
The police were also in Glassford Street now, and in the store with sniffer dogs. A couple of officers spoke to her and asked about the situation upstairs and in the offices and staff area. She was able to assure them that she had checked every corner, including the lavatories, and no one had been left anywhere in the store.
When she looked across again to where Andreas had been standing among some of the staff, he was not there. She went over to one of the women from the crystal and glassware department that he’d been standing next to.
‘That man who was standing next to you? Did you see where he went?’
‘You must be joking – in this crowd! But he asked about you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, he asked what department you served in. I told him of course that you didn’t serve in any department. You were a detective.’
Her heart sank.
‘What did he say to that?’
The assistant laughed. ‘One word – Police? And then he beat a hasty retreat. Was he one of your shoplifters?’
‘I’ll have to go,’ Miss Eden said, ‘and see if the police have found anything.’
She now was far more upset by Andreas finding out she was a detective than she was by the bomb scare. She knew it! She just knew that her job would put a man off. But surely he might have met her and given her the chance to explain why she’d lied about it. Surely they could at least have been friends.
The police, helped by several sniffer dogs, had given the building a thorough search and found nothing, and so everyone was allowed to return. It was extremely difficult to get everyone settled back into their normal routine.
‘It must have been a bloody hoax call!’ Mr McKay sounded almost tearful. He was pale and shaking and she had to lead him upstairs to the canteen and fetch him a cup of tea. She began to wonder if she should have a word with Mrs Goodman herself. He definitely needed time off to get himself together again.
She sat down beside him at one of the canteen tables. A break for a cup of tea wouldn’t do her any harm either, though it was not normal practice to sit in the canteen with the staff – even the manager. This, however, had not been a normal day.
‘Who would want to do such a thing?’ Mr McKay said.
‘The police told me it was a woman’s voice on the phone.’
‘A dissatisfied customer, do you think? But surely not. We always do our best for customers. We very seldom have any complaints, and they are always dealt with very promptly and to the complete satisfaction of the customer.’
Miss Eden shrugged. ‘Revenge of an ex-employee? Someone who was sacked?’
‘That doesn’t happen often either.’
After a few sips of tea, Mr McKay added, ‘There was that girl who tried to steal the underwear. Her mother was angry at her dismissal, remember.’
Miss Eden looked unconvinced. ‘Mmm. Maybe the mother, but I wouldn’t think the girl …’
‘The mother phoned.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘You should mention that to the police.’
‘Yes, all right.’
She noticed how much Mr McKay’s hand was trembling every time he lifted his cup. It occurred to her for the first time that he might have been drinking. It was remarkably common for people to drown their sorrows in drink. He could lose his job as a result of drinking. She decided, for his sake, she would keep a close eye on him from now on. If she found out that he was indeed over-indulging in alcohol, she would try her very best to help him.
After they finished their tea, he went to his office and she returned downstairs. Now she worried about Andreas. He knew where she lived, so hopefully he would contact her tonight, or sometime soon. If he thought anything of her at all, and he had seemed to like her very much, he surely would not just disappear.
Later, waiting alone in the flat in Springburn, her hopes faded. There was no contact the next day either. Or the next. At first, she couldn’t understand it. All right, maybe a detective’s job wasn’t too attractive to a man. A bit off-putting, especially to someone a bit old-fashioned like Andreas, who liked ladies to be very feminine and probably dependent on their man. All the same, just to disappear like that wasn’t fair, wasn’t even polite, and he had such perfect manners. What with his bowing and hand-kissing and heel-clicking.
Gradually, grudgingly, she faced an alternative explanation. The man was either a con artist trying to get British citizenship, or a crook of some kind. After all, he didn’t just echo the word ‘detective’ that the staff member from the crystal and glassware department had used. He said, ‘Police!’ then got off his mark.
What a fool she’d been. Later she relieved some of her anger and frustration in her karate class. She felt so glad the sensei said seniors could stay on after th
e class to work on focus pads. She partnered up with Brian, her usual sparring partner. She relaxed into fighting stance, weight evenly balanced, left hand leading, elbows tucked in. She exploded forward – left jab, right cross, thigh kick, right jab, left cross, thigh kick – moving smoothly forward, the sharp sock of skin on leather music to her ears. Sweat trickled down her face and her lungs pumped as she drove forward, letting her anger and aggression flow into the pads.
By Monday morning she felt much better. She was obviously well rid of the con artist. She’d had a narrow escape. She was concerned about Mr McKay, however. He looked worse. He looked as if he’d never slept and he had definitely been drinking. She had seen the results in enough people in her job to know the signs. While he was doing his usual routine of checking the departments, she slipped into his office. She noticed he’d begun to carry a large plastic carrier bag to work recently and suspected she’d find a bottle concealed in it. With that, she could confront him. That would be a first step in helping him. If she didn’t do something to try and help him, any day now Mrs Goodman would notice and immediately dismiss him. She couldn’t just stand aside and allow that to happen. Not to Mr McKay.
On opening the bag, she was astonished to find it packed with old clothes. There was also a bottle of Buckfast wine but it was the clothes that surprised and puzzled her. There was a stained, shabby pair of trousers, a grubby-looking shirt and coat, a khaki woollen balaclava and a pair of down-at-heel shoes. She couldn’t understand it. She returned everything to the bag and quietly left the office.
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