The Deep Dark Sleep

by Craig Russell

  ‘But the way you go at people … the way you lose control … it isn’t right, Lennox.’

  ‘You think I’m ready for the psycho ward, Martha?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. I just think you should ease up a little. Someone’s going to end up hurt. Bad.’

  ‘It wouldn’t ever come to that,’ I said, trying to tuck away in some dark corner of my mind the image of the goon I’d left on a country road with few teeth and a lifetime of mouth-breathing ahead of him. I smiled at Martha. She was pretty and, despite her job, she was a good kid. There was something about her, about the architecture of her face and the high cheekbones that reminded me in a vague way of Fiona White. ‘Enough of the gloomy talk,’ I said. ‘Let’s have another drink …’

  I drove Martha home. Which was quite an accomplishment given the amount of bourbon I’d consumed. For a lot of the way I was confused by the sudden presence of so many dual carriageways in Glasgow, but managed to resolve the problem by keeping one eye shut while I drove. Martha had had a few as well, but I’d left her pretty far behind. When we got to her place she made me some of that coffee that came out of a bottle and you mixed with hot water. It tasted like crap but started to do the trick.

  Martha’s place was in a newish building with shops on the ground floor and flats above. We had only ever tangoed in my car so this was my first time there and I was surprised at how tasteful it was. The furniture was the Modernist type of thing that was coming out of Denmark and she had a few Impressionist prints in cheap frames on the wall. A small bookcase was filled with book club novels and there was a two-month-old copy of Vogue on the coffee table, to be seen as much as read, I guessed. The place screamed of someone trying to break out of the rut they were stuck in and the bright, stylish, cheerful flat depressed the hell out of me.

  We talked for a while and I drunk more coffee, but the booze in my system was messing with my visual recall and Martha began to look more and more like Fiona White to me. I moved in, as we both had known I would, and experienced a lack of resistance that would embarrass an Italian general. We ended up on the floor and her dress became a crumple around her waist. What followed was unlovely and almost brutal and I eased off when I saw a touch of fear in her eyes. I became more gentle and kissed her, but with my eyes closed it was still Fiona White and not Martha I had under me.

  Afterwards we smoked and she was quiet. I apologized for being so rough and asked if we could see each other again.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said, and I was disappointed to see that she meant it.

  It was about ten the next morning when, accompanied by Archie, I arrived to meet the twins at Violet’s home in Milngavie. I had decided against conducting our business in my office because I felt the boarded-up window behind my desk might just have been a little off-putting for clients: a reminder, as it was, that I had added a new option in how you could leave my office.

  There were also the fact that when I had called by the office first thing that morning to pick up a few things, there had been a reporter from the Bulletin hanging around the building. Fortunately he was without a photographer and was slow on the uptake. He had asked me if I was Lennox and I told him, in a broad Glasgow accent, that I wasn’t. It was only when I said I was from the City Corporation Licensing Authority and was there to find out about taxis making unauthorized pick-ups that he stopped nodding absently and began to look suspicious.

  Archie and I took my Austin Atlantic and drove up to Milngavie. On the way I noticed again the cigar-shaped profile of the Bennie Railplane sitting forlorn in its distant field, hovering over a huddle of sheds, like a discarded prop from a Buck Rogers featurette.

  I gave Archie an update of where we were with things, including my suspicion that the man in the photograph was Gentleman Joe himself, and that he was behind the attempt on my life in my office. He asked me how it had gone with Billy Dunbar and I told him I hadn’t had a chance to make the trip, after all. I didn’t really know why I lied to Archie; maybe it was the fact that he was, at the end of the day, a retired copper. The fact that you’d stumbled on a double murder but hadn’t reported it, or the fact that you had pulped some gangster’s face by pistol-whipping him with an illegally held firearm, were the kind of things you didn’t volunteer to coppers, retired or otherwise.

  Violet McKnight lived in a detached Nineteen-thirties bungalow, with the obligatory attic conversion above and the obligatory small square of manicured gardens out front. Milngavie was Glasgow’s hadn’t-quite-made-it middle class suburb: a sprawl of identical bungalows set out with the imagination of a vegetable allotment.

  I noticed that the Ford Zephyr, still gleaming its Hire Purchase gleam, was parked in the driveway, and when we rang the doorbell we were admitted by Robert McKnight, Violet’s husband. He beamed a car salesman’s smile at us, letting it flicker only momentarily when he saw I was not alone. McKnight was shorter than I had expected him to be, but the shoulders were as packed as I had seen from above. He had a broad, handsome face, but his nose had been busted at some point and had not been professionally set, giving it a twist to the right. The effect was off-putting: even when he was looking at you straight on, you had the feeling he had already started to turn away.

  He showed us into the living room, or loungette as they probably called it in Milngavie. Everything was new and immaculate and in what they called the Danish Style. It depressed me to realize I was seeing the kind of look that Martha had tried to emulate in her tiny rented flat and on a much smaller budget.

  Isa and Violet were sitting on the sofa. I noticed that they sat almost pressed up to each other, as if physical contact between them was essential to comfort. I introduced Archie as my associate who had been working on the case with me, and the twins invited us to sit.

  ‘We read all about it …’

  ‘… in the newspapers …’ they began.

  ‘That was terrible …’

  ‘Just terrible …’

  ‘Tell us, Mr Lennox …’

  ‘… was it to do with you trying to find out about Daddy?’

  I smiled and dropped my hat onto the G-plan. ‘I’m afraid it was. I have to tell you that I actually think that Daddy might have had more than a little to do with it.’

  ‘You mean …’

  ‘… Daddy is alive?’

  ‘That’s the information I’ve been given. Or at least he was still alive in Nineteen forty-two, according to one witness. Just the one, mind. But added to that single witness is the fact that the gentleman who took a swan dive from my office window had tried before to warn me off looking into your father’s disappearance, and when I couldn’t be warned off, he tried to retire me permanently from the case. And that means I am definitely on the opposite side of the fence from Joe Strachan. If I continue to work for you, that could be seen as a conflict of interests. And detrimental to my well-being.’

  For once Isa and Violet said nothing but sat in identical silence.

  ‘So you really do think that Joe is still alive?’ asked Robert McKnight, the salesman’s smile gone from his lips and replaced with a frown of equivalent insincerity.

  ‘Looks like it. And that’s why I wanted to talk to you both. As I said, I’ve taken this case as far as I can. As far as I am willing.’

  ‘We quite understand …’ said Violet.

  ‘… given everything that has happened …’

  ‘… but we want to be sure …’

  ‘… that Daddy is alive …’

  ‘The only way to be sure would be to find him,’ I said.

  ‘That’s what we mean …’

  ‘… would you find him for us, so that we can talk to him?’

  ‘The short answer to that is no. I am in no doubt that if I ever did succeed in finding your father, then I don’t think I’d live long enough to tell you about it. And if I did survive the encounter, I would have to tell the police.’

  They both opened their mouths to protest. I held up my hand.

  ‘Lis
ten, ladies, I warned you from the start that if I found out your father was alive, and where he was, then I could not withhold that information from the police. Now the police are all over this like a rash, and I don’t want to catch it. If they ask me, right now, if I know the whereabouts of Joe Strachan, I can tell them with absolute honesty that I don’t know. And that I don’t know for absolutely sure that he is alive. If you want my advice, I think we should leave it like that.’

  ‘But we want to talk to him …’ they protested in unison.

  ‘Let’s face it, ladies, he has been sending you that cash every year for eighteen years. If he wanted to make contact, then he would have before now. If you ask my opinion, and I’m sorry to be so blunt, that money is guilt money. I think your father always planned to disappear, to leave you and your mother behind, whether or not a copper was killed during the Empire Exhibition job. I believe he has a completely new identity in some other part of the country, or the world: an identity he was probably setting up since before you were even born. The only reason he is making his presence felt here in Glasgow again is because I’ve been sticking my big nose in where it’s not wanted.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Accept that your father is alive, but not in a position to contact you. Keep taking the money and keeping your heads down. That’s my advice and it’s advice I intend to follow myself. By the way, I think it could be a matter of your safety as well.’

  The twins looked outraged.

  ‘Our Daddy …’

  ‘… would never do anything to hurt us!’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I think there’s a chance he could have got involved with a very dangerous group of people. More organized, better resourced and more dangerous than any criminal gang. And they look out for each other, as I found out to my cost.’

  ‘What kind of people?’ asked Robert.

  ‘Military types. No, not even military types … more the “stay behind” guerrilla groups that were set up before and during the war. They were supposed to sabotage Nazi invaders, that kind of thing, but a lot of them were set up to deal with the Commies if the war should take that kind of turn.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like our Daddy …’ said Isa.

  ‘Not like our Daddy at all …’ added Violet.

  ‘He wasn’t political.’

  ‘But you said that he was some kind of war hero in the First War?’

  ‘He was …’

  ‘He got medals for it …’

  ‘He went behind enemy lines and everything.’

  ‘But he was also nearly shot for being a deserter, isn’t that also true?’

  ‘That’s all lies …’

  ‘Lies …’ echoed Violet.

  ‘Listen, ladies,’ I said as gently as I could, ‘it’s easy, very easy, to build up someone into a hero figure when they’re not around. A lot that I have heard about your father, and everything I have experienced, leads me to believe he was or is a totally ruthless character. I don’t think he ever did anything that wasn’t in his own interest. I’m sorry, Isa and Violet, but I’m going to have to let this one go. And if I were you, I would do the same. This is one gift horse you shouldn’t be looking in the mouth.’

  ‘Could we talk to the witness you traced?’

  ‘That would be difficult to arrange,’ I said, without adding that we would need to hire a medium to arrange it. ‘I’m afraid he’s moved away. Permanently.’

  Now for my big finale.

  ‘There is something else …’ I reached into my jacket pocket and took out the photograph. ‘I know it’s not a good photograph, and he will, of course, have aged since you last saw him, but can you identify this man for me?’

  I felt a small electric thrill as I placed the photograph on the table in front of the twins. I watched their faces closely to catch the moment when they realized that they were looking at the father they had last seen when they were eight years old.

  ‘Oh my gosh …’ said Isa.

  ‘… of course we recognize him …’

  ‘… even after all of these years …’

  I exchanged a meaningful look with Archie. I probably looked smug. I felt smug and I felt I had every right to feel it.

  ‘Yes … that’s Mr Williamson, all right.’

  My smugness came to an abrupt end.

  ‘Sorry… what did you say?’

  ‘You asked us if we recognized him …’ said Isa.

  ‘And we do …’ said Violet.

  ‘That’s Henry Williamson, our father’s friend.’

  I picked up the photograph and looked at it. Henry Williamson. Gentleman Joe’s non-crook friend and supposed First War buddy.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  I pocketed the photograph again.

  The twins spent a couple of minutes trying to talk me into contacting their father for them, but I wouldn’t budge and they gave in with amazingly good grace. I told them I’d keep half the cash they had paid me and handed them an envelope with the rest. They refused, saying that they felt they had put me at great risk and at the very least through a terrible experience and they insisted I keep the lot. We debated some more but they were steadfast and I was less so. When I walked out the door, I still had their cash.

  Robert McKnight followed us out to my car.

  ‘By the way, Mr Lennox,’ he said. ‘I think you’re right. I keep telling the girls not to go digging into all of this shite. Like you said, if Joe wanted to get in touch he would have put a note in with the money. I know they’re not happy, but I wanted to thank you for what you’ve done, Mr Lennox. When they think about it, they’ll be happy to know their Da is still alive.’

  His eyes lit up with something when he saw my car. ‘Is this yours? The Atlantic?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Listen, Mr Lennox, no sales shite. I’d like to do something to thank you for everything you’ve done and all of the trouble you’ve been to. I can do you a really good trade-in … maybes even a straight trade … and get you something nicer.’

  ‘That’s good of you, Robert, but I’m happy with the Atlantic.’

  ‘Maybes you are, but with those funny lights and everything … I’m telling you I would do you a favour. Not the usual shite, a real favour. I’d clear it with the boss and I know they’ll be no trouble. Listen, I’ve got just the thing for you: a one-year-old Wolseley Four-Forty-four Saloon, Royal Blue. Hardly anything on the clock. Like new condition.’

  ‘Like I said, I’m happy with the Atlantic.’

  He placed a hand on my arm to halt me. I looked down at the hand but he didn’t move it. ‘Listen, this is a genuine offer. No bull. The Wolseley is going for eight-four-four. Actually eight hundred and forty-four pounds, five shillings and tenpence. I’ll exchange the Atlantic and let you have it for two hundred and fifty quid.’

  ‘Now why would you do that?’ The deal made no sense, unless there was something wrong with the Wolseley or car salesmen had suddenly developed a passion for making losses. Or consciences.

  ‘Like I said, to show appreciation. The girls … we all … were shocked when we heard about what happened: that bloke trying to kill you. Call it a bonus. I’ve already cleared the deal with my boss. No catches.’ He handed me a business card with the garage address and number. ‘Why don’t you come down and see it for yourself. I’ll put a reserved sticker on it till you come.’

  I looked at the card, then back at McKnight’s face. It was empty of guile, of expression, yet somehow he still managed to look insincere. I wondered which boss it was – the showroom manager or Willie Sneddon – he had cleared the deal with, without anyone seeing the condition of my Atlantic.

  ‘What would you give me for a Nineteen forty-seven Morris Eight?’ asked Archie. McKnight switched his salesman smile back on.

  ‘Why don’t you bring it to the showroom and I’ll cut you a deal.’

  Archie shrugged. The three of us knew that Archie wouldn’t be offered the kind of deal I�
��d just been offered. Nobody would. I just couldn’t work out why I had been singled out for such gratitude. In fact, the generosity of others was beginning to trouble me; and the more it troubled me, the more I tried giving myself the same advice I’d given the twins: don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. But the truth was I could buy the Wolseley ten times over, without McKnight’s deal, because I had earned so much money, so quickly from tracking down Paul Downey and his photographs. The easiest money I had ever made.

  And that troubled me almost as much as McKnight’s offer.

  *

  I dropped Archie back at his house. He asked me if I wanted to come in for a cup of tea, but I said I had to get on. The truth was I had to pick up some of the pieces of my personal life, such as it was. I also had to have a discussion with my new best chums in Saint Andrew’s Square.

  Archie was about to step out of the car when I stopped him. I took the envelope from my pocket and counted out a hundred in twenties and handed it to him. As usual, his face retained its unchanging, slack-mouthed dolorousness, but his eyebrows looked like they were going on holiday somewhere on the top of his bald pate.

  ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘A bonus. You’ve been a great help, Archie. I wouldn’t have found Billy Dunbar without you.’

  The muscles in his face twitched as if someone was running an inconstant electrical current through his cheeks. He was, I realized, attempting to smile.

  ‘Thanks, chief,’ he said.

  ‘Think nothing of it.’

  Before I headed in to the City of Glasgow Police headquarters, I drove past my digs. No Jowett Javelin.

  I was surprised how easy it was to get to see Detective Chief Superintendent McNab without an appointment. McNab parked me in a disused office while he tracked down Jock Ferguson. I was even more surprised when McNab had a young, pretty woman police constable – something that I had always considered a contradiction in terms – bring a tray with three cups, a jug of milk and a huge aluminium pot of tea. I was a sucker for a uniform, so I made sure that I had her name and a telephone number I could get her on before McNab returned.