"Can I wait?"
"Sure," she replied. "There's a chair by his bed...or you can wait in reception."
I checked my watch. It was nearly five o'clock in the morning.
"Tell him I'm here when he wakes up," I said. "He'll need a shirt and jacket. I'd better go home and..."
"Don't bother," she said. "We've got a supply for emergencies."
She looked at me the way nurses do.
"You don't look too good yourself," she said.
"Nothing a coffee and a cigarette won't cure."
She tutted.
"A good breakfast would do you better."
"Is that an offer?" I said.
She blushed, looked down at her feet, then back up at me, looking me straight in the eye.
"It might be," she said.
It never rains but it pours.
8
I'd fully intended just to look in on Doug then head for a coffee, but the sight of his pale features against the white covers reminded me of wee Jim, lying quiet and non-swearing in the back of an ambulance while the drivers sat up front and talked about football. The strength went from my legs and I had to sit down. The events of the night caught up with me all at once. Luckily I had Jim's hipflask in my pocket. A minute later the contents were spreading heat through my insides and I was immediately feeling better with the world. I decided to stay in the chair. Just for a little while.
Doug woke me up some time later. He was hitting me with his good arm.
"You bastard. You complete and utter bastard."
Betty Mulholland stood behind him.
"Sorry," she said to me. "He asked me why you were here."
"And you told him? I thought the Police had more sense."
She at least had the good grace to look sorry.
"You nearly got yourself killed," Doug said.
I sat him down on the edge of the bed.
"I was doing my job," I said. "You know that."
"Fuck it," he said in a rare flash of profanity. He hit me again. "You nearly got yourself killed."
I could have told him that he was going to have to get used to it, but that wasn't what he wanted to hear.
"Okay," I said, "I'll phone the client and give her the five grand back. You'll have to wait for that new laptop."
As I knew it would, that calmed him down fast. He wasn't quite quiet yet, but at least he'd stopped hitting me.
And that was when I woke up and sobered up enough to notice what he was wearing.
The shirt alone would have been cause for comment. It was red and white, sewn with tassels and sequins that danced in the neon overheads. The last time I'd seen anybody wearing anything like it he'd been sitting on a horse singing about his four-legged friend. That in itself was bad enough, but over the top of it he wore an electric blue angora cardigan that was several sizes too small for him.
"Roy Rogers meets Ed Wood," I said, and the giggles began to well up.
"You should have seen what I turned down," he said. "It could have been Vampirella meets Trigger."
"Get off your horse and drink your blood," I said in my worst John Wayne impression, and that started Doug off, and we were both laughing like schoolboys who'd heard their first fart joke.
Betty looked on bemused.
"Is this a private hilarity, or can anybody join in?"
"You need to know some really bad movies," Doug said.
"Oh, Plan 9 isn't that bad," she said. "Have you seen Cannibal Girls?"
Then I made a big mistake.
"Oh? And I suppose you can link Abbott and Costello meets Frankenstein with Tremors in three?" I said.
She hardly thought about it.
"That's easy. Karloff to Nicholson to Bacon. Do you want the names of the films?"
Doug grinned from ear to ear while I put my head in my hands.
Another smart arse. Just what I needed.
* * *
By the time we got out to the car park they were into stylistic similarities between Fulci and Romero, having lost me way behind when they moved on from Roger Corman.
Betty waved a hand over towards her car.
"Give you a lift? That offer of breakfast is still open."
Doug did a slow double take, and I gave him my best See...you don't know everything grin.
"No. I'd better get this one home. You'll never get any police work done with him around."
"Your loss," she said. "But you don't get away that easily. I said I'd be in touch...I might not have much sense, but I keep my promises."
She gave me another peck on the cheek and headed for her car.
Doug's mouth was doing its flycatcher impression again. He seemed to be struggling to suppress a laugh as he spoke.
"So. Your first lumber in...what is it, five years? And it's a cop!"
Then he gave in and laughed loudly. "I like her, though," he said eventually.
"That's because she's a movie nerd," I said. "Like you, but much better looking."
"I don't dispute it. But she might not be good for business."
I'd already thought of that. Some of my activities, like the deal I did in the City Vaults, would never take place if my contacts knew I was involved with a policewoman. But there was something about her that made me think that I might take a chance anyway. I wasn't about to tell Doug that.
"You're jumping the gun a bit," I said. "We only just met."
"Aye, but stress situations, people thrown together...it happens all the time in films."
"Doug. I think it's time you were told. Movies don't reflect real life."
He scrunched up his face and pretended to cry.
"Oh come on...next you'll be telling me there ain't no sanity clause."
That led us into a long circular conversation covering Groucho, gentlemen's clubs, Neolithic dating techniques, hairy women, and somehow, by the time we got to the cab rank, back to Betty Mulholland.
"I've been thinking," Doug said.
"Bad idea," I replied. There were no cabs at the rank, so I took the chance and lit up a cigarette.
"No, listen," he said. "There's something rotten about the case. It doesn't add up."
"I know. Why would the brothers let John Mason go so easily if they knew what was going to happen once he got off Skye? I never bought that woman Irene's story. And why haven't they come looking for him?"
Doug's face dropped. I'd stolen some of his thunder.
"And another question," he said. "Why does his mother want him to go back?"
"Ah. There's a part of the story you don't know yet," I replied. "I'll tell you back in the office. And I have some research for you."
His eyes lit up. He'd been away from his computer for thirty-six hours, long enough for withdrawal symptoms to set in.
A cab rolled up and I ground out the cigarette. The driver rolled down his window and looked us up and down.
"Christ. It's the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen right enough," he said. "Where to, lads?"
"Byres Road."
"Ah. Student town. I nearly went to Uni, but I was making so much money off the bookies that I..."
I got in the back with Doug and tuned the driver out. God knows where taxi drivers learned to talk...but it never seemed to bother them that no one was listening.
"That's a braw shirt you're got there," he said, looking at Doug in the rear view mirror. "My brother Alan has one similar. He wears it to the line dancing. Ye ken about that line-dancing lark? A load of auld bollocks, if ye ask me. Although I suppose it keeps the auld folk out of mischief. But this is Glesga...not fucking Texas. No' that we're short of cowboys, eh? I took a fare tae One Devonshire Gardens last night. Do you know how much they charge for a pint in there? Four pounds! Four quid for a lager. I remember when..."
If I could get him and Jessie Malcolm together we would walk the World Pairs talking contest. I left him to it, only tuning in again when he mentioned the murders in Govan.
"...And there was another last night. Some reporter fae the Star. No that I
've got any truck with journalists, ye understand, but they should be able to go about their business without getting their heads caved in. The Police are baffled, but what else is new? Word on the street is that it's angel dust or PCP. There's a gang war...that's what they say. Whatever it is, you'll not be able to get a taxi in Govan after dark until it's all sorted. Sorted? What am I saying. Nothing ever gets sorted these days. Back in the auld days..."
I tuned him out again.
When we got to Byres Road I had to wake Doug up.
"Have mind of what I said," the cabbie said as I paid him. I nodded. That seemed safest, and it seemed to satisfy him. As he went to pull away a 4-X-4 cut him off. He blasted his horn.
"Bloody women drivers," I heard him say to the empty cab. "If I had my way..."
Away he went. I wondered if he talked in his sleep. Probably, but it had most likely been better in the old days.
I sent Doug upstairs with the keys while I went for yet more cigarettes. Old Joe had two packs ready for me.
"How's the lad?" he asked.
"Tired, and stitched up like a badly mended sock, but he seems fine," I said.
"And you? I heard about Jim Morton."
I was continually amazed at the power of the city's jungle drums. I reassured Joe that I was fine, and promised him the whole story once I was rested.
By the time I got back to the office Doug was already hooked up to the computer.
"Coffee?" I asked, and got a grunt in reply.
I took that as assent and busied myself with making a strong brew, trying not to see Jim Morton's face at every turn. While the machine got going I went next door and changed. And it was only then I noticed the tiny flecks of red...Jim Morton's blood, all over my shirt, as if it had been sprinkled there like fairy dust. I had tears running down my face as I ripped off all the clothes I'd been wearing and threw them in a corner. I sat, naked, on the edge of the bed, and cried.
But I only allowed myself a minute. I had a living friend out in the office that needed me to be strong. To get myself in the mood I showered and dressed for business...the old suit, clean shirt, necktie, braces and brogues...my detective outfit.
By the time I went back out to the office the coffee was ready and Doug had a pile of material on Loki printing for me to read. But he still wasn't ready to talk.
"Just let me check my e-mail," he said. "I put out some requests before we left. There might be more information there."
I took my coffee to my desk and sat gratefully in my own chair, so closely molded to my contours that my back thought it was in heaven. I sat back, lit a cigarette and sipped some of the strong coffee. The world felt a whole lot better...for all of twenty seconds.
The phone rang.
Doug moved instinctively to answer it, hit his bad arm on his in-tray, and swore as tears of pain coursed down his cheeks.
I picked up the call.
"Adams Detective Agency."
"I have your order," the voice said. It was the man I'd talked to at the bar in the City Vaults. "Be at the south end of Paddy's Market in an hour," he said.
He hung up. He hadn't mentioned payment, but then again, he didn't have to. If I turned up without the cash I'd be marked as an amateur, and guarantee that I'd never do any more business through The Vault.
I rose from the chair with a groan.
"I'm going out," I said.
"Business or pleasure?"
"Oh, I thought I'd blow my share of the fee on wine, women and song," I said.
"Just be back before it gets dark," he said in a perfect impression of my mother. I was never sure if he was serious or not, but as I left the office I looked back and he was once more crouched over his keyboard.
"Derek..." he said softly as I turned away. "Be careful."
"You know me." I said.
"Aye. That's what I'm afraid of."
* * *
I took the underground to the city center. At this time of the morning it was just hotting up for the rush hour, and some of the same commuters I'd seen the night before were now heading back to work. They still wouldn't catch my eye, though. I found myself wondering how eventful their evening had been...a supper, a soap opera, maybe a glass of wine, then a comfortable bed. Despite the night's events, I wouldn't trade with them.
I got out in the city center and then slowly made my way along Argyle Street, wincing as the morning sun slanted into my eyes. Although it was still early the shops were already busy, although they got less so the further along the road I went. Less busy, but with more bargains...large, bright signs announcing Closing Down Sales, Last Chances and Best Offers in Town.
If the City Vaults was the order-raising center for the black economy, the Barrowlands area at the East End of the city center was the delivery point. Legit, and grey-area, traders rubbed shoulders in a vibrant, heaving market, selling everything from meat to mobiles, nightgowns to night-sights.
Even this early in the day, the place was packed. Stallholders heckled, promised and cajoled while youths barely out of acne ran the three-card trick on street corners. Lads in shellsuits sold knock-off gold watches from suitcases, and you could get a crap version of any of the latest Hollywood blockbusters for less than a tenner on DVD or VHS. Queues of women formed at a stall, selling thick woolen socks at a pound a pair, while queues of men snaked around a trader offering a litre of whisky for a fiver. The smell of frying grease hung in the air, wafting from a score of fast food caravans, and someone was offering a unique chance to get your picture taken with a Golden Eagle on your arm.
And all that was just The Barrows public face. I knew of at least two poker schools in apartments round the back where you needed ten grand to get a seat. Down a side alley, just out of view of the main market, hookers plied their trade and hard-faced men sold drugs to soft-eyed punters.
Then there was Paddy's Market.
Rumor had it there was once an Irish seaman who took small items from every cargo of every ship he worked on. When he came ashore he had walked a reasonable distance from the docks, then set up shop, selling goods from a rolled out blanket. That was back when Glasgow was still making its money, when Victorian magnates scoured the world and brought it back up the Clyde.
It was a great tradition, and Paddy's Market was still open for business. But the merchandise no longer held the quality it once did. The sales pitches were no less sharp, though.
"Hey, big man," one rheumy-eyed drunk said to me. "Nice eye shadow, I could do you a fine pair of sunglasses for a couple of quid. I'll even throw in a bottle of aspirins."
He had a kitchen towel stretched out in front of him. On it he had one Churchill commemorative coin, a fake Gucci watch, a 1950's Parker fountain pen without a nib, and a Luke Skywalker action figure without the light saber.
"I've got some good stuff coming this afternoon," he said, and cackled, until he started to wheeze and cough.
"You couldnae spare a cigarette?" he said as I walked away. I turned back and gave him two. He was so surprised he forgot to cough. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper.
"He's waiting in the auld lavvie," he said. "Just past auld Jock the Pervert's pitch."
He saw the question coming before I asked.
"Oh, you'll ken when you see it. You cannae miss it. And if auld Jock is not there, just follow your nose."
He started coughing again, and I left sharply before I got phlegm on my shoes.
I'm sure his brother was manning the next pitch down, a white sheet covered with coins from every country under the sun. After that there was a young girl, pale and bruised, selling china teacups that had probably belonged to her great- grandmother. There were yet more old men, all selling trinkets in the hope of a bottle of fortified wine later. And then there was Jock the Pervert's pitch.
I thought I'd seen some hardcore porn in my youth. But there were magazines here with cover pictures I had to look at twice to make sure I was really seeing what I thought I was seeing. I made the mistake of slowing down for
a closer look. The old boy was on me like a funnel spider.
"What's your pleasure?" he said. He was bald, with liver spots over a scalp that looked loose enough to slide off. While he talked he moved his false teeth around his mouth with his tongue. He looked lascivious, he sounded it...hell, he even smelled like it.
"I've got anything you'd ever want. All Danish and Dutch stuff. Horses, Great Danes, golden showers, amputees...you name it, I've got it."
"I'm looking for a man," I said, and immediately regretted it.
I didn't think it was possible for him to be any more suggestive, but he managed it. He shuffled around in a pile of magazines, and showed me a cover.
"Gay Boys in Bondage. I've got a mate who's got a wee dungeon set-up if you're interested?"
I was already backing away.
"No. I mean, I'm looking for the Auld Lavvies," I said.
He did the thing with his teeth again.
"Ah. It's fresh meat you're after. Second on the right. Follow..."
"Aye. Follow my nose. I've heard."
"Do you have anything with old women?" I heard a voice ask him as I walked away. "Really old women?"
I walked faster, suddenly feeling the urge for a shower. The feeling got stronger as I got closer to my destination...an old Victorian gentleman's lavatory down at the far end of the alleyway. I pushed the door open gingerly.
The smell hit me, as if it was partly solid. Once the place had been all green marble and gold taps, but now it was dark, grey, damp, and smelled like something had died...then something else had shat on it. The man I'd met in The Vaults was standing just inside. He was smoking a thin cigar, clenched tightly between his teeth.
"Now I know why Clint Eastwood smoked. He probably stank like this after a week in the saddle," he said. "I'd smoke them if you've got them. It helps with the smell."
As I was lighting up the door behind me opened, and I was surprised to see a well-known local businessman come in.
"Fuck off. We're busy," my contact said, and the door was shut sharply.
"Poofs. I hate them," he said to no one in particular.
He bent and lifted a long package from his feet. It was a leather case, the kind you keep fishing rods in. Only this one contained a rifle...or, more accurately, a tranquilizer gun. He showed me five darts, each with a hollow chamber filled with golden fluid.
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