by Stuart David
I mean, I’m hardly the biggest fan of weddings, and this one in particular falls some way short of being the match of the century. The bride, you’ve probably already gleaned, is a pal of the wife’s – Wilma Caldwell. Wilma, in her turn, used to be married to an old pal of mine, Brian Caldwell, many moons ago now. There was some speculation regarding the paternity of their second wean, way back in the day, and that pretty much put the kibosh on love’s young dream as far as Brian was concerned.
The groom, on the other hand, is something of an unknown quantity. Vince Cowie he’s called. I’ve bumped into him here and there over the years; he’s into a bit of this and a bit of that, much like myself. He’s hardly a looker from what I remember, but he’s a good fifteen years younger than Wilma, and that’s probably enough to make up for his lack of conventional aesthetic appeal. Fair play to them both, that’s my attitude to the union. There’s been a wee bit of whispering here and there about the age gap but, like I say, I’ve got something of a vested interest in their getting together, so far be it from me to do anything other than wish them all the luck in the world.
You see, just about as soon as the ink dries on their marriage certificate, I’ll be free and clear to roll out my latest money-making venture. I’ll be fully at liberty to unleash my latest brainwave on the world. And is this ever a brainwave. Fuck me – it’s an absolute belter. An absolute cert. And it’s destined to have me up to my eyeballs in money by the end of the year.
I’ll be rolling in the stuff.
So you’d better believe I’ll be the first one with my glass in the air the minute the best man asks us to toast their coming together in holy matrimony.
Here’s the fly in the ointment, though, the potential spanner in the works. It’s fucking McFadgen, isn’t it? I’ve got a fair bit of work to put in getting my venture ready to go between now and then, and it’s proving somewhat difficult with the brave detective constantly at me, night and day.
My idea, you see, isn’t strictly on the up and up. It falls somewhat squarely on the wrong side of the law. Which makes it fairly difficult to make any progress as long as McFadgen’s two or three feet behind me for the best part of the day. He’s starting to cramp my style a bit, if you get my meaning.
So I decided, the day after his delightful visit to the flat, that there was really only one thing for it. It was time to bite the bullet and pay a quick visit to John Jack, to see what nugget of information he could give me that might help my cause. John Jack’s the de facto expert on the comings and goings of the shadier side of the city, and if he had a lead on somebody with more motive to have killed Dougie Dowds than me, I could hopefully send McFadgen off on that trail for the time being, and earn myself a bit of breathing space to attend to the matters currently closest to my heart.
I got the feeling, the minute I stepped into John Jack’s office, that he wasn’t all that pleased to see me.
It was just minor things, subtle hints I picked up – the way his eyes narrowed as he turned towards the door when I came in, the lack of a welcoming smile, the manner in which he dropped his pen down on his desk and said, ‘Aww for fuck’s sake, Peacock. Not you. Not today. I’m not in the mood.’
Like I say – subtle hints. I’m a sensitive man, and I pick up on these social cues.
Still, I persevered.
John Jack’s office is upstairs from the casino he owns, and now and again the odds turn against him down there. He’s also a big fan of the snooker and the darts, and things going in the opposite direction from the one he wants them to go in a match can have a profound effect on his mood. I saw his telly was showing a darts match right at the minute, with the sound turned down, so I decided not to take his deficiencies as a host personally. It was likely I’d just walked in at a bad time, and I was bearing the brunt of his frustration.
‘What’s the problem, John?’ I said as I plonked myself down on the leather sofa at the back wall. ‘What’s getting in about you this morning?’
He took a long deep breath, and then looked me squarely in the eye.
‘You are,’ he said. ‘I was feeling tip top for once. Frankie’s up in the darts. Everything’s quiet downstairs. Even my ulcer’s taken a break and eased off on the gyp it’s been giving me. Then I hear a knock on my door. “Who’s this?” I say to myself. “My daughter bringing me an early lunch? Rab Campbell turning up with some insider knowledge he’s gleaned from the stables about the two-thirty at Haymarket?” Is it hell as like. In you wander, and down come my modest hopes. Are you bringing me an early lunch? Are you offering me a dead cert in the two-thirty? Are you buggery. You’re after something for yourself. Investment in another one of your demented ideas, more likely than not. I’m not interested, Peacock. Whatever it is, I’m not interested. I’ve lost more money on your idiotic nonsense than I’ve lost on all my other gambling put together. So you can take it elsewhere. Take it to some other mug. And close the door on your way out.’
I held my tongue. It seemed I’d been slightly off in my earlier assessment of what had been eating him. Misread the situation somewhat. So I let his blood pressure settle, and then I straightened myself up on the couch.
‘Are you finished?’ I asked him, and his eyes widened.
‘Am I what?’
‘Finished,’ I said. ‘Ranting. Are you feeling better, now you’ve said your piece? You’re a hell of a host, John. Oh, and by the way, you’re way off. I’m not here looking for investment. If you remember right, you already turned down my latest stormer. And it’s coming along fine without your meddling in it. More than fine. This is the jackpot, John. This is the big time. And you’ve dealt your future net worth a severe blow by passing on it. Fair enough. Your choice. But I’m not here looking for funding. This beauty’ll keep me occupied for the foreseeable. Fully occupied.’
He looked as if somebody was holding a bit of paper smeared with dog shit under his nose, and stared at me through that expression for a good ten seconds.
‘That fingerprint mince?’ he said. ‘Is that what we’re talking about here? You’re still hellbent on that? Are you serious?’
‘Serious as a heart attack, John,’ I said. ‘We’re up and running. Just waiting on the get go.’
‘Brian Caldwell went for that?’ he said. ‘Honestly? Christ Almighty, I sent you to him as a joke, Peacock. It’s one of the shittiest ideas I’ve heard in my puff. And I’ve heard my fair share of howlers, mainly from you. You’re absolutely serious? Caldwell went for that?’
‘He’s a man of vision,’ I said. ‘Unlike yourself. I mean, fair play, you’ve had your moments in the past. You’ve seen the potential in my genius here and there. But you sorely misjudged this one. This is my ticket, John. And Brian could see it’s his ticket as well. Short-sightedness, that’s your problem, John. You’re all about the big return, in double quick time. And I admit I’ve fallen victim to that way of thinking myself in the past. The boom and the bust. But what I’m setting up here is a long-term income stream. That’s the future, John – constant payments over the long term. That’s what you’ve missed out on with this one. Still, let bygones be bygones. You’ve fucked up and you’ve moved on. Let’s leave it at that. Suffice to say, I’m not here looking for investment. You can take the strain off that ulcer for the time being, in case it perforates.’
After that, I gave myself peace for a wee while. I’d just remembered that John Jack was essentially right in his assumptions, that I had come there to ask him for something, even if it wasn’t money. So I let my thinking apparatus tick over, and looked for a method to make it seem otherwise.
‘Right,’ he said, giving the darts a quick glance and rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I’m a busy man, Peacock. That’s enough shite for one day. Let’s just hear what you’re wanting, and then I can get you out of here.’
I acted a bit offended at the suggestion that I was wanting something, just to buy a tad more thinking time, then I was on it – the inspiration I’d been looking for appeared, an
d I got down to business.
‘I’m tempted to just fuck off and leave you to it, John,’ I said. ‘Here I am, come to do you a good turn, and all I get is snash. Aspersions cast on my good name.’ I stood up, and made out I was getting ready to leave. He seemed pretty nonplussed. ‘I was just bringing you a bit of information, a hot bit of gossip from the underworld, but if you’re not interested, if you’d rather be watching the darts . . .’
I’ll tell you what, I didn’t have to carry on with my charade of heading for the door after that – he was a changed man suddenly, all ears. That’s just how it is with John Jack. It’s a bit like putting a tumbler of whisky in front of a thirsty alcoholic – all decorum goes out the window.
‘What have you got?’ he asked me, practically slevering. The eyes were pleading, the fists bunched up. It was hard not to be touched by the man’s childlike excitement.
‘Have you heard about the thing Jinky’s putting together?’ I asked him, and he shook his head at speed, hardly able to contain himself.
‘Naw,’ he said. ‘What?’
So I told him about a job my pal Jinky had been banging on about in the Horseshoe Bar a couple of nights previously. It was nothing much, a minor smash and grab he was looking to recuit a couple of bodies for – but that’s the beauty of John Jack’s obsession. He doesn’t discriminate. Whether it’s a trifling disagreement between a couple of folk he knows, or a major plot to bring the government to its knees, he values it all exactly the same. It all contributes to him keeping tabs on the city as a whole – it’s all a part of the big picture. And having the biggest, most accurate picture he can possibly have is his number one priority.
He grabbed his notebook out of a desk drawer and asked me a few probing questions as he scribbled at a rate of knots. From where I was sitting, the paper looked like it was in severe danger of bursting into flames, but eventually he appeared to be satisfied that he’d everything committed to record, and while he was reading it back over I decided it was time to make my play.
‘Those notebooks of yours must be able to answer some amount of questions,’ I said. ‘Is there anything you don’t know about what’s going on in Glasgow, John?’
‘Very little,’ he said.
‘You should apply to go on Mastermind. Specialist subject: The Ins and Outs of the Glasgow Underworld. Incorporating various surrounding areas. Nineteen ninety-six until the present moment.’
‘Very funny,’ he said, without laughing, and he tucked his notebook back in the drawer, looking like a junkie who’s just had his fix.
‘I’d better hit the trail,’ I said. ‘Meeting the wife for lunch near her work.’
I eased myself up off the couch and then acted as if I’d just been struck by an afterthought. ‘Oh, by the way, what have you heard about this Dougie Dowds business? That was a hell of a thing. Any word on who was responsible for that?’
‘Eh?’ he said. His face had changed. Startled, I suppose, you’d call the look on it.
‘Dougie Dowds,’ I repeated. ‘I’m just asking if you know who whacked the poor wee bastard. Any news?’
He added a deep frown to the startled expression. It was a hell of a combination. His face hardly knew if it was coming or going. And then he said, ‘You did. It was you that did that. Obviously.’
A flush of embarrassment found its place on the highly crowded landscape of the big man’s face.
I sat back down on the couch and stared at him. ‘How come? Where are you getting that from?’
‘McFadgen,’ he said. ‘Adam Stevenson says McFadgen gave him a right good grilling about you. Same thing with Bert Hamilton. Willy Sooter says McFadgen’s ruled out the possibility of it being anybody else but you – he’s done considering any other options. McFadgen’s rarely wrong, Peacock. In my experience.’
‘McFadgen’s a chump,’ I said.
Things didn’t look good. The hope that J.J. would at least have heard whisperings of another tumshie I could send McFadgen off to take a look at had hit a brick wall. But my synapses were in fine form, and an alternative approach suddenly struck me.
‘Tell me this, John,’ I said. ‘Who swiped thon painting from Pollok House last month? The Spanish thing. Any word on that?’
The complicated weather had cleared on the Jackster’s map, and he just studied me with a look of certainty now.
‘That was you as well,’ he said. ‘Had to be. I don’t think anybody’s in any doubt about that.’
‘How?’
‘Well, for one thing, who else but you could have got in there and back out with the thing? It’s got you written all over it. You’re a total prick in the main, but credit where it’s due – I doubt there’s anybody else in the city could have pulled that one off.’
I leant forward and rubbed my forehead. I appreciated the compliment, but it was hardly getting me any closer to my goal.
‘Scratch that thing I said earlier about Mastermind, John,’ I told him. ‘On second thoughts it would be a hell of an episode. “Who did this?” “Peacock Johnson.” “Who did that?” “Peacock Johnson.” “Who . . . I’ve started so I’ll finish.” “Peacock Johnson.” You’re a bit of a stuck record at the minute, John. Have you been reading Ian Rankin recently, by any chance?’
‘Who?’
‘Forget it. Just a hunch. How about I hit you with another wee nugget of information? Are you up for that? Two for the price of one.’
The slevering started again, the wide eyes. He almost went so far as to stand up.
‘Prepare yourself,’ I said. ‘Ready? Here’s the lowdown, John . . . as much as I enjoyed you bumming up my breaking-and-entering skills, and as much as I appreciate the compliment, I never actually took that painting. I’d nothing to do with it.’
The notebook was back out on the desk again. He’d started flicking through the pages and uncapping his pen.
‘Who was it?’ he said, almost in a whisper.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Haven’t a Scooby. But according to McFadgen, Dougie Dowds was on his way to fill McFadgen in on the identity of the perpetrator when he got whacked. And I need McFadgen off my back, so’s I can get on with putting this fingerprint operation into action. If I can put him on the trail of whoever took that painting, it should give me plenty of breathing space while he goes after whoever pinched the picture.’
I looked at the familiar hunger consuming the Jackster, his overwhelming need to know. A wee rip had just appeared in the fabric of his universe. He’d thought he had everything all ordered and in place – the Pollok House theft probably the furthest thing from his mind, because he had it all shipshape and accounted for. Now he needed resolution all over again – closure on the gap that had just opened up in his knowledge.
Either that, or he’d eaten a decidedly dodgy oyster for breakfast, and was in urgent need of getting to a toilet. The boy was in a severe state of agitation.
‘You think you can find out who swiped that picture?’ I asked him, while he flicked through his phone book in something of a panic.
That was when I realised I’d overplayed my hand, or at least got a bit premature with myself. He stopped flicking, and looked up at me without bothering to raise his head.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Is that what all of this has been about? All along? Is this what you came here for in the first place? To find out if I knew who swiped that painting?’
I got up and walked across the room towards his desk, busted. ‘I actually came to see what the line-up looked liked in terms of who whacked Dougie Dowds. I gave you more credit for being up to speed on that than you actually deserved. You’re slipping, John, as far as I can see. The painting angle’s a fallback – a quick improvisation. Besides, you owe me it – for the Jinky data. And for setting you right regarding your misapprehensions about who stole the picture in the first place.’
He grunted. A dismissive grunt. He opened his contacts book again and went back to fucking about in there, at high speed.
‘To
answer your original question,’ he said, ‘aye, I’ll be able to find out who took the painting. As far as me putting any of the information your way goes – you can whistle for it. I don’t like being taken for a mug. Close the door on your way out.’
I stayed exactly where I was, leaning on his desk, staring out the window behind him.
‘Look at it this way, John,’ I said, ‘as long as I’ve got McFadgen constantly breathing down my neck, the fingerprint idea’s up the spout. And the longer that’s on hold, the more likely I am to come up with another idea – and you know what happens whenever I come up with an idea. I come to you looking for money to float it. And nine times out of ten, the idea’s a peach and you go for it. And nine times out of ten something happens to make the idea fall flat on its arse, taking your investment with it. You see what I’m saying? That’s the type of scenario you’re leaving yourself open to if you keep the information to yourself. You’ll be hurting yourself.’
He deigned to employ the grunt again. ‘Not if McFadgen does his job properly. If he locks you up I’ll be shot of you for good. You and your ideas.’
You have to hand it to the Jackster sometimes – he’s a hard nut to crack. Sometimes you have to drill right down into the nitty gritty, take it all the way. So that’s exactly what I did. The man hadn’t left me any other option.
‘Here’s the thing, though, John,’ I said, and I rapped my knuckles on his desk. ‘McFadgen’s got a daft idea in his head, and it’s this: he’s convinced himself that the reason I knew Dougie Dowds was on his way to tell him who stole the painting is because you told me that was the case. He’s well aware of your reputation for knowing everything. Now, the way I see it, he’s overlooking something, in his zeal to see me behind bars. His unhealthy obsession’s blinded him to an obvious conclusion he could have drawn from his flawed thesis – namely, that if you knew what Dougie Dowds was just about to do, it might well have been you that had a vested interest in making sure the information didn’t reach McFadgen. And it might well have been you that took steps to prevent that happening.’