‘I don’t fucking know.’ He became agitated and the Motherwell in his voice became more pronounced.
‘What will you do?’ he asked wearily.
‘Well, I’ve nothing to go on. You’ve no idea of who might have a personal grievance against you… There’s not a lot I can do other than watch your back for a while.’
‘I can watch my own back,’ he said and cast a meaningful look at Uncle Bert.
‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep an eye on things. Of course I can’t be here all the time, so if anything happens, you can get me on one of these numbers normally.’ I scribbled down my office and home number, as well as the number for the ’phone behind the bar at the Horsehead.
By the time I left Kirkcaldy’s place, the ship-iron sky had turned even darker and the air even more oppressive. It was damp-hot and I could feel the pressure like a band around my head. I had only been driving for a couple of minutes when the weather broke.
If there’s one thing Glasgow can do well — better than anywhere else I know — then it’s rain. There were a couple of bright, ugly flashes in the sky and the rain hit my windscreen before the deafening thunder rolled over me. It didn’t just rain — it was as if there was a pent-up fury driving the thick, heavy bullets of rain that rattled and drummed furiously on the roof of my car and mocked the best but feeble efforts of my windscreen wipers. As I approached Blanefield and headed into Bearsden, I had to slow the car to an almost crawl, unable to see more than a few feet in front of me.
I had time on my hands before I met the Frenchman so I drove down to Argyle Street. The torrential rain hadn’t stopped but I was lucky enough to get parked a thirty-second dash away from the corner tearooms. I went in, shook the rain off my hat and moaned to the waiter I handed it to about the sudden change in the weather. There were only a couple of other tables occupied and I sat in gloomy silence. When I’d finished my lamb chop and mashed potatoes I drank a coffee and smoked, gloomily contemplating the rain through the window.
A fool’s errand. No matter how long I thought it over, the Bobby Kirkcaldy job remained a fool’s errand. Willie Sneddon was thrashing about in the dark trying to protect his investment. Other than sit outside Kirkcaldy’s house all night, there was very little I could do. And if it came to a twenty-four-hour surveillance job, then it would cost Sneddon dear. He’d be better getting Twinkletoes McBride to park himself outside. Or Singer. This was a muscle job. I was going to have to tell Sneddon so.
After I’d settled my bill at the cashier’s desk and collected my hat, I went back out into the rain. It had eased considerably, and with its easing it had taken some of the stale heat out of the air. But Glasgow was Glasgow again, dressed in rain and shades of grey.
It took me only a couple of minutes to get to the Merchants’ Carvery in the city’s business district. It meant that I was early and I decided to wait in the car until just before eight. The Merchants’ Carvery was Glasgow’s attempt at class: it sat looking out over a square of park in the middle of a grid of Georgian and Victorian terraces. As the Carvery’s name suggested, the city’s wealthy traders and industrialists had once occupied the surrounding houses; now most had been converted into offices. Sitting parked outside, I made a little wager with myself that I would be able to pick out Barnier when he arrived. As it turned out, the only people I saw going into the restaurant was a middle-aged couple. Both dressed in tweed.
The Merchants’ Carvery was one of those places designed, or more correctly decorated and furnished, to intimidate. A place you were meant to feel out of place. To me, it was overdone; way overdone. The plush red leather of the booths was just that little bit too plush and much too red. If the Carvery had been in Edinburgh, it wouldn’t have been quite so overdone.
I went in and handed my hat over again, this time to an attendant in a white waist-length jacket and pillbox cap. He was, without doubt, the most geriatric bellboy I’d ever seen and I worried that he would buckle under the weight of my fedora. I told him I was there to meet with Mr Barnier and he nodded towards a tall man standing at the bar with his back to me. It was going to take us an age to cross the lounge so I thanked my elderly hop and gave him a two-shilling tip: I reckoned that the weight of half-a-crown would tip him in more ways than intended.
‘Monsieur Barnier?’ I asked the man’s back and he turned to face me. Alain Barnier was not what I had expected. For a start he was tall and light-haired, not quite blond, with greenish eyes. To me he looked more like a Scandinavian or German than a Southern Frenchman. His skin tone wasn’t dark either, although I knew he had lived in Glasgow for at least a couple of years; but there again, no one could be as pale as a Glaswegian. Scots were the whitest people on the planet; and Glaswegians came in pale blue tints, except for those who had been burned scarlet by unaccustomed exposure to the big fiery ball in the sky that had, until a couple of hours ago, made a mysterious appearance that summer. Barnier was a striking man, handsome, with deep creases under his eyes that suggested a lot of smiling, but there was something a little cruel in his features. I estimated his age to be about forty.
Other than his slightly golden skin tone, there were a couple of other things that gave Barnier away as a foreigner. His clothes were expensive but not showy. And not tweed. His suit was extremely well-tailored in a pale grey, lightweight flannel, run through with a faint white pinstripe. It didn’t look like a British cut. Added to that, he was immaculately groomed and wore a neatly trimmed moustache and goatee beard that gave a point to his chin. My first thought was of a Cardin-coutured fourth Musketeer.
‘My name is Lennox, M. Barnier,’ I said in French. ‘We spoke on the telephone this afternoon.’
‘I was waiting for you. Drink?’ He beckoned to the barman with a casual authority that Scots find difficult. ‘Two cognacs,’ he said in English.
‘Please…’ he said, reverting to his native tongue and indicating one of the plush leather booths at the back of the lounge bar. We sat down. ‘You speak French very well, M. Lennox. But, if you don’t mind me saying so, you have a strong accent. And you speak slowly, like a Breton. I take it you’re Canadian?’
‘Yes. New Brunswick. The only officially bi-lingual province in Canada,’ I said, and was surprised at the pride in my voice.
‘But you’re not a Francophone yourself?’
‘That obvious?’
Barnier shrugged and made a face. He was French. I expected it. ‘No… not particularly. But you have a strong accent. I assumed English was your first language.’
‘Where are you from yourself, M. Barnier?’
The drinks arrived. ‘Toulon. Well, Marseille originally, then Toulon.’
I sipped the cognac and felt something warm and golden infuse itself into my chest.
‘Good, no?’ he asked. A smile deepened the creases around the eyes. ‘I supply it. It is one of the best.’
‘It tastes it. I had some of the bourbon you supplied Jonny Cohen. That was excellent too.’
‘Ah, yes… you mentioned you knew M. Cohen…’ Barnier looked at me over the rim of his brandy glass. ‘By the way, you rather annoyed my Miss Minto.’
‘Really?’ I said, raising my eyebrows and trying to look as innocent as I had been at sixteen when my father had interrogated me about some missing cigarettes and whisky. ‘We seemed to be getting on so well. I learned a new word — key lan — or is it two words?’
There was something in the mention that stung Barnier. He quickly hid it. ‘I can’t have you upsetting her. Miss Minto is a very… determined lady who is essential to the efficient running of the office.’
‘Why did she ask me if it was about the key lan. Am I pronouncing it right?’
‘She was referring to an item we’ve recently imported. Miss Minto probably thought you wanted to see me about it, that’s all.’
‘I’m flattered that Miss Minto thought I was rich enough to buy it.’
‘She didn’t. The item’s gone astray in transit. It’s more than likely been incorr
ectly crated and labelled, that’s all. Miss Minto probably thought you were from the insurance company.’ Barnier’s smile had dropped and his tone now suggested that the small talk was over. ‘What exactly is it you want from me, M. Lennox?’
‘I’ve been engaged to look into the disappearance of Sammy Pollock. You may know him as Sammy Gainsborough.’
‘I hardly know him as either. M. Pollock was an acquaintance. Nothing more. My dealings with him were so infrequent that I’m struggling to remember the last time I saw him. Why is it that you are asking me about Pollock?’
‘Can you? Remember, I mean?’
Barnier made a show of running through a mental inventory. He pulled gently at his goatee, smoothing it into an inverted peak.
‘It would have been about two or three weeks ago. A Friday. He was at the Pacific Club at the same time I was. It is a dreadful place… please don’t tell M. Cohen I said so — he is a valued customer after all. But it really is an awful place. I go there because, ironically, M. Cohen does tend to get rather good jazz acts on Fridays. Anyway, I saw young M. Pollock there. He did a turn… sang a few songs to fill in for a no-show act. He was there with a girl, if I remember correctly. But we didn’t speak that night.’
‘And you haven’t seen him since?’
‘Listen, Mr Lennox…’ Barnier reverted to his flawlessly articulated, grammatically perfect English. ‘I really have no idea whether I have seen him since or not. Sammy Pollock is not someone who features in my consciousness much. It may be that I have seen him and not noticed. Now, I repeat my question: Why are you asking me about this young man?’
‘You must excuse me, M. Barnier, but it’s my day for straw clutching. I was told that Sammy Pollock was seen in your company on occasion. The truth is that he really does seem to have gone missing and I’m more than a little concerned for his welfare. So far I’ve not been able to come up with the slightest hint of where he is.’ I looked at the Frenchman’s face. There was nothing to read in his expression. Maybe it was just that my I’m-all-at-sea act didn’t wash. Or maybe he just wasn’t interested.
‘Did you have any business dealings with Pollock?’ I asked.
‘No. None.’
‘The occasions where you saw him… did you know the people he was with?’
‘Again, no. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really don’t think I can help you any further.’ He drained his glass. It was a gesture of punctuation — our conversation had come to a full stop.
‘Thanks for your time, M. Barnier,’ I said in French.
I left Barnier in the Carvery, picked my hat up from the geriatric bellboy and headed out into the street. The rain had stopped but the sky still looked bad-tempered. It wasn’t alone.
It had been a fruitless day and I was too tired to go up to Sneddon’s Bearsden house or even to ring him. Telling Willie Sneddon that you really can’t do his bidding is something done face-to-face and in the right frame of mind. I didn’t get into the car straight away but went to the telephone kiosk on the corner, fed it some copper and called the number Sheila Gainsborough had given me in London. The English accent at the other end told me that he was her agent and she wasn’t there.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘She gave me this as a contact number.’
‘I see. Are you Lennox?’ His voice was a tad too high and slightly effeminate. I gave a small laugh at the thought that I obviously expected theatrical agency to be one of those robustly masculine professions, like steelworking or mining.
‘That’s me,’ I said.
‘Tell me, Lennox… do you have anything to report?’ Oh boy, he was losing my affection big time with that tone.
‘That’s why I’m ’phoning,’ I said.
‘Well?’ he asked. He spoke to me as if I was the hired help; to be fair, I was. But, there again, so was he.
‘Miss Gainsborough told me she could be contacted through this number. I take it you’re Whithorn… Will you be seeing her this evening?’
‘I see Miss Gainsborough almost every evening,’ he said. Proprietorially. ‘She’ll be here in about half an hour.’
‘Tell her Lennox called. And that I will ’phone again this evening. About ten o’clock. If she could make sure she’s available to take the call.’
‘Why don’t you just tell me what you have to report and I’ll pass it on.’
I gave another small laugh. Louder this time, for him to hear. ‘Client confidentiality, friend. I would have thought that would have been a concept you’d be familiar with.’
‘I’m not just Miss Gainsborough’s agent, Mr Lennox. I’m her advisor. Her friend.’
‘I’ll ’phone back at ten.’ I hung up. I decided to make a point of putting a face to the voice that had been at the other end of the line. I had already decided I would dislike Humphrey Whithorn’s face as soon as I saw it.
I walked back to where I had parked. I didn’t pay much attention to the Wolseley parked three cars back from my Atlantic until an unnecessarily large man in a formless raincoat and a too-small trilby planted himself on the pavement, squarely in my path. Another appeared at my side, smaller but still robust, and with the kind of face you would avoid looking at in a bar. Or anywhere else. I felt the second guy’s firm grip on my upper arm, just above the elbow. I could tell right away that these were no policemen. They were somebody’s goons.
‘Okay, Lennox,’ said the raincoat. ‘Mr Costello wants to see you. Now.’
I felt relief. Of sorts. Having to deal with any muscle is tiresome, but normally compliance comes from knowing who’s behind the muscle. Costello didn’t carry that kind of weight and I made a bored, irritated face.
‘Does he now?’ I said. For some reason, the image of Barnier’s homely, insistent little secretary came to my mind and I decided to follow her example. ‘I’m a busy kind of guy. Tell Costello to make an appointment.’
The fingers around my arm tightened and I turned to the second guy and smiled. They were hard men. Men who were in the business of hurting. But Jimmy Costello was not famed as a criminal mastermind and his lack of genius extended to the quality of goon he recruited. They had probably been following me all day and I wouldn’t have spotted them in the rain. There had been a dozen suitable places for them to have made their move on me. This was not one of them. A stupid choice of place to pick me up off the street. We were in the middle of the business district, admittedly at eight forty-five in the evening, but outside a well-respected eatery. And there was a district police station two blocks away. No, this was as dumb a choice as they could have made and the ideal place for me to kick off. But they were too stupid to realize it and the goon with the vice grip on my arm looked as sure of himself as his partner did.
‘Now,’ he said with a vicious-looking grin. ‘Are you going to come quiet or come the cunt?’
There was something I found out about myself during the war. It was something I could have done with not finding out for the rest of my life. Something ugly and dark. I lay awake at nights wondering if the war had created it, or if it had been there all the time and it might never have been awoken if the war hadn’t come along. As I stood there with two violent thugs trying to coerce me into a car, I felt it begin to stir deep inside; and greet me as an old friend.
‘Listen, guys,’ I said in a friendly voice, but quiet. Quiet so they had to strain to hear it. ‘I’m not coming with you. And if you try to make me, someone’s going to get hurt. Tell Costello if he wants to see me, he can pick up the ’phone like everybody else. If he’s peeved because I smacked his kid about, then tell him sorry… but I don’t give a crap.’
‘Whadyou say?’ The big guy in the raincoat frowned and leaned forward, which is what I wanted him to do. I only had one arm free so I swung a kick at the spot on his raincoat where I reckoned he kept the family jewels. My reckoning was dead on and he folded. The guy with my arm yanked me backwards, again what I expected him to do. I went with it. Keeping your distance from your attacker isn’t always the b
est strategy in a street fight and I rammed into him, bending him backwards onto the bonnet of the Wolseley. I fell on top of him, face-to-face. He got a punch in and jarred my head with it, making black and white sparks dance for a split second across my vision. With my free hand, I had grabbed my hat as it came off from the punch. I pushed it into and over his face, covering his eyes and pulling it away just as my brow slammed into his nose.
I was just mentally complimenting myself on my excellent management of the situation when a mule kicked me to the right of my spine, just above the kidney. I heard two lungfuls of air pulse out of me and I was in that panicked, winded place where filling your body with oxygen fills the universe. The big guy in the raincoat who had kicked me grabbed my arms and pulled me back from his bonnet-sprawled partner. I was still struggling to catch a breath but knew if I didn’t pull myself together I was in for a kicking. Suddenly the big guy let go of me and I leaned forward, my hands resting on my knees, and pulled long deep breaths into my emptied lungs. I turned to see something that didn’t make any sense, then turned my attention back to my bloody-faced chum who was pulling himself up from the bonnet of the Wolseley. I now knew I only need concern myself with him: the thing that hadn’t made sense when I had turned around was seeing Alain Barnier behind me, very efficiently beating the crap out of the raincoated thug.
But I still had my hands full and kept focussed on my chum who was now pulling himself upright from the bonnet of the Wolseley. I took a step forward, ready to hit him when he came up. He wasn’t as stupid as I had taken him for, because he read my movement and, bracing his elbows on the bonnet, he swung his foot out and up. It was a vicious kick but it missed its target and I was able to grab his ankle. I gave his leg a hard yank and his body slid off the car’s bonnet like a ship being launched from a slipway. He came down onto the pavement hard and there was the sickening sound of his skull against the kerb. He lay still and for a moment I was genuinely worried that I had killed him. He put my mind at rest by giving a low moan.
I heard the commotion continue behind me: Barnier and the other guy. Also shouts coming from the direction of the Carvery. I turned to see what was happening. The big man in the raincoat looked the tougher of the two goons and was certainly the bigger. I reckoned he would be more than a handful for Barnier, but when I turned around I saw that the undersized trilby had been knocked off his head. There was blood coming from a cut on his temple as well as from the mess of his mouth. It was Barnier who fascinated me: he stood back from his opponent; almost calm. I could see his eyes move, constantly checking the big guy’s hands, feet, face, as if reading every intention, anticipating every move. The big guy staggered forward and swung a clumsy, desperate hook at Barnier, who stepped back gracefully as if allowing an elderly lady to pass him on the boulevard. It was then I saw how the Frenchman had been doing so much damage to his opponent. He seemed to lean his entire body back and his leg swung round and up, the side of his foot like a scythe through the air. It slammed into the side of the big man’s head. Costello’s goon toppled like a felled tree.
The Long Glasgow Kiss l-2 Page 9