Duffy waited.
‘Look, it’s raining and it’s cold,’ said Cooley.
‘What was taken?’
‘Christ, Duffy, just a box with some money in it,’ said Mick.
‘Who took it? Was it you, Cooley?’
‘No, it wasn’t, and I told you not to call me Cooley. It was Crosbie if you want to know.’
‘She asked me to,’ whined Crosbie.
‘Hand it up to me. I’ll put it back.’
‘We think we should keep it,’ said Cooley. ‘Three to one, Duffy. You’re outvoted.’
‘We didn’t take a vote,’ said Crosbie. ‘I vote for Duffy putting it back.’
‘Taking it was your idea, you creepy bastard.’
‘You shouldn’t call me names like that, Cooley. Mick votes for putting it back. Don’t you, Mick?’
‘Sure.’
‘So it’s three to one, Cooley, but you’re the one.’
Mick handed up the box to Duffy who went off with it.
‘What’s the matter with you, Mick?’ she asked. ‘Are you frightened of him?’
‘I’m frightened of nobody.’
Crosbie chuckled. ‘Except your mother, Mick.’
‘Duffy’s my pal.’
‘Some pal!’
‘He’s going to give me three quid for Molly.’
‘Did you go to Annie’s, Mick?’ asked Crosbie.
‘Sure. But don’t tell Duffy.’
‘Was she pleased to see you?’
‘She could hardly wait.’
‘Were the weans in bed?’ asked Cooley. ‘Or are they allowed to watch?’
‘Tell us about it, Mick.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Cooley.
‘What an arse she’s got, Johnny!’
‘What did she give you this time?’ asked Crosbie.
‘Just a can of beer but I’m going back. She said she’d have some supper ready for me.’
‘Did you ask her if I could come? You said you would, Mick.’
‘I did, Johnny. She said some other time.’
‘She doesn’t want you, you creep,’ said Cooley. ‘Nobody does.’
‘You’ll call me a creep once too often, Cooley.’
Duffy reappeared at the window. Mick solicitously helped him down.
‘It was a good idea putting it back, Duffy. The cops will know it couldn’t have been us. If it had been us we’d have taken the money.’
‘Good thinking, Mick,’ said Crosbie.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Cooley. ‘I’m shivering.’
‘Will we make a fire of these bags and heat her up?’ asked Crosbie.
‘They’ve to be put among the dustbins outside the shops.’ said Duffy. ‘They’ll be taken to the coup.’
‘Not till Monday,’ said Cooley. ‘Dustmen don’t work on Saturdays.’
Duffy hesitated. He had forgotten that. ‘We could take them to the coup ourselves.’
Even Mick was shocked. ‘Christ, Duffy, it’s nearly a mile.’
‘And it’s pitch-dark and pouring with rain,’ said Cooley.
‘Just stick them under bushes,’ suggested Mick.
Crosbie agreed. ‘They’d never be found, Duffy. People often dump rubbish there.’
Duffy as leader asserted himself. ‘We’ll put them where I said. They’ll be safe there till Monday.’
They sneaked out and deposited the bags among the dustbins.
It seemed to Cooley that a bag stuffed with pages would look suspicious outside a fruit-shop but she was eager to get away, so she kept quiet.
‘What’s next, Duffy?’ asked Crosbie. ‘In the war.’
‘The war’s over,’ said Cooley. ‘There’s been an honourable settlement. Peace with honour.’
‘I was talking to Duffy.’
‘Come to my house tomorrow night at seven,’ said Duffy.
‘Will we bring Molly?’ asked Mick.
‘Duffy said he wanted her on Sunday night,’ said Crosbie. ‘Isn’t that right, Duffy?’
‘Yes.’
Then Cooley and Duffy watched as Crosbie and Mick slunk away in the shadows. Tomorrow night, she thought, the two terriers from North Ireland would be waiting round some corner ready to pounce. Mick wouldn’t run the risk of having his precious dick given a permanent black-and-blue erection. He’d leave Crosbie to be savaged. Rats weren’t loyal.
She and Duffy set off for Kenilworth Court.
‘You didn’t warn Crosbie not to go near the library tomorrow,’ she said. ‘That’s the kind of stupid thing he’ll do.’ Only he wouldn’t do it because he was stupid, he’d do it because he was treacherous.
She saw that Duffy realised he had made a mistake in trusting Crosbie. She felt sorry for him. He wanted to be clever but hadn’t the brains for it. He only half-understood things. He liked to think he was interested in big ideas like truth and justice, while other boys his age thought only of girls and football. She compared him with someone really clever, who did understand books and politics and who had educated parents to advise him. Like Stephen Telfer, Margaret Porteous’s friend. He did silly things too, like painting the statue in the town square; but that had just been a joke, to make people laugh. Cooley herself had laughed at Burns’s red nose. He had got away with it because he had the intelligence to know what the limits were. Even Mick Dykes had more of that kind of intelligence than Duffy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Detective Sergeant Angus McLeod, nicknamed Teuchter, unlike his colleague George Milne, believed that honest youngsters, in Lightburn and elsewhere, far outnumbered the rascals. He had three of his own, one still at school, whereas George had none. A burly, genial, red-faced crofter’s son from Skye, he did not need his grandmother’s gift of second sight to know that the Lowlanders he worked with thought him slow-witted, especially as his accent sometimes became almost unintelligibly Highland when he got excited. He was determined one day to astonish them all, but being canny he had mentioned this ambition to no one, not even in Gaelic to his fair-haired cheerful wife Flora who also came from Skye. He had never worn a kilt in his life but liked hairy tweed suits that looked and, some said, smelled like heather.
To him and his assistant Detective Constable Harry Black was assigned the investigation of the extraordinary graffiti that had appeared on the town hall wall. However, since there were also eighteen unsolved burglaries on the books, he was told not to waste too much time on it.
Having had a strict religious upbringing in the Free Kirk, McLeod suspected it was the work of some well-meaning but too enthusiastic sect, though these were not numerous in the district. George Milne on the other hand had given his opinion that the words were subversive and therefore some extremist political organisation was to blame. These too were very scarce locally.
The first clue was provided by Flora, thanks to her remarkable memory. When out shopping she had noticed the words on the wall and had remembered seeing them somewhere before. She had searched through a bundle of religious tracts that she had accumulated over the years, and sure enough there it was, yellow in colour, with the words in question printed in black capitals. This particular tract, she recalled, had been pushed through the letter-box about two years ago. She had not set eyes on the person or persons delivering them. Every house in the avenue must have got one.
Every house in the town, damn near, her husband discovered. The name of the sect responsible for disseminating them was given as The Church of Christ the Redeemer and Scourger of Wickedness. He had never heard of it before, nor it seemed had anyone else. A telephone call to the printers in Glasgow produced little useful information. They had no idea where the headquarters of the sect were. As far as they could remember an old man with a white beard had come in one day about two years ago and ordered ten thousand copies. He had paid in advance in cash and a few days later had returned in a battered blue van to collect the tracts. They had not seen or heard of him since.
Ten thousand copies weren’t all that many f
or a religious tract. In Lightburn alone there were almost that number of households. The police of neighbouring towns could not remember any such tract ever having been distributed there, but they admitted it could have been: what was more forgettable than a religious tract? It seemed though that the old fellow had picked on Lightburn to receive his message. Was he a native of the town anxious to save its inhabitants from hell-fire? Very likely, said McLeod, who himself had been brought up to believe in the torments of hell. Black was discreetly non-committal. (To his lady-friend, Fiona Campbell, however, he was self-piteously outspoken: ‘How would you like to work with somebody that wears hairy suits and believes in hell?’)
McLeod quickly came to the conclusion that since after all the message was on the side of the angels, and since it had already been scrubbed off, the best thing to do was to forget it.
Chief-Inspector Findlay agreed. In his view, kept to himself, promotion to Superintendent was not likely to be achieved by the prosecution of religious cranks while burglars, muggers, and vandals went uncaught and unpunished.
On Saturday morning, at five minutes past nine, McLeod received a telephone call from Miss Purvis to report that the public library had been broken into during the night.
McLeod knew Miss Purvis, who lived in the same part of the town as himself. Chronic dyspepsia, which had given a bluish tinge to her nose, had also caused her temper to be short. She was outraged by his calmness.
‘How do I know if anything’s been stolen?’ she screamed. ‘I’ve had a shock. I smelled cigarette smoke. My desk’s been broken into. Come at once, please.’
‘Some misguided pranksters, Harry,’ McLeod said, on their way to the library.
They found the library door locked. Miss Purvis was taking no more chances. They had to bang on it.
They had expected to find chaos and destruction, but no, the whole place was as tidy as a church, as it always was. People grumbled at that. In other libraries nowadays you could relax and chat, but not in Miss Purvis’s. Large notices commanded silence.
‘Well, I’m glad to see no damage has been done,’ said McLeod.
‘My desk’s been broken into. Isn’t that damage?’
Yes, but it had been neatly done. Inside, the first thing he saw was a black money-box marked FINES. It was heavy. It was full of coins. It was locked.
‘How much is in it?’ he asked.
‘Six pounds and eighty-five pence.’
‘Was anything taken?’
‘No. They must have panicked and fled.’
He smiled. Whatever the explanation that wasn’t it. The intruders had gone about their business coolly. But what in God’s name had their business been? Did Miss Purvis have a secret diary that somebody was after, for blackmail purposes? He grinned. He had seen too many thrillers on television.
‘It’s nothing to laugh at, Mr McLeod.’
‘No, it isn’t. What about books? Do you have any that are especially valuable? First editions and things like that?’
‘If I had do you think I would have been allowed to keep them? They would have been taken to headquarters.’
He knew the reason for her bitterness. Not long ago she had been passed over for the position of chief librarian in favour of a man ten years younger, less experienced therefore, and not any better qualified.
‘Books are heavy to carry,’ he said, ‘and not worth much. Financially speaking, of course.’
‘They have considerable second-hand value nowadays.’
‘Is that a fact? Have you noticed any missing?’
‘I haven’t had time to check. It will take days.’
‘How did they get in?’
‘You’re the detectives, not me.’
‘We’ll soon find out. You didn’t forget to lock the front door, did you?’
‘Do you think I’m a fool?’
‘People have forgotten to lock up banks before now. Well, we’ll have a look round.’
He searched inside, Black outside. After a few minutes they met at the lavatory window.
‘This is where they got in, serge,’ called Black. ‘There’s mud on the ledge and lots of footprints.’
‘And the lavatory seat’s dirty. Ah yes, the snib is off the window.’
‘I’d say there were three or four.’
‘Some kind of silly prank, wouldn’t you say, Harry?’
‘In that case what about the desk being opened?’
‘There’s always somebody goes too far. Remember they didn’t touch the money.’
‘That’s so.’
‘Scout around, Harry. They might have dropped something.’
He himself returned to Miss Purvis. ‘They got in through the lavatory window. It cost me five pence to find that out.’ It was a joke but she did not appreciate it.
‘I’ve never approved of that lavatory. There was none for the public in the old building.’
‘We must move with the times, Miss Purvis.’
He was still not taking it urgently enough for her. ‘The library opens at ten, Mr McLeod.’
‘We’ll be away by then.’
‘How long will it take you to catch them?’
He shook his head. She had been reading too many detective stories. The shelves were full of them. Real life was different. ‘To be honest with you, Miss Purvis, I doubt if we ever will.’
She was shocked. ‘Why not? That’s what you’re paid for, isn’t it? They must have left finger-prints.’
‘Not on the box. It was wiped clean. In a place like this there must be thousands of finger-prints.’
‘Haven’t you got a list of young criminals?’
George Milne had, quite a long one, of delinquents actual and potential.
Black came in, shaking his head. He had found nothing. He had got his shoes muddied.
‘I think you’re right, serge. A stupid caper. Maybe they saw something like it in a film’
‘To be truthful, Miss Purvis,’ said McLeod, ‘you’ve been lucky. You’ve no idea the sights Harry and I have seen. Sheer wanton destruction. Filth, too.’
‘I could give you some names myself,’ she said. ‘I don’t let them come into my library and make nuisances of themselves. I order them out. They don’t like it. They would break in just for spite.’
‘If it was spite they’d have wrecked the place. There was a school in Aberdeen burned to the ground by a boy of twelve, out of spite. Damage estimated at a quarter of a million pounds.’
‘That awful girl Cooley could have done it. She’s had the impertinence to argue with me. She’s used foul language. She’s never out of trouble.’
‘It’s not the sort of thing Helen Cooley would do. Is it Harry?’
‘No, serge.’
‘In any case our information is that she’s left the town.’
They heard then a thumping on the outside door. Miss Purvis had locked it again.
Black went and came back accompanied by James Gilliespie, the fruiterer, in a brown overall, and carrying a black plastic bag stuffed with something. McLeod thought, rather foolishly, of cabbage leaves.
‘This was outside my shop this morning,’ said Gilliespie. ‘We didn’t put it there. Do you know what’s in it?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t, Mr Gilliespie.’
‘Pages. Pages out of books. I thought Miss Purvis might be interested.’
Miss Purvis shrieked. She looked into the bag. If it had contained bloody human remains she could hardly have shown more horror. She picked up one of the pages, glanced at it, whimpered the name of the book from which it had been torn, rushed to the shelves, took down that book, opened it, and found she was right. She was right too with the next three pages. Looking at a book she would wail that a page was missing. It wasn’t really for it was in her hand but they all knew what she meant. McLeod was impressed. Not many librarians knew their books so well.
‘Better go and see if there are any other bags,’ he whispered to Black.
Black went off with Gilliesp
ie, explaining the situation to him.
Miss Purvis was now in that state of fluttering nerves known locally as having canaries. ‘Did you know that lots of people have a grudge against books?’ she cried. ‘Not just illiterates and hooligans. Councillors, too. Books are luxuries, they say. Do you know what Milton the poet called books? He called them the life-blood of master spirits. Yet less than a penny per person is spent on them in this country. Did you know that? We don’t deserve to be called a civilised nation. The sooner the birch is brought back the better,’ she added, somewhat contradictorily.
‘To go to all that trouble, for what, Miss Purvis? A stupid joke, I’m thinking.’
‘I don’t think it was just a joke. I think it was more sinister than that.’
‘Sinister?’
‘Somebody wanted to show contempt for books.’
In that case why not burn the lot, like the Nazis?
Just then Harry Black came in carrying another stuffed bag. There was a third one outside, he said.
Miss Purvis looked as if she was going to faint. The rest of her face turning white made the blueness of her nose very noticeable.
Ten minutes later the detectives thankfully took their leave.
Miss Purvis’s two assistants had arrived. Ordering them about gave her back some of her confidence.
McLeod had offered some advice. ‘There’s a chance that one of them will come back to do some gloating. So if any suspicious-looking character comes in give me a ring.’
In the car on the way to the golf club where a burglary had been reported Black said, with a grin: ‘Well, serge, what do you think?’
‘What do you think, Harry?’
‘What about those smart Alecs from the High School that call themselves intellectuals? Like Dr Telfer’s son and Mrs Porteous’s daughter. Wasn’t it them that painted the statue?’
‘That was never proved, Harry.’
The truth was, no resolute attempt had been made to prove it. Somebody high up had decided that clever young people should not have their careers ruined because of a silly high-spirited escapade.
McLeod then had a flash of what later turned out to have been second sight. He wondered if there could be any connection between what had happened in the library and the writing on the town hall wall. Unfortunately he had lived so long among sceptical Lowlanders that he no longer trusted his intuitions.
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