‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ said Helena. She kept the lights out.
‘Maybe they fell out. Or maybe getting rid of Parks, just like getting rid of Frankie, was part of the plan from the start.’
‘I still don’t see what this has to do with me, Lennox.’
‘Parks wasn’t the only one supplying names and helping set up the West End operation. Parks didn’t have the style for it. I got chatting to one of McGahern’s former lackeys, a nobody called Bobby who tells me that McGahern was cracked up on the woman who ran the shop for him. Molly. To start with I think that’s Lillian, but there’s talk of a foreign woman.’
‘Me.’
‘That’s what I don’t know. I hope to God it’s not, Helena. Because if it is, you’ve got yourself into some serious trouble. Whoever did Tam is a serious outfit. And I don’t think we’re talking about gangsters.’
‘You don’t seem to know what you’re talking about, Lennox. There are things you don’t understand. Will never understand.’
‘Are you saying it wasn’t you?’
‘What I’m saying is you don’t know as much as you like to think you know. About me. About anything.’
‘Then enlighten me.’
‘I think you’d better go.’ She stood up and switched the table lamp on. I blinked in the sudden light. Then I saw her face. And I saw in it something I’d never seen before. She looked pale, sad and drawn. But there was something in her expression that was sad and hard and resolute. She handed me my hat.
‘For what it’s worth, Lennox, it’s not me. I told you the last time you were here that I only saw Sally’s Glaswegian thug boyfriend once. Don’t let tonight fool you: I’m usually particular whom I fuck.’
When I woke up the next day I felt pretty crap. I went to ’Pherson’s for a cut and shave and arranged for Twinkletoes to meet me there. Before I went to ’Pherson’s I ’phoned Hammer Murphy. I needed his okay for what I was about to do.
‘What’s to do?’ asked Twinkletoes cheerfully as he strained the suspension of my Atlantic climbing into the passenger seat. I smiled back, trying not to think of how easily he would just as cheerfully have used his bolt-cutters to take me down a shoe size.
‘Danny Dumfries. That’s what to do.’
‘What the fuck you want with him? He’s one of Murphy’s monkeys.’
‘I want to talk to him. More exactly I want him to talk to me. I need you to ease the conversation. And don’t worry, I’ve cleared it with Murphy.’
‘Okay. Just give me a minute.’ Twinkletoes got out of the car, went over to his Sunbeam and took a couple of things out of the boot. He squeezed back into my car even more awkwardly. There was something long and solid hidden in the folds of his raincoat.
The incongruous golden gleam of six hundred quid’s worth of Jowett Javelin parked outside the bleak facade of the club signalled that we would find Dumfries inside. Officially it was a working men’s club and run by a committee. That meant the police could only call by invitation, which in turn meant that regulated licensing hours was as alien a concept as men on Mars.
The reality was that Dumfries’s club was somewhere between a twenty-four-hour boozer and a brothel. There were a couple of rooms in the back that working girls could rent by the hour. The sexual endurance of Scotsmen meant you could squeeze a lot of business into an hour.
As soon as we entered the club we were plunged into dimly lit gloom. The unventilated room was dense with cigarette smoke, a fume of cheap whisky and the sweat of men engaged in the serious physical toil of around-the-clock drinking.
It was quiet as well as dark. When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see Dumfries standing by the bar with a couple of toughs whom I guessed to be employees. There was a neglected snooker table at the back and five or six expert drinkers sat scattered around the place, oblivious to all but the glasses in front of them.
Danny Dumfries was a small, dark but good-looking man in his late thirties, dressed with impeccable taste. Dumfries and his clubs fell loosely into the orbit of Hammer Murphy’s empire, but Murphy allowed him a little more independence than he did his other ‘contractors’. If Dumfries had been fully part of the Murphy operation, I couldn’t have brought Twinkletoes into his club. As it was I had had to get clearance from Murphy before pulling a stunt like this.
Dumfries smiled when we entered, as much in amusement as welcome. My bringing along one of Sneddon’s heavies was making a statement; Dumfries’s smile was the arrogant sneer of someone who feels protected. But, there again, he wasn’t to know about the conversation I’d had with Murphy on the ’phone.
‘Lennox,’ he said, smugly. ‘Taking your pet out for a walk?’
‘Can we talk?’ I said, ignoring the fact that the two heavies had now appeared at our shoulders.
‘It’s a free country.’
‘I mean in private.’
‘I’m more comfortable here.’
‘This is serious stuff, Danny. And it’s as important to Mr Murphy as it is to Mr Sneddon. I’m just looking for some information, but we need to talk in private.’
‘Show the gentlemen the way out,’ Dumfries said wearily to one of his heavies.
Twinkletoes shoved me to one side as easily as if he were parting curtains. He pushed his face into Dumfries’s and pulled the bolt-cutters from inside his raincoat, slamming them down on the bar counter. Several glasses shattered. Suddenly the two heavies looked unsure as to what to do next.
‘Tell yer fuckin’ monkeys to fuck off, Dumfries, ya wee midget cunt. If you don’t, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill one of them, just to make a point. Then I’m goin’ to shove your fuckin’ toes up the other’s arse. After that I’ll start on yer fuckin’ fingers.’
I found myself thinking that if newly appointed General Secretary Dag Hammerskjold displayed similar diplomatic skills when he took office, the UN would resolve the Korean conflict overnight.
One of the heavies moved in on Twinkletoes, who swung the bolt-cutters backwards and slashed him across the temple. Dumfries’s man dropped like a stone while the other made a clumsy move forward. Twinkletoes turned to him and smashed his forehead into the man’s face. When he went down, Twinkletoes stamped on his head and put his lights right out.
‘Take it easy, for fuck’s sake,’ said Dumfries, backing away. Twinkletoes grabbed him by his expensive shirtfront and slapped him hard with the flat and then the back of his hand.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Twinkletoes.
‘Twinkletoes…’ I said. ‘We don’t want him to shut up. We want him to tell us what he knows.’
‘Oh,’ said Twinkletoes apologetically. ‘Sorry.’ He slapped Dumfries twice more. ‘Tell us what the fuck you know.’
‘About what?’ Dumfries yelled. A trickle of blood dribbled from his nostril.
‘Twinkletoes, give the guy a chance. He doesn’t know what we want,’ I said. I turned back to Dumfries. ‘But I’ll give you a clue or three. Blackmail. Tam McGahern. Trapping the great and the good with pussy mantraps.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’
Twinkletoes pulled his hand back again. I stopped him with a gesture.
‘Let me try again. Arthur Parks and Tam McGahern. What’s the connection?’
‘How the fuck would I know?’ Dumfries was seriously scared. I understood his fear. I had been scared during my last chat with Sneddon, with Twinkletoes merely lurking in the background. The difference was there was no way I was going to let Twinkletoes indulge his little hobby. The threat should be enough.
I felt uncomfortable about how things had gone. After all of this was over, I would need to operate in this town. For now, I was acting as if I were one of Sneddon’s heavies.
‘I seriously hope you’re not pissing down my back and telling me it’s raining, Danny. This is big shit. As you’ll have gathered, you don’t have Murphy’s protection when it comes to this. And if you’re holding out you’ll have all of the Three Kings on your case.’
I turned to Twinkletoes. ‘Take a break; watch these two. Danny and I are going to have a chat. Where’s your office?’
Dumfries nodded to the back of the club. He showed me into a dingy office and switched the light on. The desk was covered in paperwork and the ashtray spilling over with butts. He still looked scared.
‘Take it easy, Danny, for fuck’s sake. Sit down. I just need information. I’m sorry about Twinkletoes’s enthusiasm, but I’ve been told to travel with him. You okay?’
‘Like you fuckin’ care.’ He slumped into his captain’s chair. I sat on the corner of the desk.
‘This is simple, Danny, just like I said. Tam McGahern got iced because he was treading on the wrong toes. Just whose toes I don’t yet know. But it involved blackmail.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’ Dumfries sniffed and wiped the blood from his nose with a handkerchief. I gave him a cigarette and he lit it with a heavy gold pocket lighter. His hand shook.
‘Listen, Danny. I saw what happened to Arthur Parks. And what happened to Frankie McGahern. These guys are pretty handy with a tyre iron and they like their victims to suffer first. Really suffer. If you’re involved with this, your only way out is by having the protection of all Three Kings. The other thing is that if I don’t give Sneddon what he wants, Twinkletoes out there will give us both a pedicure. So tell me the truth and don’t hold anything back.’
‘I fuckin’ swear I’m telling you the truth,’ he said. I believed him.
‘Okay. But it’s going to be difficult to convince my lumbering chum out there. You better start thinking fast and push out a few names I can squeeze. If you were to start blackmailing punters, who would you use?’
Dumfries stared at the wall for a moment, smoking briskly.
‘What do you think they were up to?’ he asked at last. ‘Blackmailing punters with photographs of them on the job?’
‘I guess so,’ I said.
‘There are a few chancers out there who are handy with a Box Brownie. But if I was going to do something like that, there’s a guy I would use. Ronnie Smails. His main business is taking dirty pictures, but word has it that if you want someone set up, he’s the man to talk to.’
‘Does he work for any of the Kings?’
‘Naw. He’s too fucking far down in the gutter for them to bother with. Trust me, Lennox, you talk to Ronnie Smails for five minutes and you want to have a shower afterwards. He’s a low-rent pornographer and all-round creeping-Jesus.’
I nodded, but found it difficult to imagine Danny Dumfries looking down on anyone from the rarefied atmosphere of the flea-pit he ran. ‘Where can I find Smails?’ I asked.
‘He has a studio in Cowcaddens. He has a front of doing baby pictures, portraits, that kinda stuff. I don’t know if he’s your man, but he’s who I would go to.’ Dumfries wrote down an address and handed it to me.
‘I’ll pay him a visit. You okay?’
Dumfries nodded, but a sparkle of hate flickered in his eyes.
‘Listen, Danny, I’m sorry about the rough stuff, but you shouldn’t have called on your heavies. I can’t control Twinkletoes. I’ll talk to Sneddon and Murphy. Maybe get you a little compensation. Okay?’
Dumfries nodded.
‘Just make sure you don’t ever fucking come back here, Lennox.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I didn’t think I’d need Twinkletoes to deal with Ronnie Smails, and after the cosy scenes in Dumfries’s club, I thought I’d give him the afternoon off. I went back to my digs first, called a buddy in the Port of Clyde and arranged to meet that night at the Horsehead Bar for a pint and a chat.
I drove to Cowcaddens and found Smails’s place: a two-roomed shop on the ground floor of a soot-blackened tenement building. There was a printed card in the corner of the grimy window that gave rates for family and wedding photography and provided the last resting place for half-a-dozen flies. Next to it a freshly married couple gap-tooth-grinned out of a yellowing photograph. The bride was a head taller than the groom, and either the dark suit he wore had been borrowed from an even shorter chum, or he preferred his ankles to be well ventilated.
I tried the door but it was locked and no one answered my knock. Smails was out, probably assisting Richard Avedon on an Audrey Hepburn shoot. I decided to come back later.
Jimmy Frater and I had got to know one another through a chance meeting in a bar on a foggy night. I hadn’t been in Glasgow long and we both stank a little of the war. It was one of these evenings where light chat reveals a common history, which turns into a gloomy recognition of a similarly damaged soul. The difference between us was that Frater had somehow managed to drag his life back onto some kind of track. He worked for the authority that ran the Port of Clyde and had proved to be a valuable asset on the odd occasion.
I ordered a pint of heavy for Frater and a rye whiskey for myself while I waited for him to arrive. Frater, unlike me, was the dependable, solid sort. I knew I could rely on him being on time for our meeting.
‘You get a chance to look at those codes I gave you?’ I asked after he had arrived.
‘Tell me you’re not up to something illegal, Lennox.’
‘I’m not up to something illegal,’ I said. ‘I’d tell you that anyway, of course, but in this case it happens to be true. In fact if I’m right about these codes, then I’ll be handing the information over to the police.’
‘Okay,’ Frater said, but didn’t look entirely convinced. ‘You were right. All of these relate to CCI shipments from the port. Three different ships, each appearing several times, but different manifests.’
‘What was the cargo?’
‘Machine parts. Mainly agricultural. Two shipments were oil drilling equipment. The one thing all of the shipments had in common was their destination. Aqaba, in Jordan. That help?’
‘Kinda,’ I said. Truth was it was a big help: proof of the Middle East connection I suspected.
I drank a few more with Frater, who made his apologies and said he had to get back to his wife and kids. That suited me because I wanted to catch Smails that night. The other reason was that nothing depressed me more than success and happiness.
Ronnie Smails’s studio was still in darkness when I arrived back. I guessed that he lived above the premises, but the first-floor flat was also unlit. I tried the studio door again and found it still locked.
I waited until a Corporation tram rattled past and cast a look up and down the street before turning my attention to the panel of four small glazed panes in the door. I picked at the putty around one of them and it crumbled to the touch. I set about easing the pane out of the door with my penknife. Eventually it came away and I squeezed my hand through and un-snibbed the door. With the blinds down, I reckoned it was okay to switch the lights on.
Whatever Smails’s talents as a photographer, he was never going to char for me. The studio was filthy and looked as if it hadn’t been swept out in a couple of months. I looked through some of the display drawers and found a collection of photographs. Mainly wedding and portrait pics, some of which were ancient. Smails’s trade was less than brisk.
I went through to the darkroom. There were several prints hanging on the line. All of them portrayed what tended to happen after the wedding ceremony. This was Smails’s real business. The commonality between the photographs was that they all illustrated the act of physical union between two or several individuals. The other common factor was that, for some inexplicable reason, the men all had kept their socks on.
I rifled through a steel cabinet and found more of the same predictable fuck and suck shots. But these were posed, not surreptitiously taken blackmail photos. There was one set of photographs that did, strangely, make me a little homesick. It was the most creatively conceived of the scenarios: a Canadian tableau in which a Mountie and a trapper were showing a young lady partially attired as an Eskimo the true meaning of what it meant to spear a beaver. I felt a tear in my eye and had to resist the temptation to burst into a chorus o
f Oh, Canada!
I was about to put the photographs back when I realized that the Eskimo Nell was familiar. To be honest, I hadn’t really been examining her face so I took a closer look. She was really quite pretty and I was sure I had seen her somewhere before, but in a completely different context. I pocketed one of the photographs that showed something of her face and put the rest back in the cabinet.
I went through the rest of the place and couldn’t find anything that fitted with extortion. Switching the lights out, I climbed the stairs to the apartment above. Maybe there was a hidey-hole up there. Again the flat was in darkness and I flicked the light switch. Nothing. I had to fumble along the hall until I found a standard lamp. It flooded the hall and the rooms off with an insipid, jaundiced light. Smails had obviously opted for a design motif that could best be described as Early Shithole. The place was filthy and smelly and I doubted that this was anybody that McGahern would get involved with.
I was wrong.
I found Smails in the living room. This time there had been no torture, just simple execution. He sat on a grubby clubchair, a long-cold cup of tea on the side table next to him and a cigarette between his fingers that had burned down and scorched unfeeling flesh. A copy of Spick magazine had slipped from his fingers and onto the floor at his feet. Smails obviously made a big effort to keep up to date with what was current in his profession.
I examined him more closely. His face showed all the signs of strangulation. He had been choked to death with the same width of garrotte as Arthur Parks. Unlike Parks, Smails hadn’t had any information worth torturing out of him and he had been killed swiftly and silently.
He maybe hadn’t told his killers anything, but he was telling me exactly what I wanted to know: he was a small man with greasy grey hair long overdue a cutting and his eyes were open and staring, as they would have been in life. But Smails had obviously had some kind of congenital defect: his right eyelid drooped over the eye. Just the way Bobby had described the ‘greasy wee shite’ he had seen Tam McGahern talking to shortly before he died.
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