Lennox l-1

by Craig Russell

  ‘So you’re saying they tortured and killed Parky?’ asked Sneddon.

  ‘Maybe. But I think there’s something more to that. There’s a Dutchman around. Big guy, rich. I reckon he’s brokered the sale of the guns.’

  ‘McGahern’s trips to Amsterdam?’ asked Sneddon.

  ‘That’s my guess.’

  ‘Well,’ said Murphy. ‘Those kyke bastards have stirred up all kinds of shite for us. I say we get even.’

  I laughed at Murphy and he reminded me with a threatening look that he was unused to the experience. ‘You don’t understand, do you?’ I said. ‘Just eight years ago there were six million dead Jews across Europe. Maybe more. Millions of others left homeless or totally fucked up. All the Jews know now is that a very serious and nearly successful attempt was made to wipe them off the face of the earth. Now, call them touchy, but they seem to have gotten a little pissed about it all. Get this into your head, Mr Murphy… all of you… the people you are talking about going up against are the toughest, hardest, deadliest, most unforgiving bastards that have ever walked the earth. I don’t know what Mossad’s motto is, but I can have a guess: nobody fucks with the Jews any more.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘There are three ships that McGahern has been using to ship weapons out to Jordan. All done through John Andrews’s shipping company. All I need to find out is when they’re planning to move the guns.’

  ‘Then what?’ asked Jonny Cohen.

  ‘One of two things. We can tip off the cops so they capture McGahern and company in the act, or you combine all of your forces and hit McGahern together. Then we dump the guns and tell the cops where to find them. My ideal solution would be to get in touch with the Mossad boys. They’re more than capable of taking it from there. Unfortunately they seem to have forgotten to put their number in the ’phone directory.’

  ‘Fucking easy choice,’ said Murphy. ‘We tell the coppers and they take all the fucking risks. And they’ll maybes start leaving us alone.’

  ‘That would be ideal… but, like I said, I’ve a funny feeling that McGahern’s got a copper on the payroll. McGahern could be warned off and we’re back to square one.’

  ‘So a fucking bloodbath down at the docks is the way to go. That what you’re suggesting?’ asked Murphy.

  ‘Listen, the alternative is that you lose your crowns. This has been a four-sided game until now: your three outfits and the police. And let’s be honest boys, you’ve all got at least a couple of coppers each in your pockets. But Tam McGahern’s raised the stakes, and the temperature. Because of these guns going missing, Glasgow will be crawling with Ministry of Defence types, Special Branch and Military Intelligence. Added to them there’s a Mossad assassination squad out there and, I’m guessing, a few Arabs over here to keep tabs on the deal.’

  I leaned back in the chair. My head still swam. I closed my eyes and took another long drink of water.

  ‘The first thing we’ve got to do is find Jackie Gillespie. One of the robbers is supposed to be wounded and it’s my guess it’s Gillespie.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Jonny.

  ‘Because I’ll bet he wasn’t wounded by an army bullet. I’ve seen the way Tam and Lillian work. They don’t want partners. Leaving Gillespie dead at the scene would have worked for them. No one associates Gillespie with the McGaherns, but everyone knows that he’s worked for each of you at one time or another.’

  ‘Bastard…’ muttered Sneddon.

  ‘Jackie Gillespie can’t stay hidden if all your people are looking for him. He can hide from the police, but not the Three Kings.’ I took another sip of water. I felt really sick now and wanted to stop talking. ‘I need you three to work together. We need your hardest and most experienced men on this. When we know which ship and when, then we hit the bastards. One more thing. I don’t think any of you is the sentimental type, but I’ve got to make this clear. Lillian Andrews may be a woman, but she’s as much the brains behind this as Tam. You’ve got to see her, and deal with her, the same way. That’s it.’

  The room seemed to buzz with talk as Sneddon, Murphy and Jonny engaged in heated debate. I sat and felt my head throb with every beat of my pulse. I took another one of Doc Banks’s horse tablets and broke it in two, swallowing it in stages with the last of my water. I closed my eyes. There was a rush of sound from outside again as another set of traps opened and the crowd roared. Again, even with my eyes closed, everything seemed bigger and harder and sharper than it should. I imagined I could feel the fall of each paw of every greyhound. Something tidal was going on in my gut. I opened my eyes and stood up. I made my way to the door marked ‘toilets’, unnoticed by the others because they were still debating who should do what, who was in charge of whom. There was a short corridor then another door, marked ‘WC’.

  I just made it. Once more I continued to retch, even after my gut was empty. When I was finished I cupped some water from the hand basin and rinsed my mouth. I reckoned that the pill had been puked up so I took another, halved it and washed it down with more tap water. I stood and rested my forehead on the cool porcelain of the tiles. I became aware I could hear the voices from the entertaining suite. Too loud. Not talking: shouting.

  I headed back along the corridor and heard glass shattering, furniture breaking. Fuck. I thought I could trust them to pull together and they were ripping each other apart. I opened the door to step back into the suite but eased it shut again as quickly and quietly as I could. No one had seen me, I thought. But I had seen enough. I opened the door again a crack and peered through. Sneddon, Murphy, Jonny and their respective heavies were all on the floor, their faces shoved into the red carpet by burly Highlanders. Batons were arcing through the air and colliding with ribs, arms, heads. I saw Superintendent McNab walk calmly through the carnage. I reckoned there were at least twenty coppers crammed into the room. Half in civvies, the other half in uniform.

  I backed away from the door. If I had gone out into the entertaining suite I would have got the same treatment as the others, and I reckoned another stiff blow to the head would probably be enough to finish me off. It would only be a matter of minutes before the police had everybody subdued and handcuffed. Then they would check the toilets for any stragglers.

  I went back through the door marked WC and closed it behind me but didn’t lock it. There was a tall, narrow window of frosted glass beside the cistern, but high up. This is getting to be a habit, I thought to myself as I braced one foot on the toilet, the other on the wall and eased myself up, undid the catch and swung open the window. It took all that was left of my strength to haul myself up and wriggle my head and right shoulder out through the window. I found myself looking straight down at a two-storey drop onto the car park below. I continued to ease myself through, gripping the wooden frame of the window. I got a leg free and eased a foot down onto the sill. I heard voices in the hall outside the toilet. I pushed through and eased the window closed.

  I was outside, but I would still be seen against the frosted glass. The sill extended a foot or so on either side of the window and I worked my way along to its end. There was no downpipe this time; no projection on the stadium’s architecture to use as a stepping stone. I turned my back to the window, remained motionless and hoped that no one would pay too much attention to the window. I heard voices in the toilet. Then nothing.

  I looked down at the car park. It was getting dark but I could see the police cars and a van parked outside. There were still a few punters milling about. I felt another lurch in my gut, this time from the sight of a figure leaning against the van and smoking, wearing a peaked driver’s cap with a City of Glasgow Police chequered band around it. Don’t look up, I thought. Whatever you do, don’t look up.

  I knew the coppers would come out with their captures soon and my chances of being seen would increase to the almost certain. As I was too well-dressed for a window cleaner, I decided the best thing was to climb back into the toilet. I moved as quietly as I could and slid back through
the window. I could still hear voices from the entertaining suite, but, having checked the toilet once, I didn’t think they would come back.

  Not so clever Lennox. The one thing I didn’t take into account, of course, was that while my place of hiding may have been checked out, it was, after all, a toilet. I only just managed to duck behind the door as it swung open and a large uniformed figure stepped through and into the cubicle. He had his back to me and was clearly unbuttoning his fly. A man is never more vulnerable than when he’s got his dick in his hand and I knew what I had to do. I couldn’t let him see me and I couldn’t be captured. I cursed inwardly and took the sap from my pocket and swung it at the back of the copper’s head. He stumbled forward but steadied himself with his hand against the wall. He wasn’t out. I swung again, harder, trying not to think what would happen to my neck if I killed a copper. He went down, his face smashing into the porcelain of the toilet bowl and splashing it with blood.

  It had been quiet. Messy, but quiet. But had it been quiet enough? I stood stock still and listened for anyone approaching. Nothing. I went back along the hall. The door at the end was open and revealed the suite was empty. The copper I clobbered had obviously come back to take a leak. But he would be missed.

  I moved swiftly across the suite and out onto the stairwell. Making sure that the last of the coppers was heading out of the bottom door, I ran silently down the steps and watched through a crack in the door as the police piled the Three Kings and their bodyguards into the van. The tablet I’d taken earlier had really kicked in and I was back in a Technicolor world. I saw several faces streaked with blood, glistening in the stadium lamplight that seemed to me to sparkle in the dusk.

  A small crowd had gathered in the car park and was watching the proceedings. As a group of onlookers passed by the entrance to the suite, I slipped out into their number and walked into the main racing stadium.

  I watched three races before I risked going back to the car park. When I did, the police cars were gone and I assumed they had not yet missed their colleague. I found a pay ’phone, made a pithy call to Greasy George and explained he had better get his Bentley and his ass into gear. I made my way to the Atlantic and drove off. I knew that when the copper with his face in the toilet came to, or was discovered, then the Three Kings would each get very special treatment to cough up who had been left behind. But I knew they wouldn’t give me up. Not through any sense of comradeship or loyalty — just because I was the only hope they had of getting out of this mess.

  Some hope, I thought to myself as I looked at my face in the rear-view mirror of the Atlantic.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I’ve always considered myself a smart cookie. It’s one of these things you get smug about, having brains. Generally, I thought of myself as someone who always had an answer. Tonight, however, that answer must have been moving all over Glasgow, because I found myself driving through the city aimlessly, not seeing the streets, my bruised and drugged brain refusing to give me directions.

  But maybe it had. I found myself back in the future. Ahead of me the partly built monoliths of Moss Heights loomed black into the night sky. Again I parked some distance from Jackie Gillespie’s brand-new house, although it did little to make the Atlantic, one of only three cars parked on the entire length of the street, less conspicuous.

  The back door was still ajar. I made my way into the kitchen and cursed the fact I hadn’t brought a torch. I wasn’t even sure what I was doing there. I was alone. The Three Kings were out of the picture for God knew how long. No Twinkletoes or Tiny to call on to add muscle. I wasn’t even here on a hunch.

  I went through to the living room. It was easier to see in there because of the nauseous yellow light cast in from the streetlamp. It was still the tumbled mess it had been earlier. The only difference was the figure sitting in the corner, partly concealed in shadow. I noticed him mainly because of the yellow gleam on the sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun he had pointed at me. I put my hands up but otherwise didn’t move.

  ‘Hello, Jackie,’ I said. ‘You okay?’

  ‘No.’ The voice from the corner was deep but weak. ‘You Lennox?’

  ‘Were you expecting me?’

  ‘Kinda,’ said Gillespie. He lowered the gun and I lowered my arms. ‘You’re a favourite topic of conversation for McGahern and his tart. You was supposed to sit still for the frame. Like me.’

  ‘Funny thing is I was half-expecting to find you here,’ I said.

  ‘Everybody’s turned this place over once. They’ve crossed it off their list. It’s the one place in Glasgow I’m safe.’ Gillespie moved slightly to the side and his face became etched in yellow. From the look of him, I guessed it would be yellow even without the streetlight. I could see a glistening patch, black in the streetlight, on his shirt and jacket. There was a pool of it on the floor next to him.

  ‘Fuck, Gillespie. Let me have a look at you.’ I moved towards him but he hinted I stop by raising the barrels. I took the hint.

  ‘Forget it, Lennox. You’re talking to a ghost. You was in the war too. You know when someone loses this much blood, he’s fucked. Anyway, I could have gone to a hospital a day ago. What would be the point? Nursed back to health just to be dropped through a fucking hatch at Barlinnie. This way I choose where and when I die.’

  ‘I guess I’m right to think it was McGahern and Lillian who fucked you?’

  ‘Full fucking shaft.’ Gillespie lowered the gun again. He nodded when I asked if I could sit next to him. I could see his torso more clearly. He was right. There was no point in discussing it any more. ‘McGahern shot me. He executed those fucking soldiers. They didn’t die in a fire-fight. They was conscripts. Kids. Then he turned, calm as fuck, and shot me. But I got a shot off too. Missed the bastard, but he ran for it and drove off in the van. I took the car. Could hardly fucking drive. Dumped the car, waited till dark and walked here. The walk nearly fucking killed me. I was hoping you’d turn up.’

  ‘I kinda guessed you’d be here. Can I get you something? Water?’

  Gillespie shook his head. ‘The only thing I want you to get me are those bastards. McGahern and his whore. She planned the whole fucking thing.’

  ‘Not McGahern?’

  ‘Naw. His idea. She put it all together. Now shut the fuck up and listen. I don’t have a lot of breathing left in me. And remember what I tell you. The Carpathian Queen. She’s one of the three ships McGahern’s been using. It sails at eleven the day after tomorrow. But the big payoff takes place tomorrow, noon. McGahern gives sight of the goods and gets half the money. Then the other half on delivery. The agent is a big fat Dutch fucker. We only ever called him The Fat Dutchman, but McGahern slipped once when he was talking to Lillian… he called the Dutchman De Jong. You have to watch the Dutchman: he has a couple of Arabs in tow. Dangerous bastards.’

  ‘One of them isn’t any more,’ I said. ‘We had an episode. I’ve ended his lineage.’

  ‘Watch your back anyway, Lennox. They’re all meeting at an empty warehouse on dock thirteen. Like I said, noon tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe they’ve changed their plans. After all, you know about the meet.’

  Gillespie’s laugh turned into a wet cough. ‘Dead men don’t tell tales. Anyhow, I know more than they think I know. Lennox, promise me you’ll get the bastards.’

  ‘I promise. I’ve got my own score to settle. And the Three Kings have bigger scores to settle.’

  It was then that Gillespie said something that jarred with me. Made me feel even more vulnerable and alone. Something he had overheard and couldn’t elaborate on.

  We sat quietly in the black and yellow geometry of shadow and streetlight. Everything was quiet. No dogs barking, no distant cars passing.

  ‘Lennox?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I was in Burma during the war. You?’

  ‘First Canadian. Italy and Germany.’

  ‘Then you know too. I mean, you know how this goes.’

  ‘Sure, Jackie. I
know how this goes.’

  ‘I always wanted to go to Canada. Read all them comics about lumberjacks when I was a kid. Tell me about it.’

  So I did. Gillespie sat quiet, apart from the odd wet cough, and listened as I talked about growing up on the banks of the Kennebecasis. About deep snow winters and hot sun summers. About watching the tidal bore surge up the Bay of Fundy. About the smell of the forest when the snow first melts. I was surprised just how much I had to say and talked on, even after Gillespie stopped coughing.

  Like I had told him, I knew how it went.

  I left the dead armed robber in his brand-new house, his shotgun still on his lap. When I got back in the Atlantic I sat for a moment and thought back to what he had said and how it had shaken me more than anything else: ‘There’s one other thing, Lennox. I don’t know which one, but one of the Three Kings isn’t to be trusted.’

  It was four in the morning by the time I got back to my digs. If Mrs White heard me creep in, she didn’t signal it by putting on her light. I lay on the bed in my clothes, my exhaustion playing tug-of-war with the nausea and the throbbing in my head. My exhaustion won.

  I woke up with a start and a stab of pain in my head. I looked at my watch and saw it was half past nine. I let my head sink back onto the pillow. The pain was still beyond all description of a headache, but I was aware that the intensity had been turned down a notch or two.

  I got up and took enough aspirin to rot a steel gut and took a bath, shaved and dressed in a new change of clothes. I wore a black suit with a red pinstripe and a deep burgundy tie. I was dressing up for my coffin. My plan remained exactly the same as it had the night before when I had explained it to the Three Kings. The only difference now was that instead of going in mob-handed with the combined strength of Glasgow’s criminal underworld, I was going it alone. I could see the epitaph on my gravestone: Here lies Lennox: he went it alone. The wanker.