by David Munro
“Granton Crescent?” I said.
“Aye,” said the older teenager, “it’s no’ far frae here.”
The shop assistant shook his head. “There’s nobody called April in the ‘Crescent’, let alone Anderson!”
A middle-aged woman appeared at the counter. “April Anderson moved to Trinity.”
I turned around to face her. “Recently?”
The woman shook her head. “Years ago.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you a relative?” said the woman.
“Yes, I am.”
She smiled. “I thought so, you have her eyes.”
“You can catch a bus part of the way, sir,” said the shop assistant, “from outside the church.”
“Much obliged.”
Having been brought up near Trinity, it’s uncanny that April lived there. I departed the newsagent, and minutes later, arrived at a bus stop. In front of me stood two men with frustrated expressions.
“I remember when this stop wiz a terminus,” said the tallest.
“Aye, there wiz always a bus parked here, sometimes two!”
“Now ye have tae wait ages fur one.”
“Nothin’ is the same any mare.”
The tall man looked at the row of shops. “Apart fae that newsagent, they’ve all changed over the years.”
“And whit they sell!”
“The chemist, draper, confectioner and grocer have gone.”
“Don’t forget the barber.”
“Since 1963, I’ve tried tae!”
His companion laughed. “Did ye get one o’ his ‘specials’ tae?”
The tall man nodded his shaven head.
“Mind you, that style is trendy noo, shaved aroond the sides and full on tap.”
“The barber wiz aheid o’ his time!”
As both men laughed, a bus arrived, and after the two locals boarded, I followed. I paid the standard fare of £1.50, and took a seat. I’ll wager both men had more humorous tales to tell about local shop traders.
A short while later, the bus reached Trinity, and soon I came across another newsagent. I entered the compact shop, and joined a small queue, which soon diminished.
“Yes, sir,” said the female assistant.
“I’m trying to find a relative who may stay within the district.”
“What is their name?”
“April Anderson, she will be about my age?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell, sir, you could ask in the Starbank Inn.”
I went down a steep road, turned left and there it was. The pub rekindled memories of my visit in 1940 with drab public and ‘snug’ bars along with rickety scraped furniture. Entering, I observed only one bar, with plush brown leather upholstery and polished oak furniture. The female bar person wearing a tight black top and trousers came forward. “Yes, sir, what can I get you?”
“I’m trying to trace someone.”
“Are you a private investigator?” The voluptuous auburn-haired individual smiled.
“No, I’m a relative.”
I’ve heard that one before. “What is the person’s name, sir?”
“April Anderson.”
A male customer standing at the bar looked over, then approached. Tall, well built and with a broken nose, he also had a stern look. “Did you say April Anderson?”
I nodded.
“Are you her brother?”
I shook my head.
“Who are you?”
“A distant cousin.”
He looked at the bar person.
She stared.
“Why do you ask?”
“I did maintenance work on her flat.” He blinked like an owl. “She left the property without paying me!”
“How long ago?”
“Thirteen years.”
The bar person smiled. “Unlucky for you, Steve.”
He looked at her. “£350!” He blinked.
“Was this the property in Granton?”
“In York Road.”
“Where is that?”
“Not far from here,” said the bar person.
“Could you lend me a tenner?” said the man, “I’m skint.”
I shook my head. “I’ll ask her to send you a cheque.”
“You’ll have to find her first!” He finished his pint of beer, and left the bar.
I looked at the bar person. “Perhaps a neighbour has an idea of where she moved to.”
“Do you know where York Road is?”
“I have a rough idea.”
The bar person came out from behind the counter, I followed her outside, and she pointed. “Turn right, walk up the road and then turn right again. York Road is first on the right.”
“Thanks, I will keep turning right!”
She laughed.
Reaching the top of a steep road, I turned right, and entered a narrow cul-de-sac. On the right stood five large detached villas with high boundary walls, and opposite, a row of terraced houses with less privacy. I approached one of them, walked up a narrow gravel path, and pressed the doorbell. I stood for a few moments, looked around, and pressed it again. A woman came out of the next property, and stared. “She’s at work, and won’t be home until later.”
I turned to face the neighbour. “Does April Anderson stay here?”
“Are you a detective?”
“No, a relative.”
“She once stayed in the next property to me.”
“Do you know where April has moved to?”
“Jersey.”
“Jersey?”
“Yes, to work in a bank.”
April isn’t a home bird.
“She left without paying a number of bills, are you here to settle them?”
“The creditors should contact her employer in Jersey.”
The woman smiled. “I believe they tried, but without success.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“Good luck.”
I walked in the direction of Ferry Road, and caught a bus back to the Royal Mile. Why are people wishing me good luck? Also, leaving without paying bills isn’t what I wanted to hear. Perhaps problems occurred in April’s life, which contributed, and she moved to Jersey for a fresh start.
For an evening meal, Andrea suggested a place in the Canongate. The 39 Steps theme bar and restaurant, had become one of Edinburgh city centre’s popular hotspots. Outside the establishment, a tall male in a black evening suit with an authoritative stance guarded the entrance. When I approached, he gave me an icy stare, nodded his approval and opened a glass door. The restaurant was straight ahead and a spiral staircase led to the downstairs bar.
After a quick bite to eat, I paid my bill and left hoping that the bar would provide atmosphere, thus reviving my expectations of this establishment. Walking down the grey metal staircase, I counted thirty-nine steps, then went into the bar. Whilst standing in a queue, I cast my gaze around the vicinity. Dark stained-glass tables, black leather chairs and patterned burgundy wallpaper caught my eye, as did a full-size wax figure in each corner. Dashing Richard Hannay, patriotic Colonel Scudder, knowledgeable Mr Memory and the evil Professor Logan made representation. Behind the bar, three individuals with jet-black hair, dark waistcoats and a white top, didn’t stand still. When served, and due to no seats, I stood at one side of the bar sipping my chilled bottle of beer to background music from 1935, 1959 and 1978. Two women with long platinum hair and trim waistlines, stood next to me. “Are you here for the quiz?” said the hottest.
“Quiz?”
“It’s hosted by Mr Memory,” said her partner.
“Each midweek evening, a particular year is chosen.”
“Do people know the year in advance?”
Both women nodded.
“What year is it tonight?”
“1967!” both said.
Fifteen minutes later, the background music stopped, and people having a conversation could be heard. The ‘bouncy’ music hall tune synonymous with Mr Memory in the 1935 film began. Taking a ce
ntral position in the bar, customers applauded Mr Memory’s arrival. When the applause stopped, he smiled. “Tonight, ladies and gentleman, I will answer any question you wish to ask on the year 1967.” He coughed. “A momentous year for many reasons, therefore, I am sure you will have an abundance of questions.” He looked around the bar. “Who would like to ask the first question?”
“What song by the Monkees went to number one in the charts?” said a man standing at the bar.
“I’m A Believer, and hope you are too, sir.”
I grinned, and the audience laughed.
A woman raised her hand.
“Yes, madam?” said Mr Memory.
“Who did Frank Sinatra duet with on his chart-topping record?”
“His oldest daughter, Nancy. You and she have the same colour of hair, madam.”
The woman smiled. “Correct.”
“Which Tamla Motown artists visited Glasgow in the summer?” I asked.
“The Four Tops, Stevie Wonder, The Supremes. Plus Martha Reeves and the Vandellas.”
I raised my glass.
Whilst sipping my drink, I spotted a young woman discreetly move towards a table and lift another woman’s handbag lying next to a chair. I alerted a male member of staff, pointed, and he left the bar. Seeing him, she dropped the handbag and dashed upstairs. I observed two men in the vicinity stare my way and then leave. The unsuspecting customer was given her handbag, and a look of astonishment followed. I finished my drink, went upstairs to the exit, and a steward opened the door. Being early evening, I walked up a deserted Canongate, passing a close with two men standing inside the entrance.
“Excuse me,” said one of them.
I looked at him.
He approached with a piece of paper in his hand. “Where is this place?” He showed it to me.
I looked at it.
From his black jerkin, he produced a knife, ushering me inside the narrow close. I recognised both men from the bar.
“You ruined our night, money in the bag was for our fix!”
“We’ll take what money you have instead,” said the accomplice.
“I only have a few pound coins on me.”
“Then we’ll take your credit card.” He held up the knife.
“I don’t have one with me, it’s at my property.”
“Where do you stay?”
“Ardrishaig.”
“Don’t get smart! I’m not afraid to use this.” He pressed the sharp tip against my stomach.
The accomplice nudged his partner. “Jack!”
“What?”
“Look!” The accomplice stared into the close.
The other man turned his head sideways, screamed, and both thugs ran off. I turned round, and looked into the close. What did they see? Composing myself, I walked up an empty Canongate to Andrea’s flat, went straight to my room, and reflected on a close shave. Before feeling drowsy, an hour had passed.
When I awoke, the anxiety of what happened last night had not diminished. I sat up, and stared at the pair of dark green curtain which covered the daylight. I heard the apartment buzzer, then Andrea’s voice. Not long after, she knocked on my door. “James.”
“Yes?”
“Two police officers are on the way upstairs.”
“Police officers!” That’s all I need.
“They want to speak with you.”
I jumped out of bed, dressed in double-quick time, and checked my appearance in the mirror. Opening my room door, I observed two dark blue uniformed gentlemen with Andrea in the hallway. Walking towards them, I felt lousy, and no doubt looked it. Both officers and Andrea stared.
“We would like a word, sir,” said the senior officer.
I cleared my throat.
“It is about last night.”
“Last night?” I want to forget about it.
“An incident which took place in the Canongate?”
I nodded.
Andrea looked at both officers. “You can use my lounge.”
She headed for the kitchen, and I followed both officers into the bright lounge. Late October sunshine engulfed the room, however, it did not lift my spirits. The two officers sat on a couch and I opposite on a chair.
“Did you suffer any injury, sir?” said the senior officer.
I shook my head. “Just a bit shaken.”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
“Whilst in The 39 Steps theme bar, I witnessed an attempted theft. After leaving the premises, I was confronted by two men standing at Pirrie’s Close.”
“Did you recognise them, sir?”
I nodded. “From the bar.”
“Did they take any valuables from you?”
I shook my head. “How did you find out?”
“Fellow officers on patrol spotted two men running from the Cannongate, and one dropped a knife. As he picked it up and ran off, officers pursued both men. After they caught up with them, they were searched, and each had a knife. When questioned about being in possession of a weapon, they stated it was to defend themselves.”
“From me!”
“Not from you, sir, but a ghost.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Both men also maintained they heard you scream, and went to your assistance.”
I grinned.
“After intense questioning, they admitted confronting you.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“This is our beat, sir, there isn’t much what goes on that we don’t know!”
The second officer smiled. “We have heard many tales in our time, that one is up there with the best.”
“Mind you,” I said, “there are only a few days until Halloween.”
Both officers laughed, stood up, and departed the apartment. Andrea came into the lounge, sat down, and I revealed what had happened last night.
“They saw a ghost!”
“That’s what they told police officers.”
“I hope they received the fright of their lives.” Andrea smiled. “It must have been a lost soul from the haunted trail that runs underneath the Royal Mile.”
I laughed.
“Breakfast?”
I sighed. “Please.”
As Andrea walked into the kitchen, I sat and reflected. Again, a ghost has been my saviour.
Walking down St Mary Street, the senior officer glanced at his colleague. “That’s the first sighting in Pirrie’s Close.”
“It’s always Gullan’s Close.”
CHAPTER 11 - INDEPENDENT LADY
I said farewell to Andrea, complimented her cooking, and went to catch a tram bound for Edinburgh Airport. Andrea had tried to trace April through social media, however, no joy, and banks in Jersey stated they did not give out staff details. As a consequence, I will have to find April through a conventional method.
I boarded a tram at St Andrew Square and paid my £5 single fare to the airport. Given the limited number of seats available, interest for this new mode of Edinburgh transport remains high. I sat next to a male passenger wearing a smart grey hat, scarf and overcoat. Due to the tram’s bright interior, his black shoes gleamed.
“Are you off to a warmer climate?” he said.
“Jersey.”
“New York?”
I smiled. “The Channel Islands.”
He looked at my suitcase. “A short break?”
I nodded.
The man adjusted his hat, revealing white hair.
“Do you use the tram much?”
“Back in the 1950’s, I travelled on the original trams!”
Did he see the Famous Five in action?
“Apart from a Sunday, I used it every day.” He coughed. “I stayed in Great Junction Street, and commuted to the top of Leith Street and back.”
“Did you attend any games at Easter Road?”
The man shook his head. “Saturday was our busiest day, and we didn’t get time off.” He grinned. “Besides, I’m a Hearts fan.”
“What did
you work as?”
“A tailor.”
“All of your working life?”
He nodded. “I worked for Hepworths, and then moved to Jacksons.” Once more, he coughed. “In my day, men had their suits made to measure.” He cleared his throat.
“Similar to the current tram design, things change.”
The man laughed. “The original trams could only take seventy passengers – this can hold a lot more!”
I looked upwards. And now trams have CCTV. “It’s a pity Edinburgh City Council discarded the original trams and track.”
He sighed. “It would have saved a lot of taxpayers money and upheaval.”
“At least the trams are now here to stay.”
“Let’s hope so!”
I laughed.
The man stood up. “Murrayfield Stadium, this is my stop.”
I looked at my watch – 1.15pm. “Is the rugby on today?”
He shook his head. “I’m off to meet several old colleagues for a reunion in the Murrayfield Bar.”
“Have a good time.”
“I always do, and end up with a hangover.” He laughed, then walked to the exit door.
When the jovial individual got off, he walked past my window, and waved. A number of passengers boarded, then the tram continued along Corstorphine Road to the terminus at Edinburgh Airport. I had been fortunate to acquire a late booking on a ‘no frills’ airline to Jersey, via Southampton Airport.
Having time to kill after checking in, I headed for a lounge, which had two separate licensed bars. As I entered, a lady leaving brushed past me without apologising. Maybe she has sampled too much hospitality.
Just over an hour later, I boarded the sky blue and white aircraft. Its distinctive logo would ensure brand awareness for any passing high-flying angel. Looking for an empty double-seat, I spotted one further along the aisle, but someone beat me to it. I sat down on the outside, and unbuttoned my jacket.
“You made it in one piece, then?”
I looked to my right, and smiled. “Just about.”
“I intended to only have a couple.”
“How many did you have?”
“Four.”
“That’s not too drastic.”
The lady smiled. “They were doubles.”
That could be drastic.
“Are you bound for Southampton?”
“No, Jersey.”
“Business?”