Jonny nodded and handed him the picture of Lillian Andrews. He examined it for a moment and smiled, tilting it for the ex-boxer to look at. He gave a brief nod.
‘No, there’s no doubt about it,’ he said. ‘That’s Sally Blane, all right,’
‘Sally Blane?’ I asked.
In answer the bank manager handed me the photograph while the boxer switched on the projector and turned out the strip lights. A caption, ‘Housewife’s Choice’, came up on screen. The black and white film played mute, so I couldn’t hear her voice, but I instantly recognized a younger Lillian Andrews as she opened the door to a door-to-door salesman.
‘That’s her all right,’ I said. ‘But she looks different.’
‘Younger. We made it about five, six years ago,’ explained the bank manager. By this time Lillian/Sally was performing an impressively professional blow-job on the salesman. ‘Sally worked for us for about six months. She was a natural. You could say she was custom-made for it. We offered her more money than we have ever offered any of our performers to stay on, but she quit and we never heard from her again. But she was the kind of girl you never forget.’
‘Where did you find her?’
‘We put the word out that we were looking for new talent. One of our contacts put us on to her. She and her sister came along for an audition.’ I tried not to think what an audition for a dirty film might involve. ‘I’m not sure, but I think she might have been working in a knocking-shop in Edinburgh.’
I turned back to the screen. Lillian and the ‘salesman’ were now engaged in full intercourse in what looked like an improbable and certainly uncomfortable angle against a Belfast sink. I remembered the first time I met John Andrews: pompous, brusque, embarrassed; but desperately worried about the woman he loved. This was more than just a marriage for money: it was a set-up.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen enough. So Sally Blane is her real name?’
The bank manager turned off the projector and the lights went on.
‘I couldn’t tell you. All our payments were made on a strictly cash basis. No tax, no names, no pack drill. My guess is that it was a professional name though. Her sister worked for us too and she used a completely different name.’
The boxer placed the film spool back in the can and stacked them with some others. He handed me a brown foolscap envelope.
‘These are stills taken from some of the films Sally made for us.’ The boxer’s voice was cluttered with long, flat Edinburgh vowels. ‘We thought you’d maybe need a copy of them. If you need proof.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. I had a sickening feeling when I thought about the not too distant future: to showing John Andrews photographs of his wife performing sex for money. I should have walked away from this one when I had had the chance. I could still walk away. But I knew I wouldn’t.
Jonny Cohen dropped his two heavies at one of his clubs before driving me back to where my car was parked outside the Italian restaurant.
‘That was good of you, Jonny,’ I said as we parked. ‘I mean, going to all that trouble for something that isn’t of any concern to you. I appreciate it.’ As I made to get out of the car, he placed his driver-gloved hand on my forearm.
‘I won’t say think nothing of it, Lennox. You owe me. It’s a favour I may call in some day.’
I thought about what he said for a moment and then nodded. ‘Fair enough, Jonny.’
I stood and watched the deep-green Riley purr into the distance and felt an indistinct unease somewhere deep inside. I was working for Sneddon. I was indebted to Jonny Cohen. I was getting sucked deeper into a case for which I had stopped being paid. I reckoned I couldn’t be in a much worse situation.
But I was wrong. I could.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I remember seeing, before the war, a circus film in which a lion-tamer placed his head in the mouth of a lion. I recall thinking it was a pretty stupid way to make a living. Now it was my turn. There was one last King left in the pack.
Hammer Murphy.
A name like Murphy was a badge in Glasgow. It marked you out, made clear your background and allegiances. Your religion. To Glasgow’s Protestant majority, a name like Michael Murphy was the name of the enemy. A Fenian. A Mick. A Taig. Glasgow may have been the least anti-Semitic city in Europe, but it made up for it in the red-hot mutual hatred between Protestant and Catholic. It wasn’t really anything to do with religion, but with origin. The Protestants were indigenous Scots, the Catholics the descendant families of nineteenth-century Irish immigrants.
Hammer Murphy was no more than five foot seven but could never be described as a small man. He gave the impression of being as wide as he was tall. Packed with muscle. Packed with hate. The other two Kings tended to joke about Murphy’s lack of brains. He certainly was no scholar, but there was no underestimating Murphy’s vicious animal intelligence.
Everybody knew Hammer Murphy’s story. It was the stuff of legends. And knowing the story made you want to avoid knowing the man.
Murphy had learned at an early age that he had been born with the deck stacked against him. He realized that he didn’t have the intelligence to learn his way out of the cramped Maryhill tenement flat he shared with his parents, five brothers and two sisters. He also worked out that the British class system strictly rationed opportunity and that as a working-class Glasgow Catholic he didn’t even own a ration book. It had been obvious to the young Murphy that he would never enjoy the things in life that others had been gifted by birth outside the tenements. Unless he took them.
All of this had contributed to a dark, malevolent fury that burned deep within Murphy. To begin with, violence had been his way of venting that fury. Violence for its own sake: ‘Old Firm’ matches between Celtic and Rangers providing the fevered tribal atmosphere. Then he had sought to combine violence with a strategy for survival and success. Productive violence. In his five brothers he had a ready-made gang. The Murphy firm had never been imaginative. It had taken the obvious route: starting with a minor local protection racket, stealing cars, house-breaking. Then they moved into loan sharking. And into another gang’s patch.
It had all started as small stuff: a squabble between two insignificant wideboy gangs over a worthless patch of Glasgow turf. But a legend had been born. It was then that Murphy earned his nickname.
The other gang’s leader had been Paul Cochrane. The usual way these things were settled was through attrition. Repeated gang battles. Advances made racket by racket, shop by shop, bar by bar, bookie by bookie. But Murphy had suggested to Cochrane that they settle it between themselves. A ‘square-go’ in front of both gangs. Whoever won would be the leader of both. Cochrane didn’t ask what would happen to the loser.
It was expected that weapons would be used and Cochrane had had a set of home-made knuckledusters, a short but lethal spike projecting from its top. Murphy had used his fists, his feet, his forehead. Even his teeth. Cochrane’s kicks and punches had made no impact on Murphy’s battle-hardened face. When Cochrane had come at him with his weapon, Murphy had broken his arm. The fight had been swift, brutal and very one-sided. Cochrane had gestured his surrender with his unbroken arm.
The triumphant Murphy had then turned to the assembled gang members and told them they were now totally under his control. That now they were stronger. Better. Harder. He promised more money. More power. This was the beginning of something good for them all. Then, in a calm, measured tone, he told them that anyone who opposed him would get the exactly same as Cochrane was about to get.
It was a builder’s short-handled, barrel-headed lead mallet.