I dropped MacGregor outside a bungalow in Milngavie which he admitted, a little embarrassedly, was where he still lived with his parents. He hesitated before getting out of the car.
‘You won’t say anything, will you, Mr Lennox?’
‘What happened tonight stays between us,’ I said.
‘I’m very grateful, Mr Lennox. I owe you for this.’
Oh, I know, I said to the empty car as I drove off. I know.
In the absence of widespread indoor bathrooms, the Victorian Glasgow that exploded in population but not in area was faced with a major public health threat. The great unwashed of Glasgow really had been. The city’s response to this problem was an array of public baths, swimming ponds, pools, Turkish baths and municipal ‘steamies’: communal laundries that were often attached to public bath houses.
In the Glasgow of the 1950s, and in the comparative rarity of the real thing, you could even have a ‘sun-ray’ bath at the Turkish Baths in Govanhill, Whitevale, Pollokshaws, Shettleston and Whiteinch. A sun-ray bath would cost you two bob; a combined Turkish-Russian and sun-ray bath would cost you four shillings and sixpence.
Bathing was segregated, the baths open between nine a.m. and nine p.m., with separate days for each gender at each venue.
Unofficially, there were set times when, if you were of a certain disposition, you could meet like-minded gentlemen in at least two of the bath houses.
I spent two evenings checking out the baths, asking if anyone knew Paul Downey or where I could find him, or if someone called Frank worked there. I was met at different locations with different responses, from the hostile and suspicious — as I had in the queer bars — to the unnervingly welcoming. But nothing took me closer to finding Downey; I could find no one who would admit even to recognizing the name.
Despite the knocks and hardship it had often endured, Glasgow was a proud city. And that pride was often given eloquent expression in the most impressive civic architecture in the most unlikely of locations. Govanhill Public Baths and Turkish Suite in Calder Street was a perfect example: a stately building from the outside, and Edwardian palace of ablution on the inside.
After asking a pool attendant, I was told that Frank was one of his colleagues and he was on lifeguard duty at the moment. The attendant sent me to wait in the gallery of the gents’ swimming pool. I sat on the fire engine-red seats and watched the handful of swimmers in the water. Every splash resounded in the chlorine-fumed air of the white-tiled and deep red-beamed pool hall. You could have held an opera here, and not just because of the acoustics; the decor of this public bath house bordered on the opulent.
‘You wanted to talk to me?’ A large collection of muscles bundled into a white tennis shirt appeared beside me. In contrast to the bulging biceps and beefy shoulders, and despite being predictably square-jawed, the features of the face were fine, almost delicate. His fair hair was bristle-cut at the sides and back but long and thick at the top, and a dense blond lock had a habit of falling across his forehead and slightly over one eye. I had the impression, somehow, of a cross between some idealized Nazi image of Aryan manhood and Veronica Lake.
‘I’m looking for Paul.’ I said it as if I knew him.
‘Paul who?’
‘You know who … Paul Downey.’
‘What do you want him for?’
‘Just to talk. I know you know where he is, Frank. Where can I find him?’
Frank leaned in closer and drew his lips back from his teeth. ‘Why don’t you just leave him alone? Didn’t he promise that he’d pay the money back?’
Interesting.
‘Maybe we can arrange easy terms,’ I said. ‘I just want to talk to him, that’s all.’
‘Anything you’ve got to say you can say through me. You’ll get your money. And soon. I thought your boss accepted that.’
‘And who, exactly, is my boss?’
Frank looked puzzled for a moment, then angry when he realized I wasn’t who he thought I was.
‘Okay, I’ll level with you, Frank,’ I said. He may have been a cream puff, but he had lots of filling and there was no need for things to turn nasty. ‘I don’t know what money you’re talking about, but I guess from what you’ve said that young Paul owes the wrong kind of people money. That’s not my concern. I’m on the supply side, not the demand. I’ve been hired to buy back certain photographs from Paul. I take it you know what I’m referring to?’
Frank shrugged his massive shoulders.
‘Listen, Frank, if you know where Paul is, tell him to ’phone me.’ I handed him a card with my office number on it. ‘And tell him that he’ll get his money, but we play this my way, not his. We’re not prepared to mail that kind of cash into a Wellington Street PO box on the strength of good faith. And it would be good if you could point out to him that he doesn’t get a single penny unless I’m totally convinced I’ve got everything: all the copies and all the negatives.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Frank, but he took the card anyway.
Frank left the Govanhill Baths about half past ten. He stood outside on Calder Street for a good five minutes, checking the road in both directions, making sure I wasn’t waiting to follow him — which I was — before heading off down the street to his tram stop. He was wearing a cheap but flashy belted raincoat and had pulled his hat down over his eyes, but there was no mistaking the shoulder to waist taper of a serious bodybuilder.
Fortunately for me, the other side of Calder Street was block after block of tenements; red sandstone beneath black soot. I had found a close, as the Scots called the open-ended entrance passageway and stair of a tenement building, and concealed myself in it while watching the bathhouse exit. Frank was a smart cookie, all right, and I found myself wondering if he had more to do with Downey’s amateur photography club than just looking pretty.
He got on the tram heading away from the city centre and I walked around the corner to where I had parked my Atlantic. There was no rush: I knew where the tram was heading and I would catch up with it before its next stop. It was fortunate that I did, because Frank skipped off at the next stop and crossed the road. We were in a long arc of tenement-lined streets and I would have been conspicuous if I had stopped, so I drove on until I could do a u-turn out of sight. As I sat parked there, another green and orange Glasgow Corporation tram passed by, this time travelling towards the city centre. I waited long enough so that I came around the corner just in time to see Frank, in the distance, board the tram.
He was a very smart cookie.
I kept my distance, following the tram until Frank got off at Plantation, and started walking into Kinning Park. I dumped the car when it became the only vehicle on the streets and my walking pace progress, even in the light fog, would start to draw attention. I followed Frank on foot, my footfall silent because I was wearing my soft-soled suede numbers, and congratulated myself on following my alleyway chum’s footwear tips.
Frank led me into a row of three-storey tenements and turned into one of the closes. I sprinted to catch up, to see which flat he went into, and reached the mouth of the close just in time to hear the downstairs flat slam shut. I doubted if Frank and Downey lived together openly — Glasgow’s attitude toward that kind of thing made the Spanish Inquisition look tolerant — but I had put my money on Frank having wanted to tell his bestest ever friend all about my visit to the baths. I decided to give them some hello-honey-I’m-home time before I went knocking on the door.
I had noticed a call box at the corner of the street, so I headed back to it and called the lawyer, Fraser, on the out-of-hours number he had given me. I told him where I was and what I was doing.