I looked back at my Atlantic. I had stashed my gun in the boot before heading into Casualty.
‘Need to get something, Mr Lennox?’ asked Twinkletoes.
‘No …’ I said thoughtfully. I just had to play this hand with the cards I’d been dealt. ‘No, it’s okay, Twinkle.’
Singer drove and Twinkletoes sat in the back with me, which meant I was squeezed into one corner.
‘Still doing a lot of work for Mr Sneddon, Twinkle?’ I asked conversationally.
‘Oh cunt-rare …’ said Twinkle. ‘That’s French for on the contrary, by the way … Mr Sneddon is currently in a process of commercial diversy-fey-cation. But he’s finding other things for me to do and I’m still on full pay, but.’
‘That’s good …’ I said, hoping this trip fell under the category other things. I watched out the window. We were heading for the docks. Maybe Sneddon’s corporate office, which would be a good sign. But we took several turns into the quayside and were soon surrounded by the black hulks of quayside warehouses. Not so good.
Twinkletoes fell silent and stopped smiling. Which was worse. We pulled up at a warehouse shed and Singer got out, opened the doors, then drove inside. It was dark inside and it took me a while to adjust to the gloom. Twinkle got out, walked round to my side and hoisted me out by the arm. I was frogmarched past some empty office compartments, through double doors and into the vast hall of the main warehouse area. It was completely empty except for the heavy steel chains that dangled like jungle creepers from the roof, and for the single tubular steel office chair in the middle of the space.
Willie Sneddon, dressed in a sharp suit as always and with a camel coat draped over his shoulders, was sitting on the chair. He nodded across to Twinkletoes and a train hit me in the kidneys.
‘Sorry, Mr Lennox,’ said Twinkletoes genuinely as I vomited up my breakfast. And my spleen. Yellow dots danced in front of my eyes and I was only vaguely aware of being dragged across the floor and something cold and hard being wrapped tight around my wrists. I was suddenly hoisted up and my feet left the ground. It took me a moment or two to realize I was suspended by one of the chain hoists I’d seen dangling from the roof. I felt a trickle of blood run up my arm to my shoulder. There go my stitches again, I thought, and wondered if it would be better to get a zip fitted the next time.
Sneddon shrugged off his camel coat, stood up and came over to me.
‘Now this,’ he said with an irritated tone, ‘is exactly the kind of shite I’ve been trying to put behind me.’
‘If there’s anything I can do to help you put it behind you,’ I said through my teeth, ‘just let me know.’
‘And that,’ he said wearily, ‘is the kind of wisecrack that makes you a pain in the arse.’ He nodded to someone out of my sight behind me, presumably Twinkletoes. Another train hit me in the soft part of my back. It was Twinkletoes.
‘I’ve given you a lot of work over the years, Lennox. I know that you think you’re too good to work for me or Cohen or Murphy any more, but this shitty little business you run … it wouldn’t have got off the ground without us. And I’ve always treated you fair, haven’t I?’
‘Generally speaking yes,’ I said, trying to focus on his face and ease the pain in my arms. ‘But I have to say that this current little tete-a-tete is stretching both our working relationship and my arms from their sockets. So why don’t we cut to the chase?’
‘Fair enough,’ said Sneddon. ‘You know why you’re here?’
‘I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this Strachan thing, is all. And I know you have more to do with it than you’ve admitted. I know who you are. I mean, I know who you were…’
Sneddon looked past me again and jerked his head towards the door. ‘Go wait outside with Singer, Twinkle.’
‘Okey-dokey,’ said Twinkle behind me, somewhat mournfully. ‘Sorry, Mr Lennox …’
‘It’s okay, Twinkle,’ I said, still taking short breaths. ‘I know it’s just business.’
‘Okay… enlighten me,’ said Sneddon, after we were on our own.
‘I can’t prove any of this … and you’ve got to understand that I don’t want to prove any of this. All I want is to know who’s been trying to kill me and why.’
‘Go on …’
I groaned a little first. My shoulder sockets hurt like hell and I still felt sick from Twinkletoes’ punches. His half-heart-edness about beating me up hadn’t been transmitted to his fists.
‘Let’s go back to the Empire Exhibition robbery in Nineteen thirty-eight,’ I said. ‘It was the biggest raid in Glasgow history. One of three robberies, all record breakers. I am now one hundred per cent certain that it was Gentleman Joe who pulled them all off. Gentleman Joe and his band of anonymous merry men. But that copper got killed and everything went to hell. Four of the gang get the wind up, but Strachan and his apprentice, the so-called “Lad” keep running everything by the book. From what I’ve been able to find out, it was the Lad who did most of Strachan’s enforcing but, like the rest of the gang, his identity was kept well hidden from everyone.’
‘Get to the point, Lennox.’
‘Let’s say Strachan was the shooter. Killing that copper put a rope around everyone’s neck. So there was an argument. Before he died, Stewart Provan told me that the gang split up after the raid and arranged to meet up a week later at the Bennie Railplane hangar. The three reckon they’re going to be double-crossed by Strachan and the Lad, so they do a bit of double-crossing themselves. Emotions are running high because of the murder and shots are fired. Strachan or one of his crew ended up dead. My money has always been on Strachan, because the bones they dredged up fit with a taller man. So he takes the deep, dark sleep at the bottom of the Clyde and no one gets to know where the money is. Except that doesn’t make sense, because Strachan’s wife and twin daughters get a grand apiece, every year on the anniversary of the Empire Exhibition robbery. So my guess is someone did get to the money. The whole pot. And kept it stashed nice and safe over the war years.’
‘And who do you think that someone was? From what you’re saying, it sounds like I was right and Gentleman Joe survived,’ said Sneddon.
‘Not necessarily. There was a member of the Empire Exhibition team who was even more of a ruthless son of a bitch than Strachan. The one they called the Lad. He sits tight. Maybe does his war service, while all the time he knows that when demobilization comes he’ll be sitting on a gold mine. Enough money to … well, what could he do with money like that? He could set himself up in some far-flung part of the world, but keep looking over his shoulder, or he could build a power base that would make him the one to be feared. The one whom others look over their shoulders for. So that’s what he does. He becomes the richest, most powerful organized crime boss in Glasgow. You’re the King of Kings, after all, aren’t you, Mr Sneddon? You had the viciousness and the ambition all along, but now you had the working capital. It was you: you were the Lad. And you know all about the money the twins get every year because you send it, don’t you?’
I grinned. I was a smart guy. I had it all figured out and I had to go and prove I had it all figured out. I was so smart that I’d talked my way into an early grave. Sneddon didn’t call for Twinkletoes. He would do this himself. No one could know what I knew.
‘And what makes you so sure of that?’ he asked in a quiet, calm voice.
‘I came to you to ask where I could find Billy Dunbar, and during our talk, I tell you that I’m looking into Joe Strachan’s disappearance. The next day, I’m jumped in a foggy alley by someone who tells me to drop the whole thing. The only people I suspect of having dropped me in it are the police: I never, for a second, think that it might have been you. Then I see Billy Dunbar who spins me an elaborate line of bull that just might be true. But he lets it slip that you put him onto the gamekeeper’s job because you knew about the vacancy. You knew about it because you created it when that gamekeeper stumbled on you, Strachan and the others practising for the Exhibition job.’