‘Is there anything else — anybody with a grudge, or some dispute you’ve got going — that might explain this?’
He pursed his lips and thought it over for a moment. ‘No… I can honestly say I can’t imagine anyone doing this for personal reasons.’
‘I see,’ I said. It was interesting that he had to think about it before answering. As if he had never before considered the possibility. We talked for another half hour, during which I noted down each of the things that had happened, the dates, the times. Kirkcaldy gave me the information in a going-through-the-motions manner. I asked if I could see the car that had been splashed with red paint: it had been repainted. The noose had been thrown out as had, obviously, the dead bird.
‘What kind of bird was it?’ I asked.
‘What? I don’t know. A bird. A dove or a pigeon, I think. But I do know it was white. Pure white. So probably a dove.’
‘How did it die?’
‘I don’t fucking know.’ He became agitated and the Motherwell in his voice became more pronounced.
‘What will you do?’ he asked wearily.
‘Well, I’ve nothing to go on. You’ve no idea of who might have a personal grievance against you… There’s not a lot I can do other than watch your back for a while.’
‘I can watch my own back,’ he said and cast a meaningful look at Uncle Bert.
‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep an eye on things. Of course I can’t be here all the time, so if anything happens, you can get me on one of these numbers normally.’ I scribbled down my office and home number, as well as the number for the ’phone behind the bar at the Horsehead.
By the time I left Kirkcaldy’s place, the ship-iron sky had turned even darker and the air even more oppressive. It was damp-hot and I could feel the pressure like a band around my head. I had only been driving for a couple of minutes when the weather broke.
If there’s one thing Glasgow can do well — better than anywhere else I know — then it’s rain. There were a couple of bright, ugly flashes in the sky and the rain hit my windscreen before the deafening thunder rolled over me. It didn’t just rain — it was as if there was a pent-up fury driving the thick, heavy bullets of rain that rattled and drummed furiously on the roof of my car and mocked the best but feeble efforts of my wind-screen wipers. As I approached Blanefield and headed into Bearsden, I had to slow the car to an almost crawl, unable to see more than a few feet in front of me.
I had time on my hands before I met the Frenchman so I drove down to Argyle Street. The torrential rain hadn’t stopped but I was lucky enough to get parked a thirty-second dash away from the corner tearooms. I went in, shook the rain off my hat and moaned to the waiter I handed it to about the sudden change in the weather. There were only a couple of other tables occupied and I sat in gloomy silence. When I’d finished my lamb chop and mashed potatoes I drank a coffee and smoked, gloomily contemplating the rain through the window.
A fool’s errand. No matter how long I thought it over, the Bobby Kirkcaldy job remained a fool’s errand. Willie Sneddon was thrashing about in the dark trying to protect his investment. Other than sit outside Kirkcaldy’s house all night, there was very little I could do. And if it came to a twenty-four-hour surveillance job, then it would cost Sneddon dear. He’d be better getting Twinkletoes McBride to park himself outside. Or Singer. This was a muscle job. I was going to have to tell Sneddon so.
After I’d settled my bill at the cashier’s desk and collected my hat, I went back out into the rain. It had eased considerably, and with its easing it had taken some of the stale heat out of the air. But Glasgow was Glasgow again, dressed in rain and shades of grey.
It took me only a couple of minutes to get to the Merchants’ Carvery in the city’s business district. It meant that I was early and I decided to wait in the car until just before eight. The Merchants’ Carvery was Glasgow’s attempt at class: it sat looking out over a square of park in the middle of a grid of Georgian and Victorian terraces. As the Carvery’s name suggested, the city’s wealthy traders and industrialists had once occupied the surrounding houses; now most had been converted into offices. Sitting parked outside, I made a little wager with myself that I would be able to pick out Barnier when he arrived. As it turned out, the only people I saw going into the restaurant was a middle-aged couple. Both dressed in tweed.
The Merchants’ Carvery was one of those places designed, or more correctly decorated and furnished, to intimidate. A place you were meant to feel out of place. To me, it was overdone; way overdone. The plush red leather of the booths was just that little bit too plush and much too red. If the Carvery had been in Edinburgh, it wouldn’t have been quite so overdone.
I went in and handed my hat over again, this time to an attendant in a white waist-length jacket and pillbox cap. He was, without doubt, the most geriatric bellboy I’d ever seen and I worried that he would buckle under the weight of my fedora. I told him I was there to meet with Mr Barnier and he nodded towards a tall man standing at the bar with his back to me. It was going to take us an age to cross the lounge so I thanked my elderly hop and gave him a two-shilling tip: I reckoned that the weight of half-a-crown would tip him in more ways than intended.
‘Monsieur Barnier?’ I asked the man’s back and he turned to face me. Alain Barnier was not what I had expected. For a start he was tall and light-haired, not quite blond, with greenish eyes. To me he looked more like a Scandinavian or German than a Southern Frenchman. His skin tone wasn’t dark either, although I knew he had lived in Glasgow for at least a couple of years; but there again, no one could be as pale as a Glaswegian. Scots were the whitest people on the planet; and Glaswegians came in pale blue tints, except for those who had been burned scarlet by unaccustomed exposure to the big fiery ball in the sky that had, until a couple of hours ago, made a mysterious appearance that summer. Barnier was a striking man, handsome, with deep creases under his eyes that suggested a lot of smiling, but there was something a little cruel in his features. I estimated his age to be about forty.
Other than his slightly golden skin tone, there were a couple of other things that gave Barnier away as a foreigner. His clothes were expensive but not showy. And not tweed. His suit was extremely well-tailored in a pale grey, lightweight flannel, run through with a faint white pinstripe. It didn’t look like a British cut. Added to that, he was immaculately groomed and wore a neatly trimmed moustache and goatee beard that gave a point to his chin. My first thought was of a Cardin-coutured fourth Musketeer.
‘My name is Lennox, M. Barnier,’ I said in French. ‘We spoke on the telephone this afternoon.’
‘I was waiting for you. Drink?’ He beckoned to the barman with a casual authority that Scots find difficult. ‘Two cognacs,’ he said in English.
‘Please…’ he said, reverting to his native tongue and indicating one of the plush leather booths at the back of the lounge bar. We sat down. ‘You speak French very well, M. Lennox. But, if you don’t mind me saying so, you have a strong accent. And you speak slowly, like a Breton. I take it you’re Canadian?’
‘Yes. New Brunswick. The only officially bi-lingual province in Canada,’ I said, and was surprised at the pride in my voice.
‘But you’re not a Francophone yourself?’
‘That obvious?’
Barnier shrugged and made a face. He was French. I expected it. ‘No… not particularly. But you have a strong accent. I assumed English was your first language.’
‘Where are you from yourself, M. Barnier?’
The drinks arrived. ‘Toulon. Well, Marseille originally, then Toulon.’
I sipped the cognac and felt something warm and golden infuse itself into my chest.
‘Good, no?’ he asked. A smile deepened the creases around the eyes. ‘I supply it. It is one of the best.’