‘They didn’t want to speak to me?’
‘I told them you spoke only French and that you were going home in a couple of days and that you did not want the complication of pressing charges or having to delay travelling.’
‘And they were satisfied with that?’
‘This is the police we are discussing, my friend. Dealing with a foreign national who is about to head off home is complicated. And if there is one thing I have learned about policemen the world over, it is that they do not like complications. Now, why not tell me what that was really all about. Has it some connection to young Mr Pollock’s disappearance?’
‘Yes. Or at least in a way. Sammy Pollock was hanging around with Paul Costello. He’s the son of Jimmy Costello. Have you heard of Jimmy Costello?’
Barnier gave another Gallic shrug and shook his head.
‘Costello is a crook and a thug. Small-time stuff, but he has a small gang. Our two dancing partners would be paid-up members. Costello also has a waster of a son. It takes something to be such a wash-out that you’re a disappointment to the underworld, but that’s what young Paul is. Anyway, he was hanging around with Sammy Pollock before he went missing. He also had a key for Sammy’s apartment. I took it from him and we had a frank exchange of views. So frank that I think I may have cracked the odd bone.’
‘And Papa Costello is not pleased?’
‘It would appear not. But, to be honest, I don’t think he gives a shit. That outside was him going through the motions. He maybe doesn’t really care about me giving his son a slap, but he has to be seen to take exception. Big people for appearances, our criminal fraternity chums…’
‘Well, I think you may receive a return visit from your friends. Or their colleagues.’ He arched an eyebrow.
‘Maybe I should hang around you. That was pretty fancy foot-work.’
‘ Savate. French Foot Fighting. It is sometimes called the jeu Marseillais because it became very popular in Marseille in the last century. Sailors, you see. The idea is that if you are fighting on a ship at sea, then it is better to have a hand free to hang onto something if the ship is pitching.’
‘Yeah…’ I said. I’d heard of savate, but what I’d seen outside had been something more. ‘But I thought that savate was a type of street fighting. Dockers and sailors. If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t strike me as someone who spent his youth brawling in the backstreets of Marseille.’
‘Do I not?’ Barnier replied. ‘Perhaps not. But if there’s one thing I have learned in life, it’s that people are very seldom who we think they are. Anyway, savate has become a little gentrified over the years. A sport. Alexandre Dumas fils studied it.’ I watched the Frenchman’s cruel, handsome face. The smile he framed with the trimmed moustache and goatee beard had something knowing about it. And something melancholic. He struck me as a weary, sad Satan.
‘Well, whatever its origins,’ I said. ‘I was glad of it. Thanks for your help out there. And with the police.’
Barnier gave a small shrug.
There seemed to be nothing more to say to each other and my feet took me back out onto the street and to my car. This time there were no heavies waiting for me. For the moment. I would have to deal with the Costello situation sooner or later. As I opened the door of the Atlantic, I looked back towards the Merchants’ Carvery. Barnier was at the window of the lounge bar, watching; just as he must have done when he saw Costello’s men jump me.
Barnier bothered me. I had no reason to doubt what he had told me about his relationship, or lack of it, with Sammy Pollock. What was bothering me probably had nothing to do with that at all. It was just that there was something about the Frenchman. Some shadow he dragged around with him. And for a wine merchant, he certainly knew how to handle himself.
I called in at Lorna’s on the way back to my flat. I had hoped that the cold compress had stopped the side of my face swelling up and bruising too much, but it was still tender to the touch and Lorna noticed it as soon as I arrived.
‘What happened?’ she asked as she let me in, but her concern was grief-dulled and she was content with a dismissive shrug and a mumbled ‘It’s nothing…’
We sat in the living room, alone. Maggie MacFarlane was out. Making arrangements, she had told Lorna. I wondered how many of those arrangements would involve the matinee idol I saw pull up the day before.
Lorna looked tired and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. I spoke softly and soothingly and did all of the right things that a sensitive suitor should do. After a while, and when the moment seemed to open up and allow it, I asked her about the visitor in the Lanchester-Daimler. She looked at me blankly for a moment.
‘Tall, dark hair… moustache,’ I prompted.
A look of dull enlightenment crossed her expression. ‘Oh yes… Jack. Jack Collins. He was Dad’s partner. And he’s a family friend.’
‘Partner? I didn’t think that your father had a partner.’
‘Oh, no, not in the bookie business. Jack Collins is involved with boxing. He arranges matches. I think he’s like an agent or promoter for some of the fights. He and my father were putting together some fights. They had set up a company together. Jack and my dad were… close. Jack really is like a member of the family.’
‘They weren’t involved in arranging this Kirkcaldy-Schmidtke fight, were they?’
‘No… nothing as big as that. Why are you asking?’
‘Just curious,’ I said. ‘Why was he round here yesterday?’
‘He’s been helping sort out some of the business stuff.’
‘I see. Helping your stepmother?’
Lorna looked at me puzzled. Then it dawned on her. ‘Oh no. Nothing like that. Trust me, I wouldn’t put it past Maggie. I wouldn’t put anything past Maggie. But I don’t think Jack is in the slightest bit interested. Apparently he has a string of glamorous girlfriends.’ She made an attempt at a mischievous smile, but her sadness washed it away as if it had been drawn in sand. ‘Like I said, Jack and Dad were very close. There’s no way Jack would…’
‘What did he want? Last night, I mean?’
‘Just to see if he could help. And he was looking for some papers that Dad had.’
‘Did he find them?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
I had a drink with Lorna and she clung to me again when I was leaving. I fought down the sense of irritation that seemed to well up inside me. Again Lorna was breaking our contract of being mutually undemanding. I was, I thought to myself, a real piece of work.
When I got back to my apartment, I used the ’phone in the hall to call Sheila Gainsborough at the number she had given me for her agent. The same light, effeminate voice answered. I asked to speak to Miss Gainsborough: there was a sigh and a silence, then she came on the line. I went through the progress I had made, which didn’t take long.
‘Have you heard from Sammy at all?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing.’ The transatlantic voice sounded tired and strained. ‘I was hoping…’
‘I’m still looking, Miss Gainsborough. I spoke to the Frenchman, Barnier. He doesn’t seem to know Sammy that well after all.’
‘Doesn’t he?’ She sounded surprised. But only vaguely. ‘Sammy mentioned him a couple of times. I thought they knew each other.’
‘Oh, he does know Sammy. Just not that well.’
We talked for another few minutes: there was little more she could tell me and there was less I could tell her. I promised to keep her fully informed of progress.
After I hung up I felt something dead and leaden in my chest. Every time I thought about Sammy Pollock, the picture darkened a little.
CHAPTER SIX
When the war ended, Britain had committed itself to a more equitable society. Maybe that was why, when Beveridge and company were planning the Welfare State and a fair deal for all, Willie Sneddon, Jonny Cohen and Hammer Murphy were coming up with the Three King deal. The whole idea had been to divide up Glasgow equally between them. Fair shares.