I left Twinkletoes sitting in Sneddon’s Rover, watching the Kirkcaldy house, reassured by his promise that he would be most abb-steamy-uzz in performing his sentry duties. I went straight back to my flat. Again, as I closed the common entrance door behind me, I heard the sound of the television in the Whites’ flat being turned off. I headed straight up the stairs to my rooms and set about making myself some real coffee and ham sandwiches with bread that should have been used at least two days before, unless I had intended to use the slices as building materials.
I had just sat down to start eating when I heard the downstairs doorbell ring and Fiona White answer it. There was a brief exchange then the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. It wasn’t that I was inhospitable, but I was not in the habit of receiving callers at the flat. In fact, one of the reasons I had established the Horsehead Bar as my out-of-hours office was because I kept this place pretty much off the radar of everyone I dealt with. So, before I answered the knock on the door, I went to the dresser drawer where I put my sap whenever I hung up my suit jacket and slipped it in my pocket. I opened the door, stepping back as I did so, and found Jock Ferguson framed in the doorway. There was another man behind him. Bigger and heavier. He was stretching a pale grey suit with extremely narrow lapels over huge shoulders and had a straw trilby type thing with a broad blue hatband on his head. He had a big face that was a little too fleshy to be handsome and his skin tone was several summers darker than the locals. The one thing that was missing was a sign around his neck proclaiming God Bless America. Seeing Ferguson at my door and in such strange company took me aback for a moment.
‘Jock? What are you doing here?’
‘Hello, Lennox. Can we come in?’
‘Sorry… sure. Come on in.’
The big American grinned at me as he entered. He took off his pale straw hat and revealed the most amazing haircut I had ever seen. His salt and pepper hair had been crew-cut, clipped almost to the skin around the back and sides but bristled upwards on top. What made it truly amazing was the skill of his barber in making it perfectly, absolutely flat across the top. The picture of a hairdressing engineer, scissors in one hand, spirit-level in the other, leapt to mind.
‘Lennox, this is a colleague of ours from the United States. This is Dexter Devereaux. He’s an investigator, like you.’
‘Call me Dex,’ said the grin beneath the flat-top.
I shook the American’s hand, then turned to Ferguson. ‘You said Mr Devereaux is an investigator like me…’ I asked. ‘Or do you mean an investigator like you?’
‘I’m a private eye. Like yourself…’ Devereaux smiled collegially at me. ‘I’m here on a private investigation. Criminal, but private.’
‘Okay… so what can I do for you?’ I asked. I realized we were all still standing. ‘Sorry… please sit down, Mr Devereaux.’
‘Like I said, call me Dex… Thanks.’ Ferguson and the American sat down on the leather sofa. I took a bottle of Canadian rye and three glasses out of a cupboard.
‘I take it you guys aren’t so on duty that you can’t have a drink?’
‘Speaking personally, I’m never that much on duty,’ said Devereaux. He took the whisky and sipped it. ‘Mmmm, nice…’ he purred approvingly. ‘I thought you guys only ever drink Scotch.’
‘I’m not a Scotch kinda guy,’ I said, and sat in the armchair opposite. Devereaux eyed my apartment, his eyes ranging casually across the furniture, the bottles on the sideboard, the books on the bookshelves. But it was the same apparent casualness of a pro-golfer preparing for a swing.
‘You’ve got a lot of books,’ he said turning back to me. ‘You got any Hemingway?’
‘Nope,’ I said. ‘No Hemingway. Just like I’ve got no blended Scotch. So what is it I can do for you, Mr Devereaux?’
‘Please… Dex. As for what you can do for us… you mentioned John Largo to Detective Ferguson here, I believe.’
‘I asked him if he knew him or anything about him.’
‘And what do you know about John Largo?’ Devereaux turned his eyes from me while he sipped the whisky.
‘All I know about Largo is his first name is John, and I only know that because Jock here inadvertently told me. And now I know that he’s some kind of really big fish, because someone is prepared to fly a twenty-dollar-an-hour private detective across the Atlantic on his account. And that, I’m afraid, is all I know. Other than someone who was a friend of someone who has gone missing knows him. And now he’s gone missing himself.’
‘Paul Costello. I told you about his father,’ Jock Ferguson explained to Devereaux, who nodded almost impatiently, but with his smile still in place. There was something about the exchange that told me all about the hierarchy of this relationship. This may have been Ferguson’s town, but Devereaux was calling all the shots on this case. Whoever Largo was, whatever he was into, it was big.
‘Who’s the friend of Costello who’s gone missing?’ Devereaux asked, and took another sip of whisky. Again, question and action both done with professional casualness.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Mr Devereaux,’ I said, returning his smile. ‘Client confidentiality. My client doesn’t want the police involved.’
‘You’re Canadian?’ asked Devereaux.
‘Yep. New Brunswick. Saint John.’
‘That’s practically Maine. I’m from Vermont.’
‘Really? That’s practically Quebec.’
Devereaux laughed. ‘You’re not wrong there. D’yah know we’ve got the highest percentage of French Americans in the States. Higher even than Louisiana. That’s where my name comes from.’ He laughed. ‘Vermont-French, I mean, not Louisiana.’
‘Yes. I did know that, as a matter of fact. Like you say, New England’s just over the border from Saint John. And New Brunswick is bi-lingual.’
‘Ah, yes…’ Devereaux gave a sigh of exaggerated satisfaction at our exchange. I got the feeling that the hands-across-the-water act was about to come to an abrupt end. ‘You know, Mr Lennox, it really would be a big help to us if you could see your way to telling us who your client is.’
‘Can’t do it, Mr Devereaux. As an enquiry agent yourself, you should know that. But that’s the only thing I can’t do. I’ll help you in any way I can. Who is John Largo?’
Devereaux looked into his glass. Jock Ferguson hadn’t touched his whisky. When Devereaux looked up, he was still smiling, but the thermostat had been turned right down.
‘You can’t expect us to trust you, Mr Lennox, if you don’t trust us. Let’s be honest, I’ve seen Detective Ferguson’s colleagues at work. The police here seem mighty interested in Mr Largo too. If you were taken in for withholding evidence, then it could be a long and painful process.’
‘I don’t give up my clients, Dex. Not for a beating, not for cash, and most definitely not because of threats.’ I stood up. ‘I think you gentlemen should go.’
Devereaux held up appeasing palms. ‘Okay, okay… take it easy, colleague. Truth is, I can’t tell you too much about Largo. But you’re right, he’s a big fish. And he’s here, somewhere in Glasgow. I’ve heard all about your Three Kings… some half-assed Jock Cosa Nostra crap. Let me tell you… sorry, I can’t keep calling you Mr Lennox — what’s your Christian name?’
‘Just call me Lennox. Everybody else does.’
‘Let me tell you, Lennox, John Largo could snuff out all Three Kings in the bat of an eye. The difference between Largo and the Three Kings is the difference between shark and pond scum. The shark doesn’t know or care that the pond scum’s there, but he could destroy its universe with a flick of his tail. From what we know about him, John Largo is a step beyond being a criminal. He practically constitutes a threat to the security of the United States. A particularly dangerous, clever and well-resourced threat.’
‘So what is he doing in Glasgow?’
‘He’s spent the last five years setting up an operation that spans the whole damn world. He’s put together different elements in different countries, like links in a chain, until the chain reaches here.’