‘If you want to stay, then stay,’ she said. ‘But don’t expect me to issue you with a merit badge just because you fulfil your contractual obligations as a tenant.’
She took a sip of the sherry. I could have been imagining it, but I thought I detected something easing in the rigid shoulders.
‘I like it here,’ I said. ‘I told you that. I also like being able to do anything I can for the girls.’ I referred to Fiona White’s daughters.
‘We don’t need charity, Mr Lennox. We don’t need anything from you.’ The thaw had been brief and false. She put the sherry glass down on the table and stood up abruptly. ‘If that’s everything, Mr Lennox, then I’d better get back to the girls.’
‘What is it you resent about me, Mrs White?’ I said. ‘Is it that I’m a Canadian? Is it my line of work? Or is it simply the fact that I’m here?’
That did it. We moved from a chill in the air to a positive Ice Age.
‘And just what is that meant to mean?’
‘I mean that I’m here. That I came back. I survived and your husband didn’t. Sometimes I think you resent me because I represent everyone who did come back from the war.’
She turned and headed for the door. I went over and placed my hand on the door handle. I was going to open the door for her, but she clearly misread my intent and pulled at my hand on the knob. It was a tight grip: warm, slim fingers strong on my wrist. She was close to me now, her body inches from mine. I could smell the sherry on her breath. The scent of lavender on her neck. We both froze for a moment, our eyes locked. She was breathing hard. I wasn’t breathing at all. It was a second that seemed to last forever, then she snatched open the door and stormed down the stairs.
‘Goodnight, Mr Lennox,’ she said, her back to me, her voice unsteady.
‘Mrs White… Fiona…’
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, and without looking round, she slammed the door of her flat behind her.
I went back into my flat and poured myself another whisky. Probably to celebrate my diplomatic skills and to commemorate the last time I had been in a situation so charged with sexual tension. I idly wondered what had happened to Maisie MacKendrie, with whom I’d danced at the Saint John Presbyterian Church Social when we were both fifteen.
But that wasn’t all I reflected on. I sipped at my whisky contemplatively. I had a lot to contemplate.
Dex Devereaux, for example. And how it was mighty big of the City of Glasgow Police to be so cooperative. To the point of subservience.
CHAPTER NINE
Some people relish the unpredictability of life; the never really knowing what’s ahead around the next corner. You wake up in the morning and engage the day, totally and blissfully blind to all of the things that may turn to crap within twenty-four hours. When I woke up, washed and shaved the next morning, I didn’t really get much of a chance to reflect on what was going on that was so big it commanded transatlantic interest. Other developments kind of took over my attention.
I got the news in the same way as any other Glasgow citizen. A headline in the Glasgow Herald.
SUSPECT ARRESTED FOR MURDER OF GLASGOW BOOKMAKER
I had bought a copy on the way into the office and I stopped for a coffee at my usual place on Argyle Street to read it. The article beneath the headline explained that Tommy ‘Gun’ Furie, a small-time boxer, had been arrested for the murder of James MacFarlane, a leading Glasgow turf accountant with suspected links to the Glasgow underworld. Reading on, I discovered that Furie was one of the tinkers camped up at Vinegarhill. I read small-time boxer as bare-knuckle fighter and I thought of the edifying spectacle at Sneddon’s barn hideaway.
Furie, the article said, was an Irish tinker. A pikey, as Sneddon would have described him. Being an Irish gypsy meant that Furie stood a very good chance of getting a fair trial. Much in the same way that I stood a very good chance of Marilyn Monroe throwing over Joe DiMaggio to come to Glasgow and live in squalid sin with me. Glasgow CID had told the reporter that, although Furie was helping them with their enquiries, they would continue to explore all other avenues of investigation. As I read that, the image of Marilyn washing my smalls in a Glasgow tenement steamie leapt to mind.
That seemed to be that.
I wondered how Lorna had reacted to the news — and if the police had had the sense to let her know before she read it in the newspaper. I finished my coffee and walked to my office. Glasgow’s weather had reverted fully to type and a greasy drizzle seeped from the steel-grey sky. When I got into my office, I ’phoned Lorna’s number but it rang out. Putting the receiver down, I decided to call in on her that evening. It had been a few days since I’d seen her, although I’d ’phoned every day. Each call seemed to elicit a cooler and cooler reception. I felt bad that I hadn’t been there more often but everything that had been going on had distracted me. And I still couldn’t give her what she wanted from me.
With the distraction of Small Change’s murder out of the way, I decided to drop the whole thing about what kind of deal he had had going with Bobby Kirkcaldy. The main thing was to find out who was trying to put Kirkcaldy off the fight. I knew it wasn’t anyone in the Schmidtke camp; they weren’t due in the country until the end of the week. Of course that didn’t mean they hadn’t recruited local talent, but somehow it didn’t seem feasible, and my money was on finding out who had a bundle riding on Kirkcaldy losing. I spent the rest of the day going from one bookie shop to the next. A tour of the public toilets of Calcutta would have been more edifying.
Lunchtime found me in the East End and I tried a cafe I hadn’t been to before. It turned out to specialize in viscosity: the bacon, sausage and fried bread I was served with were islands on a lipoid ocean. I decided to spare my bowels the violence and stuck to the coffee. Afterwards, I walked to a telephone kiosk and fed it copper and brass.
I tried Lorna’s number again but it still rang out. There was a telephone directory on the shelf, and I went through it until I found the numbers of the three hotels within walking distance of St. Andrew’s Square and in the kind of price range that the City of Glasgow Police would usually stretch to. Each time I asked to speak to Mr Dexter Devereaux out of Vermont, USA. Three strikes. I tried the Central Hotel and St. Enoch Station Hotel. No American called Devereaux. It turned out that I should have worked alphabetically: I tracked him down to the Alpha Hotel in Buchanan Street. The reception told me that Mr Devereaux was out on business and was not expected back until the evening. I said there was no message and I pushed the silvered buttons on the ’phone to break the connection. I released them and dialled the number I had for Sheila Gainsborough’s Glasgow apartment. Again nothing.
My next call was more successful, if you can call having to talk to Willie Sneddon a success.
‘Have you seen the news?’ I asked.
‘I seen it.’ Sneddon’s voice was flat. Neutral. ‘Fuckin’ pikeys. Can’t turn your back on the bastards for a second.’
‘Tommy Gun Furie… from what the papers said it sounds like he was a bare-knuckle boy. You ever come across him?’
‘Naw. Not that I know of. Maybes. No names no pack drill and shite. I don’t stamp their fucking insurance cards. Anyways, all that shite has got fuck all to do with fuck all. You got anything on Bobby Kirkcaldy?’
I took a moment to absorb the richness of English as it could only be spoken in the Mother Country.
‘No. I’ve spent the day going round bookies trying to find out who’s betting against him.’