‘What about the movement of the stuff itself. Have you spoken to the port authority? There’s a chance you’d be able to track any iffy shipments. I have a contact…’
Devereaux held his hand up. ‘You’ve got this all wrong. This isn’t illegal gun shipments…’ He shot me a meaningful look: he really did know more than Jock Ferguson about what had happened last year. ‘What you’ve got to remember about this stuff is that you don’t need a freighter to bring it over. It’s small and it can be hidden anywhere and in anything. A suitcase of this stuff in its pure form would be worth a hundred thousand dollars.’
I thought about what he was saying for a moment. ‘Does the City of Glasgow Police know any of this?’
‘Some. They’re not that interested in the heroin. They’re just very keen to be seen to help Uncle Sam.’ Devereaux smiled wryly. ‘We just saved the world, you know.’
‘That you did,’ I said, leaving the bitter Scottish beer and sipping at the whisky chaser. ‘That you did…’ I looked at my watch and suddenly had an idea. ‘Do you have your FBI badge with you?’
‘Sure…’ Devereaux frowned. ‘I have it with me all the time. Why?’
‘Because you could make someone’s day for me.’
I gave Devereaux the lowdown on the way up to Blanefield. I told him about what had been happening with Kirkcaldy and the forthcoming fight with the German title holder. All of which was just background for why I had really brought him up there.
‘I really appreciate you doing this, Dex,’ I said, as we pulled up behind the bottle-green Rover. Sneddon was allowing it to be used as an almost permanent observation post. Davey Wallace took the early evenings, Twinkletoes until one in the morning, then Sneddon would provide another thug to watch the place until daybreak. Davey still approached his duties with fierce dedication, taking notes of absolutely anything and everything that happened. He had looked more than a little intimidated by Twinkletoes at their first meeting. However, Twinkletoes had been positively avuncular with Davey. Which had been even more scary.
I tapped on the window of the Rover and Davey swung open the door and stepped out. I half expected him to stand to attention.
‘How’s it going, Davey?’ I asked.
‘Fine, Mr Lennox, just fine,’ he said. He cast a glance across to Devereaux who stood beside me. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s really nothing to report. I’ve not taken my eyes off the place though. You can trust me on that, Mr Lennox.’
‘I know that, Davey. I’ve brought someone up to meet you. I’ve been telling Dex here about how you work for me part-time and what a great job you’ve been doing.’
‘Dex Devereaux…’ The American said earnestly, almost sternly, and before he shook Davey’s hand he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a leather wallet. He flipped it open and gold flashed in the evening light. ‘Special Agent Dex Devereaux, FBI.’
It took all of my willpower, but somehow I suppressed a smirk at Davey’s reaction. He stared at Devereaux’s FBI shield, eyes wide, open-mouthed, mesmerized. It seemed to take an eternity before he looked past the badge to Devereaux’s face. Devereaux pocketed the shield and shook Davey’s hand.
‘Mr Lennox has told me you’re doing a darned fine job for him here. Darned fine. It’s always good to meet a fellow investigator. Keep up the good work, Davey.’
‘Dex is over here carrying out an investigation for the FBI. But that’s strictly between us, Davey,’ I said as gravely as I could manage.
‘Oh, yes… I wouldn’t say a thing, Mr Devereaux…’ Davey spoke like a child giving his very best promise. It was the child-likeness of it that troubled me. He was only a kid. I was pretty sure I had placed him in no danger, but I couldn’t be absolutely sure. ‘You can trust me not to say anything,’ he said with the same boyish earnestness.
‘I know I can,’ said Devereaux. ‘We are colleagues, after all.’
‘I’m sure you have a lot of questions for Dex,’ I said, offering them both a cigarette before lighting one for myself. ‘Is Bobby Kirkcaldy in?’
‘Yes sir,’ said Davey. ‘He came back with his uncle from the gym about an hour and a half ago.’
‘Why don’t you two have a chat while I go and see if there’s anything else to report.’
As I left them chatting, I saw Devereaux take his shield out again and hand it to Davey. At the same time I liked Devereaux and resented him. He reminded me of some of the men I’d met in the war. Men who saw all kinds of shit yet somehow managed to keep their humanity and sense of honour intact. There hadn’t been many of them. And I hadn’t been one.
The door was answered again by Uncle Bert Soutar. He was his usual charming self and, after I said I wanted a word with Kirkcaldy, he turned his back on me and walked along the terracotta-tiled hallway.
Bobby Kirkcaldy wasn’t in the lounge this time. Soutar led me further along the hall until there was no hall to lead me along. He opened the door and a few steps took us down into what must have originally been intended as a built-in double garage and workshop. Instead it had been converted into a gymnasium: three benches; a rack of weights and some free dumbbells in one corner of the concrete floor; a couple of heavy punch bags hung like giant pendulous sausages from robust ceiling chains, and a speed ball on a wall bracket. Bobby Kirkcaldy was in the centre of the gym, dressed in what looked like longjohns with boxing trunks over them. The air was filled with the sound of it being sliced repeatedly by Kirkcaldy’s skipping rope. His feet made only the smallest of movements but looked as if they were not actually in contact with the ground at any time. He ignored me as I came down the steps, finishing his set before wiping his face with the towel he had wrapped around his neck.
‘Well?’ he asked unceremoniously, breathing hard. I was surprised at how out of breath he was: I’d seen him go the distance in the ring without breaking much of a sweat. I would have been surprised if he had neglected his fitness this close to a fight.
‘I just wanted to check that everything’s okay. As you know we’ve got someone watching the house most of-’
‘The kid?’ It was Soutar who interrupted me. Maybe that was how his face got the way it was — interrupting people. ‘What the fuck is he going to do if someone starts any shite? He looks about twelve.’
‘Oh no,’ I said in an offended tone. ‘I don’t hire anyone under thirteen unless it’s for chimney sweeping.’
Uncle Bert took a step closer to me.
‘Bert…’ said Kirkcaldy in a low tone, causing Soutar to check himself and allowing me once more to consider the ignominy of being beaten up by a pensioner. Kirkcaldy turned to me. ‘You can call him off. Nothing’s happened for weeks and I’m getting pissed off being under surveillance. If I needed that I’d’ve gone to the police.’
‘Listen, Mr Kirkcaldy, I’m just doing my job. Mr Sneddon has an interest in you and I’m just protecting that interest. If you say there’s been no more trouble, then fine… I’ll report back to Sneddon and take instructions from him. In the meantime, it’s a free country and if Mr Sneddon wants to park his car outside on the street and have someone look after it, then there’s nothing anybody can do.’
‘You done?’ There was no aggression in Kirkcaldy’s voice. He was cool. Always. That was what made him deadly in the ring.
‘Not quite. This is all very strange, if you don’t mind me saying so. You’ve been getting warnings and threats and you don’t tell anyone about it until your manager just happens along at the wrong time and sees it for himself. And since I first got involved in this, you’ve gone out of your way to make out that there’s nothing going on.’