Nor Will He Sleep (37 page)

As he found hers.

An uneasy silence fell between them.

How long they would have remained in this mutually dislocated state is a matter of conjecture, but the impasse was broken by the door opening and Alan Grant poking his head inside.

He seemed surprised to find the inspector, but nodded pleasantly enough before addressing himself wholly to the young woman.

‘I was wondering – Jessica – when we might talk with your mother? She is – waiting, I believe.’

‘Not long,’ was the firm response. ‘I will not be long.’

With a rather jerky inclination of acknowledgement, the young man withdrew.

‘He’s awfy polite, Mister Grant.’

This deadpan remark of the inspector’s met its match.

‘It runs in the family.’

James McLevy often said of himself that he was a nosy man, and so it proved.

‘Whit was it – ye were tae talk with your mother concerning?’

Jessica did not blink.

‘Alan has asked me to marry him and I have accepted.’

His face betrayed nothing, but it was as if a mule had kicked him in the guts.

‘That’s nice,’ he said finally.

‘He will make a good husband. And father.’

‘Ye’re thinking ahead then?’

‘Of course,’ she said with an ironic edge. ‘I am a woman.’

‘I remember you told me such. You had just wiped a dod o’ mud from off your neb.’

This remark broke the tension between them, at least on her side, and she laughed.

Jessica moved over to a side cupboard and fished inside a small drawer, while McLevy remained frozen to the spot – the less movement the less agony.

‘I took the liberty of assembling a small token of my gratitude for your . . . understanding in this matter.’

She turned with something concealed in her small fist.

‘If you would be so kind as to extend your hand and close your eyes.’

‘Is it a dead toad?’

‘Do as you are bidden,’ she retorted.

He did so and felt something press into his palm. His skin also registered the warmth of her hand.

‘You are a strange man, James McLevy,’ she murmured softly. ‘I will not forget you.’

For a moment she leant in close and he could smell that strange mixture of wood-smoke and scented soap.

And then she vanished.

When he at last opened his eyes, he stood alone in the middle of the room and in his hand was a small locket.

Silver in colour with her minute likeness inside.

A photograph.

It was in fact not very flattering, posed in some studio, but you could recognise the face right enough.

Especially the eyes.

Roach’s top hat was still sitting on the table, so life goes on, eh?

But Jessica was gone.

Love is cruel – the older you get, the deeper it bites.

The sleek revolver gleamed in the pale lamplight as McLevy sighted down its length and nodded approvingly.

A good piece of business – ye exchange a portrait for a weapon of destruction.

Not Jessica’s photo, however; that was nestling in its locket wrapped in a clean hankie within his inside pocket.

He had left the Drummond house and wandered the streets with a heavy heart, while the rain paid yet another visit in a fine, drenching smirr and his leg began to pain him badly.

In no time his overcoat was as heavy as the aforesaid organ, and it must have been in the spirit of self-preservation that his boots directed him to Albany Street just before utter darkness
closed in.

In his coat outside pocket was a crumpled photograph left behind in the Scarlet Runners’ mad scramble at the Just Land.

Jean Brash had given it him and he knew the provenance.

So he knocked upon the Carstairs family door, was admitted by the maid, met the son, kept the likeness in his pocket, and was conducted to the lion’s den.

Tom Carstairs seemed troubled, his open candid face unable to hide the disquiet.

‘My father is not himself,’ he said softly. ‘I hope that you can help.’

McLevy’s name was announced, Tom opened the door, and in went the inspector.

The room was full of shadows, curtains drawn, only one oil lamp burning to illuminate the burly figure of Major Archibald Carstairs sitting bolt upright in an armchair.

A bottle of whisky and a glass was beside him on the small table, but the bottle seemed hardly touched.

A good sign
, thought McLevy, already wary, for there was a certain edge to the atmosphere.

He also noted the glass case that had contained the army revolver was now empty.

‘Have you come to arrest me, inspector?’

Bleak irony undermined any humour in the tone.

‘No. Not at all.’

McLevy decided to play this hale and hearty, though it was not at all how he felt.

‘The case is closed!’

‘I am glad to hear it. A swift enough conclusion. Not all things can be solved so . . . expeditiously.’

‘No,’ agreed the inspector soberly. ‘Some things linger on – like a fell curse.’

Then he blinked somewhat askew.

‘I cannae see ower well wi’ this bad eye.’

Taking suitable action, he pulled back the curtains to admit the fading light of an Edinburgh dusk.

‘That’s the ticket.’

There was now enough light for Carstairs to see the policeman’s battered countenance, and for McLevy to note the revolver, held in his lap by that broad, military hand.

While the useless arm still hung by the side.

‘Wounded warriors!’ the inspector declared.

‘Yours will heal.’

McLevy scrabbled somewhat comically in his pocket.

‘I have a wee present for you, sir.’

He limped across to hand over the photograph.

‘Abandoned under duress. When your boy was shot in the backside scaling the wall of a bawdy-hoose.’

As Carstairs studied the picture, McLevy circled around so that he was peering nosily over the other’s shoulder.

‘A fine wee family, eh?’

Indeed it was a proud portrait, one of the major’s arms resting protectively round the back of his wife’s chair, the other with hand fixed to the hip, elbow jutting.

Both limbs vibrant.

Ready for battle.

The boy’s eyes were fixed upon his father, one of the hands timidly upon his mother’s shoulder.

‘That laddie. Apple of your eye, eh?’

The major was momentarily annoyed by the familiarity of McLevy’s tone and position, but he was well aware what the real focus of the policeman might be, and just to illustrate this,
brought the revolver in his hand up into the light.

‘Afraid I was going to use this, inspector?’

‘Shoot who ye like – long as it’s not me.’

McLevy walked slowly over to the glass case and laid his hand upon it, as if about to perform a conjuring trick.

Silence fell.

The inspector was fine with that. For a sometime garrulous man, he could pipe down with the best.

The silence lengthened.

At last Archibald Carstairs spoke.

‘I look out on this world. And I see no place for myself. Nothing.’

McLevy nodded, face serious and reflective.

‘There is a darkness in all of us, jist waiting for the chance. I have it also.’

‘But you are a policeman. You have a function.’

‘Not always. Sometimes I’m a man sitting alone in an attic room. No family. No footstep on the stair. Nothing.’

Their eyes met and held – no quarter.

Then McLevy grinned like a wolf and let out a whoop of wild laughter.

‘But I have a dangerous appointment this night and I lack a certain wherewithal.’

‘Such as?’

‘My old redoubtable is at the gunsmith’s. It got battered along wi’ me.’

His eyes were fixed upon the revolver grasped in Carstairs hand.

For a moment the military man hesitated, and then flipped the weapon round so that he had it by the barrel, the butt extended towards the policeman.

‘The safety catch is on.’

‘I noted that.’

‘And it shoots straight,’ said the major.

‘Given the owner – I am not surprised.’

McLevy took a clean handkerchief from his inside pocket and carefully wrapped the gun before sliding it back into place.

The nozzle rested somewhat uneasily on Jessica’s locket, but first things first.

‘The chamber is fully loaded,’ warned Carstairs.

McLevy gestured his thanks, walked to the door and then turned.

‘There’s a boy downstairs needs your help to grow. I envy him the chance and you the privilege.’

Then he threw back his hand in the parody of a salute.

‘I’ll bring your wee pistol back, sir. Safe and sound!’

‘Keep it. Until requested. That is an order.’

For the first time a quirk of humour twisted the lips of the seated man.

McLevy nodded like a new recruit and was out of the door.

Carstairs looked down at the photograph – a moment frozen in time.

Tom was waiting at the bottom of the stairs as the inspector came hirpling down.

‘Your father has something tae show you,’ said he. ‘Now on ye go up!’

As Tom moved past rapidly in response McLevy called after.

‘Oh and by the way, ye might warn him that I intend to pop in frae time tae time – coffee is my predilection.’

‘His also.’

‘Decent quality?’

‘Only the best.’

‘Away ye go then!’

The boy bolted up the stairs and shot through the door.

McLevy squinted cheerfully.

Now and again his miserable existence was justified.

A sound brought him out of these thoughts. Footsteps echoing in the damp night.

He hefted the new revolver and turned to his companion.

‘I hope you’re in fettle,’ he said quietly. ‘For I do believe we have company.’

Gash Mitchell had progressed a tolerable evening. A deal of drink taken in the Foul Anchor, none of it paid for by him, some bought by those wishing to curry favour with a man
of his reputation, some chalked up behind the bar for a reckoning he had no intention of honouring in the foreseeable future.

His three cohorts were, like himself, firm enough on their feet, for to be staggering fou in this grim back area of the harbour where he had his lodgings might invite a gang of nichtwalkers, and
though Gash relished a vicious onset, he liked it to be on his own terms.

He had wondered whether to haul along some tavern whores for amusement, but even the hard-bitten cowclinks of the Foul Anchor seemed reluctant to walk out into the night with him.

Fear in their eyes.

Gash laughed aloud.

That was the best. Fear in another’s eyes. Himself the cause.

Take it to the limit.

He was in the lead and so was first to see the figure up ahead; tall in stature, a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, standing under one of the few working streetlights.

Mulholland.

‘I’m waiting for you, Mitchell!’

The policeman’s voice rang out in the night.

‘Just the two of us. Man to man. I’m prepared to soil my hands with you.’

Gash Mitchell could not believe his luck. Man to man, eh? A lamb tae the slaughter.

‘No holds barred ?’ he jeered back.

‘If that’s how you want it,’ came the resolute response, and Gash near pissed himself with delight.

He spoke aside to his confederates.

‘
Wait for yer chance then kick in till the bones come through. We can leave him by the slaughterhoose.
’

He grinned at that prospect, but then something happened to change the game.

James McLevy had emerged to join his constable, making sure that the revolver hanging loose in his hand caught the light enough to be unmistakable.

‘No holds barred – are ye certain sure?’ he muttered to Mul-holland. ‘He’s a dirty fighter.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ was the proud response.

‘It’s not a matter of fear,’ replied McLevy grumpily. ‘It’s a matter of survival.’

When Mulholland had spoken that very morning about his intention to bring retribution to Mitchell the inspector was by no means knocked down with a feather.

This had been festering like a canker.

Of course he had insisted on being on hand, and the fortunate advent of the revolver was a bonus, but the venture was still fraught with peril.

The constable was accustomed to his hornbeam stick wreaking havoc amongst the Fraternity, but McLevy was a close-quarter man when necessary and knew the dark arts of that species of
encounter.

Somewhere Mulholland still believed in fair play.

A hellish misconception.

‘A wee word, Gash!’ McLevy bellowed. ‘If your snivelling scunnerbags interfere in any way, I’ll shoot them where they stand. You hae my word upon it.’

‘Don’t you worry, McLevy,’ came a cry in response. ‘I willnae need them. Tend tae yer own midden!’

With that contemptuous gibe, Mitchell turned to huddle with his crew.

‘Watch his eyes,’ said McLevy to the set-faced Mulholland. ‘His first move will signal there.’

For the constable it was as if his whole life had led him to this point.

One time, in the hills above the village, a young boy, he had come upon a March Hare. The beast showed no fear, bounded up and looked him in the eyes.

He knew by country lore he should kill it. Knife or gun or in his case a catapult, but he gawped and did nothing.

The hare looked him in the eyes and bounded off.

He felt then the throbbing life in the beast.

A precious gift.

So even when he stood side by side with McLevy and meted out the hammer blows of his hornbeam stick, it was without Satan’s violence driving.

Though, to be sure, those who felt the whacks possibly did not notice the difference.

But he did.

And now he was face to face with dark brutality. The memory of a young girl’s pitiful dead body his own driving force.