The Long Glasgow Kiss (6 page)

‘As I was saying, take me … I do know who your father is.’ I dug my thumb hard into Costello’s swollen wrist. He screamed. ‘And I don’t give a crap. D’you think that your pig-arsed Mick father is someone I should be scared of?’

He tried to pull his hand away and I rewarded him with another vicious squeeze. More screaming.

‘Truth is, I work for the Three Kings. You know the Three Kings?’

Costello nodded, staring wildly at the wrist he could not free from my grip.

‘Well, I work for them all, on and off. I do know your father and he’s nothing in the scheme of things. A nobody. If Hammer Murphy decided to squash him he could, as easy as a bug. So you run to Pop with tales and I’ll do the same with Hammer Murphy. We understand each other?’ I punctuated my question with another vicious squeeze of his wrist. His face contorted and when I eased the pressure he nodded violently again.

‘Okay,’ I continued. ‘Now that we understand each other, I think we should have our little chat. Now … why do you have a key to this flat?’

‘Sammy gave me one.’

‘Why?’

‘We’re friends.’

‘What do you mean “friends”? Good-mate friends or knob-jockey friends?’

‘What the fu—’

I interrupted his profanity with a light squeeze.

‘I’m no poof,’ he protested when he got his breath back. ‘Sammy and me are just friends.’

‘Now you’re going to find this a tad difficult to believe,’ I said self-deprecatingly, ‘but I have a lot of friends myself, and none of them have a key to my place. Try again, Mr Costello …
Junior
.’

‘That’s the truth. Sammy lets me crash here every now and again. I work at the club too.’

‘What club? The Poppy Club?’

‘Poppy Club? I’ve never heard of it. I work at the Riviera … my Da’s place. Sammy sings there now and again.’

‘The Riviera?’ My laugh came out a snort. ‘Very glamorous. And on what particular part of the Ligurian coast does your father’s club reside?’

Costello looked at me as if I was talking Japanese. In Glasgow it paid to keep your cultural references simple. ‘Where’s the Riviera Club?’

‘Partick. Near the river,’ he said.

This time my snort came out a full-blown laugh.

Costello looked offended. ‘It’s a classy place.’

‘I’m sure it is. It must be high on every VIP’s itinerary. I would guess you see a lot of Princess Margaret.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Now, now, Junior. Don’t get tetchy or I’ll hold your hand again. Speaking of holding hands, why are you so cosy with Sammy Pollock? I wouldn’t have put you two together.’

‘We’ve got ideas. Business ideas. He’s fed up of just being Sheila Gainsborough’s brother and I’m fed up being thought of as just Jimmy Costello’s son.’

‘Please stop. I’m getting all teary. When did you last see Sammy?’

‘A couple of weeks ago. I was out of town.’

‘Where out of town?’

‘What’s it to you?’

I smiled and squeezed. He winced and glowered.

‘London …’ He strained it through his teeth. ‘I was down in London for a couple of weeks.’

‘So you didn’t know he was missing?’ I let go of his wrist and lit a cigarette.

‘You fucking enjoy this, don’t you?’ He smiled maliciously through his pain. ‘Hurting people. You really do enjoy it, don’t you?’

‘Oh, please don’t generalize …’ I looked offended, then smiled ingratiatingly. ‘I don’t enjoy hurting
people
, I enjoy hurting
you
. Let’s just say it’s our thing. Now …’ I let the smile drop as I leaned forward. ‘Did you know Sammy was missing?’

‘Missing? Is he missing? I know he’s not about. That doesn’t mean he’s missing. I tried to get him on the ’phone a couple of times from London. I just thought I’d missed him, been unlucky. That’s why I came around today.’

‘What kind of business?’ I blew smoke into his face.

‘What?’

‘What kind of business are you and Sammy thinking about getting involved in?’

‘Just … I don’t know … artist management. We were going to represent some of the musicians who work the pubs and clubs. The better musicians. We know a lot of them. So we thought we’d offer management.’

‘Are you sure you’re competing with Bernard Delfont and not ICI?’

‘What?’ Costello gave me an irritated frown.

‘I wondered if you were thinking about getting into the pharmaceutical business.’ I took the metal syringe box from my pocket, opened it and held it out for Costello to see.

‘Is this supposed to mean something to me?’

‘I was just wondering if you and Sammy were thinking about supplying more than career advice to your musician chums.’

‘You’ve lost me, mister …’ If Costello was lying then he was hiding it well. Although most of his expression was tied up with pain. I got the feeling his cheek was now competing with his wrist for his attention.

‘Who’s Largo?’

‘What?’

‘You thought I was a cop, then you thought I’d been sent by someone called Largo.’

‘Largo? Nothing. I mean nobody. Someone I owe some money to. I thought he’d sent you round here to see if I’d show up.’

‘Does Sammy know Largo? Does he owe him money too?’

‘No …’ Costello kept my gaze. He didn’t look like he was lying, but with a slimy piece like him it was difficult to tell.

‘You didn’t answer me. Who is Largo? I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Just a guy.’

‘Just a guy who sends people to collect his debts, apparently.’

‘Listen, Largo’s got nothing to do with Sammy. They don’t know each other.’ He winced and eased his wrist closer to his chest with his other hand.

‘Give me the key,’ I said, pocketing the syringe box again.

‘What?’

‘Give me the key. Sammy Pollock doesn’t own this flat and you sure as hell don’t. So hand it over.’

After he handed me the key with his good hand I hoisted him up and escorted him out of the flat. The heat hit us as soon as we were on the street.

‘You’ve not heard the last of this.’ Costello glowered at me, clutching his injured wrist. I took a step towards him and he scuttled off in the opposite direction.

Sheila Gainsborough was standing by the car, the sun catching the gold in her hair.

‘Well, did you manage to beat the truth out of him?’

‘Listen, Miss Gainsborough, I think we need to understand one another. Young Mr Costello, whose acquaintance we’ve just made, is a less than desirable type. I know his father, or at least know of him. Jimmy Costello is even less desirable. He’s a gangster and a thug. You’ve come to me with a problem: your brother has gone missing and the first thing we find out is that his flat has been turned over by someone. Then Costello junior arrives with a key to the flat you pay for and seems to come and go as he pleases. I’m sorry if my methods seemed a little
direct
but, having made young Mr Costello’s acquaintance, I am now a lot more concerned about your brother’s disappearance than I was an hour ago.’

Sheila Gainsborough did her cute frown again. ‘Did Costello explain what he was doing there and why he had a key?’

‘Well, to start with, he doesn’t have one any more.’ I handed her the key and it was swallowed by the alligator. ‘Costello claims they were friends and potential business partners, but he was pretty vague about what type of business. Representing musicians. Does your brother know anything about working as a talent agent?’

‘Sammy? Not a thing.’

‘I doubt if Costello has taken a course on it either.’ I started the car but paused before moving off. ‘Does the name “Largo” mean anything to you?’

‘What, the place in Fife?’

‘No, this isn’t a place. It’s a person. Costello thought I had been sent by someone called Largo.’

Sheila stared ahead for a moment, thinking. The scent of her hung in the small, humid silence. ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘I don’t know anyone called Largo. And I can’t say I’ve ever heard Sammy mention anyone by that name.’

‘Okay,’ I said, and smiled. ‘I’ll take you back into town. I’d recommend you continue with your plans and travel down to London. I’ll have a sniff around. Is there somewhere I can get in touch?’

Snapping open the alligator, she pulled out a visiting card. ‘This is my agent’s number. His name is Humphrey Whithorn. If you need to get in touch, he can always find me. But what are you going to do? You’ve got nothing to go on.’

‘I’ve got the clubs where he worked. I can start there.’ I took the card. The name Sheila Gainsborough sunk silver grey into thick white vellum. Whithorn’s name was at the bottom right, smaller. Like everything else about her the card shouted quality and money. I tried to imagine the name
Ishbell Pollock
on the card. It didn’t take. ‘In the meantime, it would be good if you could check with your bank to see if Sammy has made any attempts to withdraw more money.’

I drove her back to my office where I asked more questions about Sammy’s lifestyle. After we ran out of straws to clutch at, I promised to do everything I could to find her brother. Stretching out a hand for me to shake, she nodded and stood up. I walked her to the door – not much of a walk in my tiny hot-box office – and promised her that I would keep in touch. Watching her as she made her way back down the stairwell, I noticed how she seemed to glide, rather than walk, her gloved hand hovering above the banister and her high heels light on the stone steps. Sheila Gainsborough had a grace I hadn’t seen in a woman for a long time. It reminded me, for a moment, of someone else and the memory hit me in the gut. Someone else was someone dead.

When Sheila disappeared from view, I turned back into the heat of my office. I sat at my desk for a long time trying to pinpoint the source of the uneasy feeling that was beginning to gnaw at me.

My digs were on Great Western Road. It was a good enough place, the whole upper floor of a typical Glasgow Victorian villa.

It’s not uncommon to come across a place to stay by happen-chance: someone knows someone who knows somebody else who has a room to let. The happenchance that had led to my flat becoming available was a German U-boat fortuitously hitting a Royal Navy Reserve frigate directly midships. The frigate had gone down faster than a Clydebank whore on a payday docker, and took with it a young junior officer called White. No big deal: just one of the millions of brief human candles that had been prematurely snuffed out during the war. This insignificant statistic, however, had been a universe-shattering tragedy for the pretty young wife and two daughters of the junior naval officer. A future that had once shone so brightly now lay rusting at the bottom of the Atlantic with the hulk of the broken frigate.

I had encountered the fractured White family when looking for a place to stay. Mrs White had advertised the place in the
Glasgow Herald
. With only a Navy widow’s pension to survive on, Fiona White had come up with a drastic but practical solution: she had the upstairs of the house converted into a more or less self-contained flat and put it up for rent, with an insistence that the successful tenant be able to display exceptional references. My references had been the most exceptional you could buy from a forger and Mrs White had accepted me. What I couldn’t quite work out was why she had let me stay, given that I had had a couple of late night visits from the local constabulary over the last couple of years. But, there again, the place wasn’t cheap and I was sedulously prompt with the rent each week. The truth was that I could have easily moved on to a better place, but I had become fond of the little White family. Anyone who knew me wouldn’t have been at all surprised that my first thought when I had met the pretty young widow was that maybe I could console her. And she was the type of woman you really wanted to console. But, as time went on, something unpleasantly chivalrous had crept unbidden into my attitude towards her and I felt somewhat protective of the sad little family downstairs.

There was a wall ’phone on the stairs that we both shared and when I got back to my digs I ’phoned Lorna. I had hoped to satisfy her with a call but she was insistent that I come round.

Doing the gentlemanly thing was getting to be a bad habit and I drove across to Pollokshields. When I arrived at the house, I was surprised to find my Hebridean chum back on guard duty at the front door, ‘chust forr the laydees peace hoff mind’ he sang reassuringly to me.

I sat between Lorna and Maggie, the atmosphere so charged that I expected to be struck by lightning at any time. I comforted. I soothed. I made my talk as small as it was possible to make it, avoiding anything that might remind us all that we were just twenty-four hours on from a brutal murder. Maggie made some tea and offered me a cigarette from a hundred-box on the coffee table. I noticed the brand was Four Square, made by Dobie of Paisley.

‘That’s not what you were smoking the other night,’ I said. ‘The fancy cork tips.’

‘Oh those?’ She shrugged. ‘Jimmy got me them. It’s not my usual brand.’

Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out the stub I’d lifted from Sammy Pollock’s hall stand ashtray. I held it out to Maggie so she could see the twin gold bands around the filter. She frowned.

‘That’s them all right. Where d’you get that?’

‘It’s a case I’m working on. Missing person.’

‘Is the missing person French?’

‘Not that I’m aware. Why do you ask that?’

‘Montpellier, that’s the brand. French. Jimmy got half a dozen packets from someone. Probably smuggled. Maybe that’s why you’ve found someone else smoking them. Maybe someone’s smuggled a lorry load in.’

‘Could be.’ I turned to Lorna. ‘Have the police got any news? Have they said anything about the investigation?’

‘Superintendent McNab has been back,’ she said. Her eyelids looked heavy and settled-in grief had dulled her expression. ‘He asked some more questions.’

‘What kind of questions?’

‘Who Dad had seen over the last few weeks. If anything unusual happened.’

I nodded. Willie Sneddon was right to keep his meeting and dealings with Small Change quiet. ‘And did anything unusual happen recently?’

‘No.’ It was Maggie who answered. ‘Not that either of us knew about. But Jimmy played his cards close to his chest. He kept anything to do with business to himself.’ She paused for a moment. ‘There was only one thing … not worth mentioning…’