The Long Glasgow Kiss (11 page)

‘I’ve been engaged to look into the disappearance of Sammy Pollock. You may know him as Sammy Gainsborough.’

‘I hardly know him as either. M. Pollock was an acquaintance. Nothing more. My dealings with him were so infrequent that I’m struggling to remember the last time I saw him. Why is it that you are asking me about Pollock?’

‘Can you? Remember, I mean?’

Barnier made a show of running through a mental inventory. He pulled gently at his goatee, smoothing it into an inverted peak.

‘It would have been about two or three weeks ago. A Friday. He was at the Pacific Club at the same time I was. It is a dreadful place … please don’t tell M. Cohen I said so – he is a valued customer after all. But it really is an awful place. I go there because, ironically, M. Cohen does tend to get rather good jazz acts on Fridays. Anyway, I saw young M. Pollock there. He did a turn … sang a few songs to fill in for a no-show act. He was there with a girl, if I remember correctly. But we didn’t speak that night.’

‘And you haven’t seen him since?’

‘Listen, Mr Lennox …’ Barnier reverted to his flawlessly articulated, grammatically perfect English. ‘I really have no idea whether I have seen him since or not. Sammy Pollock is not someone who features in my consciousness much. It may be that I have seen him and not noticed. Now, I repeat my question: Why are you asking me about this young man?’

‘You must excuse me, M. Barnier, but it’s my day for straw clutching. I was told that Sammy Pollock was seen in your company on occasion. The truth is that he really does seem to have gone missing and I’m more than a little concerned for his welfare. So far I’ve not been able to come up with the slightest hint of where he is.’ I looked at the Frenchman’s face. There was nothing to read in his expression. Maybe it was just that my I’m-all-at-sea act didn’t wash. Or maybe he just wasn’t interested.

‘Did you have any business dealings with Pollock?’ I asked.

‘No. None.’

‘The occasions where you saw him … did you know the people he was with?’

‘Again, no. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really don’t think I can help you any further.’ He drained his glass. It was a gesture of punctuation – our conversation had come to a full stop.

‘Thanks for your time, M. Barnier,’ I said in French.

I left Barnier in the Carvery, picked my hat up from the geriatric bellboy and headed out into the street. The rain had stopped but the sky still looked bad-tempered. It wasn’t alone.

It had been a fruitless day and I was too tired to go up to Sneddon’s Bearsden house or even to ring him. Telling Willie Sneddon that you really can’t do his bidding is something done face-to-face and in the right frame of mind. I didn’t get into the car straight away but went to the telephone kiosk on the corner, fed it some copper and called the number Sheila Gainsborough had given me in London. The English accent at the other end told me that he was her agent and she wasn’t there.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘She gave me this as a contact number.’

‘I see. Are you Lennox?’ His voice was a tad too high and slightly effeminate. I gave a small laugh at the thought that I obviously expected theatrical agency to be one of those robustly masculine professions, like steelworking or mining.

‘That’s me,’ I said.

‘Tell me, Lennox … do you have anything to report?’ Oh boy, he was losing my affection big time with that tone.

‘That’s why I’m ’phoning,’ I said.

‘Well?’ he asked. He spoke to me as if I was the hired help; to be fair, I was. But, there again, so was he.

‘Miss Gainsborough told me she could be contacted through this number. I take it you’re Whithorn … Will you be seeing her this evening?’

‘I see Miss Gainsborough almost every evening,’ he said. Proprietorially. ‘She’ll be here in about half an hour.’

‘Tell her Lennox called. And that I will ’phone again this evening. About ten o’clock. If she could make sure she’s available to take the call.’

‘Why don’t you just tell me what you have to report and I’ll pass it on.’

I gave another small laugh. Louder this time, for him to hear. ‘Client confidentiality, friend. I would have thought that would have been a concept you’d be familiar with.’

‘I’m not just Miss Gainsborough’s agent, Mr Lennox. I’m her advisor. Her friend.’

‘I’ll ’phone back at ten.’ I hung up. I decided to make a point of putting a face to the voice that had been at the other end of the line. I had already decided I would dislike Humphrey Whithorn’s face as soon as I saw it.

I walked back to where I had parked. I didn’t pay much attention to the Wolseley parked three cars back from my Atlantic until an unnecessarily large man in a formless raincoat and a too-small trilby planted himself on the pavement, squarely in my path. Another appeared at my side, smaller but still robust, and with the kind of face you would avoid looking at in a bar. Or anywhere else. I felt the second guy’s firm grip on my upper arm, just above the elbow. I could tell right away that these were no policemen. They were somebody’s goons.

‘Okay, Lennox,’ said the raincoat. ‘Mr Costello wants to see you. Now.’

I felt relief. Of sorts. Having to deal with any muscle is tiresome, but normally compliance comes from knowing who’s behind the muscle. Costello didn’t carry that kind of weight and I made a bored, irritated face.

‘Does he now?’ I said. For some reason, the image of Barnier’s homely, insistent little secretary came to my mind and I decided to follow her example. ‘I’m a busy kind of guy. Tell Costello to make an appointment.’

The fingers around my arm tightened and I turned to the second guy and smiled. They were hard men. Men who were in the business of hurting. But Jimmy Costello was not famed as a criminal mastermind and his lack of genius extended to the quality of goon he recruited. They had probably been following me all day and I wouldn’t have spotted them in the rain. There had been a dozen suitable places for them to have made their move on me. This was not one of them. A stupid choice of place to pick me up off the street. We were in the middle of the business district, admittedly at eight forty-five in the evening, but outside a well-respected eatery. And there was a district police station two blocks away. No, this was as dumb a choice as they could have made and the ideal place for me to kick off. But they were too stupid to realize it and the goon with the vice grip on my arm looked as sure of himself as his partner did.

‘Now,’ he said with a vicious-looking grin. ‘Are you going to come quiet or come the cunt?’

There was something I found out about myself during the war. It was something I could have done with not finding out for the rest of my life. Something ugly and dark. I lay awake at nights wondering if the war had created it, or if it had been there all the time and it might never have been awoken if the war hadn’t come along. As I stood there with two violent thugs trying to coerce me into a car, I felt it begin to stir deep inside; and greet me as an old friend.

‘Listen, guys,’ I said in a friendly voice, but quiet. Quiet so they had to strain to hear it. ‘I’m not coming with you. And if you try to make me, someone’s going to get hurt. Tell Costello if he wants to see me, he can pick up the ’phone like everybody else. If he’s peeved because I smacked his kid about, then tell him sorry … but I don’t give a crap.’

‘Whadyou say?’ The big guy in the raincoat frowned and leaned forward, which is what I wanted him to do. I only had one arm free so I swung a kick at the spot on his raincoat where I reckoned he kept the family jewels. My reckoning was dead on and he folded. The guy with my arm yanked me backwards, again what I expected him to do. I went with it. Keeping your distance from your attacker isn’t always the best strategy in a street fight and I rammed into him, bending him backwards onto the bonnet of the Wolseley. I fell on top of him, face-to-face. He got a punch in and jarred my head with it, making black and white sparks dance for a split second across my vision. With my free hand, I had grabbed my hat as it came off from the punch. I pushed it into and over his face, covering his eyes and pulling it away just as my brow slammed into his nose.

I was just mentally complimenting myself on my excellent management of the situation when a mule kicked me to the right of my spine, just above the kidney. I heard two lungfuls of air pulse out of me and I was in that panicked, winded place where filling your body with oxygen fills the universe. The big guy in the raincoat who had kicked me grabbed my arms and pulled me back from his bonnet-sprawled partner. I was still struggling to catch a breath but knew if I didn’t pull myself together I was in for a kicking. Suddenly the big guy let go of me and I leaned forward, my hands resting on my knees, and pulled long deep breaths into my emptied lungs. I turned to see something that didn’t make any sense, then turned my attention back to my bloody-faced chum who was pulling himself up from the bonnet of the Wolseley. I now knew I only need concern myself with him: the thing that hadn’t made sense when I had turned around was seeing Alain Barnier behind me, very efficiently beating the crap out of the rain-coated thug.

But I still had my hands full and kept focussed on my chum who was now pulling himself upright from the bonnet of the Wolseley. I took a step forward, ready to hit him when he came up. He wasn’t as stupid as I had taken him for, because he read my movement and, bracing his elbows on the bonnet, he swung his foot out and up. It was a vicious kick but it missed its target and I was able to grab his ankle. I gave his leg a hard yank and his body slid off the car’s bonnet like a ship being launched from a slipway. He came down onto the pavement hard and there was the sickening sound of his skull against the kerb. He lay still and for a moment I was genuinely worried that I had killed him. He put my mind at rest by giving a low moan.

I heard the commotion continue behind me: Barnier and the other guy. Also shouts coming from the direction of the Carvery. I turned to see what was happening. The big man in the raincoat looked the tougher of the two goons and was certainly the bigger. I reckoned he would be more than a handful for Barnier, but when I turned around I saw that the undersized trilby had been knocked off his head. There was blood coming from a cut on his temple as well as from the mess of his mouth. It was Barnier who fascinated me: he stood back from his opponent; almost calm. I could see his eyes move, constantly checking the big guy’s hands, feet, face, as if reading every intention, anticipating every move. The big guy staggered forward and swung a clumsy, desperate hook at Barnier, who stepped back gracefully as if allowing an elderly lady to pass him on the
boulevard
. It was then I saw how the Frenchman had been doing so much damage to his opponent. He seemed to lean his entire body back and his leg swung round and up, the side of his foot like a scythe through the air. It slammed into the side of the big man’s head. Costello’s goon toppled like a felled tree.

I took a few backward steps until I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Barnier, both of us ready should our playmates get up from the pavement. There was a huddle of people behind us on the steps of the Carvery and in the distance I heard the urgent trilling of a police car’s bells.

‘I ’phoned them,’ Barnier said to me in French and without turning to me. He was a cool one all right. ‘So we better get our story straight.’

The goon whose head I had cracked on the pavement hauled himself upright, leaning on the wing of his car. He looked across at Barnier and me. His eyes were still a little glazed but he was focussed enough to see that we were ready to deal with any more fun and games and clearly decided that the playtime bell had rung. He picked up his pal’s trilby and poked him with his foot, muttering something about the police. The two goons clambered clumsily into the Wolseley and drove off.

‘Who were your chums?’ asked Barnier, again in French.

‘Dissatisfied customers,’ I said.

‘You best come back inside and get cleaned up.’

I nodded and started to follow him into the Carvery, ignoring the arrival of a black police Wolseley 6/80. When we got to the front door, Barnier delivered me into the care of the geriatric bellboy who escorted me down some red carpeted stairs to the gents’ toilets. There was an attendant there who looked shocked, so I guessed that my face must have been a mess. However, when I looked in the mirror above the wash-hand basins, it didn’t look too bad and I asked for a wet towel to hold against my cheek to keep it from swelling up and bruising too much. While I waited for the towel, I washed my hands and face, cupping some cold water and running it over the back of my neck. I had to ease myself up slowly from the basin, pressing a hand gingerly into the small of my back, where the raincoat had kicked me. I was getting too old for this.

I dried myself off, straightened my collar and tie and got my elderly bellhop in the monkey jacket to dust down my jacket before helping me on with it.

‘Perfectly dreadful, sir,’ he said with genuine dismay. ‘Perfectly dreadful that one can’t mind one’s own business without being accosted and robbed in the street.’

I nodded and smiled wearily. That was obviously the story Barnier had given them when he told them to call the cops. I pressed the damp towel to my cheek. The old hop disappeared back up the stairs and came down a minute later with ice wrapped in a napkin. I was impressed he could move so fast. I leaned against the porcelain tiled wall and held the ice to the side of my face. After a few minutes I tipped both the hop and the toilet attendant and headed back up the red-carpeted stairs to the lounge. When I got there, Barnier was at the front door talking to the two police constables. It was the tenor of the place that the uniforms had to stay at the front door, not even being allowed to conduct their interview in a staff room or office. Whatever it was that Barnier had said to them, they were clearly satisfied with it and they headed off back to the car without taking a statement from me. The one thing I noticed about Barnier was that there wasn’t a mark on him and the impeccable grey flannel was still impeccable. He came over to me, slapped me on the shoulder and grinned.