Quintin Jardine - Screen Savers

Finding Myrtle Higgins wasn’t as easy as we had assumed it would be. We went out that evening to the address which The Gantry Group had on file, only to be told by a student who answered the door that she had given up her room six months before, to move in with her boyfriend.

‘Do you have her new address?’ Prim asked.

‘Somewhere up in Broomhill,’ the girl answered. ‘She shouldn’t be too hard to find.’

‘Not much,’ I thought. Broomhill was like a rabbit warren; and that wasn’t counting all the people who claim to have a Broomhill address, because they don’t like to admit that they live in Partick. . the opposite of Partick Thistle Football Club, which doesn’t like to admit that its home ground is really in Maryhill.

There was nothing for it but to check next day with the company to which Susie Gantry had written a reference for her former employee. . generously, we thought, given the reason for her leaving. Sure enough, Myrtle Higgins worked there, as the Finance Director’s secretary, her old job with the group: only now she was Mrs Myrtle Campbell.

She wasn’t going to take my call at first, until I told the switchboard that it was to her advantage if she did so. She came on the line all bright and breezy, as if she had won the lottery. I could have told her, that’s not how you react; in the moment of realisation you go rigid with shock.

‘Yes,’ she chirped brightly. ‘How can you help me?’

‘By keeping you out of trouble, perhaps.’ Her tone changed in an instant, to terse and hostile.

‘What is this?’

‘My name’s Oz Blackstone. I’m a private investigator; I need to talk to you about a problem that’s arisen at the Gantry Group.’

‘Nothing to do wi’ me, pal,’ she said. ‘I left there a while back.’

‘Yes, Mrs Campbell, and I know why. Listen, I’m not saying this has anything to do with you, but I need to talk to you all the same. It’s important.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Not just yet,’ I shot back, quickly, before she could hang up. ‘Susie Gantry was okay with you, wasn’t she?’

‘What? Like giving me my cards, d’yae mean?’

‘Like giving you a reference for your new job, when she could have had you bombed out with a word. Now you can return the favour: Susie could be in trouble.’

‘We’re all in trouble, pal, one way or another. I want no more to do wi’ the Gantrys, an’ Ah certainly don’t want you turning up here.’

‘Myrtle,’ I assured her, ‘if I was going to do that I’d be there already. I’d sooner to see you at home, tonight.’

‘Listen, whatever your name is. You don’t know where Ah live, as far as I can tell, but if you do happen to turn up at my door, my husband Malkie will gie you a doin’. He does martial arts, and stuff.’

All of a sudden, I was glad that Prim could only hear my side of the conversation: one phone call into our investigation, and I was being threatened with a kicking. ‘Is that so?’ I said, conversationally. ‘Origami’s my speciality, actually. What’s the address again?’

‘Fuck off.’ This time she did hang up.

A quick call to a pal at the Registrar’s office and a promise of a beer secured me the details of the marriage, four months earlier, of Malcolm Campbell, bachelor, and Myrtle Higgins, spinster, both of an address just off Crow Road. A second, to Mike Dylan, produced the information that Mr Campbell had four convictions for assault, the last of which had earned him six months inside.

A third call fixed me up with a very special insurance policy.

Crow Road is one of the nicer parts of the western side of Glasgow. It runs from Anniesland Cross, past the High School, through Jordanhill into Broomhill, and down to Dumbarton Road. You wouldn’t call it posh at any point, nearly all of it is very neat and well-looked after.

Malcolm and Myrtle Campbell lived on the second floor of a big red sandstone tenement in a street just off Broomhill Cross. I had heard of a ‘wally close’ — or half-tiled common entrance, to non-Glaswegians — but in all my time in the city I had never been in one, until then.

Even in mid-evening, the stairway was bright and airy, lit from above by a cupola. As I climbed I guessed that Mr Campbell’s time inside hadn’t affected his earning power; the building looked moderately expensive.

I turned on to the second floor landing and found the Campbell flat immediately on the right. The front door was freshly painted, in royal blue; that tells you a lot in Glasgow. I took a deep breath and pressed the button which was set in the upper panel, looking like a penalty spot. After a few seconds, it opened, wide enough for me to see a short, slim, blonde girl in denims and an Oasis T-shirt.

‘Mrs Campbell,’ I began as brightly as I could, ‘I’m Oz Blackstone. I-’ She slammed the Rangers colours in my face. I sighed, and rang the bell again, taking half a step back. I began to count.

I had reached nine, when the door swung open again, suddenly and violently, framing a stocky, powerfully built man, dark-chinned, with a scar running across the bridge of his nose. He looked to be in his mid-thirties; he was balding and what was left of his hair was cropped very short. He wore jeans, like his wife, and an orange vest, showing off his collection of tattoos and his heavy shoulders. The instant I saw him, he reminded me of someone, someone nameless but nasty. Even if I hadn’t known about Malcolm Campbell’s record, I’d have treated him very carefully, just on general appearance.

His mouth was narrow and his tight lips barely moved when he spoke. ‘You don’t take a telling, pal, do you. I’ll give yis one last chance. Get down those effin’ stairs, or yis’ll crawl down them.’

I smiled at him, knowing something that he didn’t: that I was going to enjoy the next few seconds. ‘Mr Campbell,’ I said, evenly. ‘All I want is to talk to your wife.’

‘Well, she disnae want tae talk to you.’

‘She will, though.’ I held up my right thumb. ‘See that?’ I asked him, still grinning. ‘You’ve got no idea what I can do with that.’

He smiled back at me. His smile was even less pleasant than his threatening expression. ‘Show us, then.’ He clenched and unclenched his fists, rippling the muscles of his shoulders as he spoke, anticipating pleasure.

‘You asked for it.’ I raised my thumb again, jerked it towards me, once.

All of a sudden the landing seemed much smaller, and darker, as a huge shadow moved up from the staircase, and round the corner, to block out the light.

I remember the first time I saw Jerry Gradi in the flesh. Six feet, eight — tall, wide and deep. Three hundred and eighty pounds, all of them hard as nails. Dyed blond hair cropped short. Nose flattened into his head. Small piggy eyes. Pink ears which looked handmade. I’ll never forget that first flash of instant terror.

‘This is my pal, Jerry’ I said. ‘Jerry, this is Mr Campbell. He isn’t being very co-operative. He was going to give me a doing.’

‘Oh,’ grunted The Behemoth.

Malcolm Campbell’s mean mouth hung open as he gazed up at the GWA World Heavyweight Champion. For the first time, I was aware of Myrtle, standing behind him. ‘I’ll get the polis,’ he croaked.

‘How many you gonna get, and how fast you gonna get dem here?’ asked Jerry, in his wrestler voice.

‘I don’t think you’ve got many friends down the nick, Malcolm,’ I said. ‘Now let’s get reasonable, while you’ve still got a friend in me.’

I looked over his shoulder at his wife. ‘Come on, Mrs Campbell. A few questions, that’s all; there’ll be no comeback for you, I promise.’