Quintin Jardine - Wearing Purple

For some reason, Susie thought this was maybe the funniest thing she had ever heard. Dylan looked at me as if he wished I was parked on a double yellow line.

‘Are you two doing anything after this?’ his girlfriend asked us.

‘We were going for a pizza, that’s all,’ Jan replied.

‘Come with us, then. It won’t be much of a do. . it’s for the Prime Minister of Estonia. . but it’ll give you a chance to see the City Chambers. If you’re new in Glasgow, I don’t suppose you’ll have been inside yet.’

‘That’s great, Susie,’ said my wife. ‘Are you sure it’s all right?’

‘Course it is, girl, you’re wi’ the Lady Provost. And even if you weren’t, you’d be with Jack Gantry’s daughter.’

‘But are we well enough dressed?’ Jan asked. I was miffed by that. I thought my Marks and Spencer suit was at least as smart as Dylan’s discounted designer.

‘Overdressed if anything.’ Susie smoothed down her close-fitting red dress as she rose. She was trim, although not nearly as well built as Jan. I looked at my wife, in her formal grey suit, and as always, was swept by an urge to take her home and help her out of it. But I could see she was sold on the reception. At least half a dozen lawyers’ heads turned to look at us as we moved towards the door. I knew for certain that none of them were looking at either Dylan or me.

It was cold, dark and drizzly outside, turning colder too, but there are always plenty of taxis cruising around near to Babbity’s. We hailed one, and five minutes later, were decanted onto the pavement in George Square, at the entrance to the City Chambers. We hadn’t even made it to the door, when a dark-suited council officer emerged, to greet Susie effusively. Out there in the rain, he was wearing a tail-coat, a white shirt with a wing collar and a red bow tie, but he still managed to look imposing, a man of authority rather than a lackey. The Lady Provost whispered in his ear as he ushered her inside. The doorkeeper cast a quick look at Jan and me over his shoulder. He nodded, as if with approval, and muttered, ‘Of course, Ms Gantry, no problem.’ I glanced at his tie and wondered if the colour would change to blue with the election of a Conservative administration; then I told myself not to be daft. In Glasgow, there’s more chance of an extra-terrestrial invasion than a Tory Council.

The seat of Glasgow’s local government was built in the Victorian era, as a monument to its affluence and its stature in the Imperial economy. A decade or so back, when stone-cleaning was all the rage, its exterior was given a good scrub. Unfortunately the grim predictions of several architects have been proved to be true, as now the great George Square palace has taken on a faint greenish tinge in the glare of the sun.

It wasn’t evident on that winter’s evening though. Even if it had been, I would barely have noticed, given the opulence inside the place. Glasgow City Chambers is built largely of some sort of marble or polished stone, brownish with yellow seams running through it. The woodwork is all dark; great, varnished panels, probably mahogany. All of it is over a hundred years old, yet it looks pristine. Any modern administration which spent on its accommodation a quarter of the amount which the City Chambers would cost today would be voted out of office at the first opportunity, but the grandees who built it were hugely proud of it, as are thousands of their Glaswegian descendants.

‘Come on and I’ll show you round,’ Susie offered, as our coats were taken by another of the many attendants in the entrance hall. ‘I’ve got a couple of minutes before I’m on duty.’ She rushed us up stairways and through corridors, in and out of empty offices and committee rooms, and finally, into the Council Chamber itself, wood-panelled, brightly lit and worthy of any legislature.

‘Not bad, eh,’ she said proudly.

‘Not bad indeed,’ I agreed. ‘When was the last time there was a close vote in here?’

‘Back when God was a boy. That’s the way it is in Glasgow.’

I knew this too. The ruling Whips kept a grip on their members which was even tighter than their opposite numbers in Westminster.

‘Come on,’ said Susie. ‘Time I was standing beside my old man.’ She led us down a wide stone staircase and along to the Banqueting Hall. The council officer who had welcomed us had moved station, taking up a position in the big double doorway. Behind him, with his back to us, there stood a man in a grey suit with an ornate gold chain around his neck.

‘Hi Dad,’ said Susie, entwining her arm with his as he turned. ‘Told you we’d be on time.’

Lord Provost Jack Gantry smiled at his daughter, with a resigned look on his face. ‘Aye,’ he sighed, ‘but you don’t half cut it fine.’ He looked beyond her, nodding to Dylan. ‘Hello Mike. I hear the case went okay then.’

‘Couldn’t have been better, Mr Gantry. Those six won’t see the countryside again till they’re old men.’

‘Aye, sure.’ His eyes narrowed as he flashed a shrewd look at the policeman. ‘Of course you realise that there were boys out in the housing schemes taking their place before the trial even started. There’s no more abhorrent a vacuum to some than a dried up drugs supply.’

‘We do what we can to keep on top of the problem.’

‘Aye son, but you’re fartin’ against thunder and you know it.

‘The only way you’ll ever put these drugs gangsters out of business is by taking the law out of it. Cigarettes and alcohol are bad for people too, but the government still makes money from them. If people want other forms of narcotics their demand will always create supply. Decriminalise, and at least that supply will be subject to proper market forces; regulation, quality control and competition-based pricing.’

Dylan smiled at him. ‘Is that the Labour Party view, Jack?’

The Lord Provost’s eyes narrowed. ‘Fuck the Labour Party, son,’ he said softly, between clenched teeth. ‘That’s the Jack Gantry view.’

‘Dad!’ Susie tugged her father’s arm.

‘Sorry hen,’ he said, suddenly looking past Dylan, becoming aware of us for the first time.

‘Well! You’re not in the Social Club now.’ She drew him towards us. ‘These are Oz and Jan Blackstone; friends of Mike’s. From Edinburgh originally, but they live in Glasgow now.’

Lord Provost Gantry treated us to one of the most professional smiles I have ever seen. ‘Welcome to our city,’ he said, extending his hand to Jan. ‘Are you registered to vote yet?’

‘We will be come the next election,’ she replied, in a beautifully judged tone, which made it perfectly clear that nothing about us could be taken for granted. As I shook his hand, I looked beyond Jack Gantry’s smile. I thought of the other people I had met that day: Jerry Gradi, Darius Hencke, Liam Matthews. It terms of sheer presence, they all paled beside this man. Behind all that civic bonhomie, the Lord Provost’s eyes were as hard as the stone of which his palace was built.

He was an inch or two shorter than me, but he seemed twice as wide. Even the massive chain of office sat lightly on his shoulders. There was nothing threatening about him, not here, in his Banqueting Hall. But still, I could understand completely how he had come to have the keys of the City in his pocket for so long.

In the doorway, the first of his official guests had begun to appear.

‘I’ll look forward to speaking to you later,’ he said. ‘But we’ve got to go to work now. Mike, you make sure that everyone gets a drink, okay.’

Dylan nodded and led Jan and me off towards one of the white-aproned waitresses who stood around the big room. She took a few steps to meet us, holding out her tray of red and white wine, letting us help ourselves.