Craig Russell - Lennox

‘Rachael’s idea,’ Jonny explained. ‘She nagged me to death to get one. A Ferranti T thirteen-twenty-five. Cost me fifty-eight bloody guineas. They’re going to televise Princess Elizabeth’s coronation. You got one?’

I laughed at his over-estimation of my financial clout. ‘No… it’ll never catch on. I’ll stick with the wireless.’

He invited me to sit. That was the kind of gangster Handsome Jonny Cohen was: he invited you to sit. He was an amenable kind of guy, so long as he wasn’t standing on top of a bank counter with a stocking mask to hide the film-star looks and waving a sawn-off in your face.

‘What can I do for you, Lennox?’

‘I’m looking into the Tam McGahern killing. I wondered if you could help me.’

‘I heard the police had you pegged for doing his brother.’

‘They pegged me wrong. I had a run-in with Frankie the night he was killed. He wanted me to find out who killed Tam. I told him I wasn’t interested.’

‘So why are you doing it now?’

‘I’m contrary. It’s what makes me an interesting and complex person. People in blue uniforms kept telling me I should stay out of it.’

Jonny went over to a trolley that looked like it should have been on a spaceship. He poured us both a Scotch whisky and soda. ‘So who’s paying for your time?’ he asked, as if he didn’t know.

‘Willie Sneddon.’

Jonny smiled wryly. ‘If you’re working for his outfit you’ve just increased their brainpower by a thousand per cent.’

‘I don’t work for anyone’s outfit. You know that, Jonny. But he’s hired me to do what the police can’t or won’t do.’

‘How can I help?’

I ran through most of what I knew about Tam’s killing. I also told him about Wilma Marshall’s disappearance from the sanatorium in Perth and the handsome, cheerful lug who had made himself known to me before spiriting her away. I hadn’t told Sneddon about Wilma’s conviction that the wrong twin had been shot; that meant I had to leave it out of my explanation to Jonny.

He sat for a moment and contemplated his Scotch.

‘Tam McGahern was a bad bastard. We all hurt people in this business, Lennox. But that’s what it is… business. McGahern hurt people, and worse, because he liked it. Really liked it. His brother Frankie was a bampot. Look at him the wrong way and he’d start farting fire. But that’s all he was, a nut-job. That’s why it fits him coming at you that night the way you said. But Tam was more. Tam had something going on up top. Do you know that Tam never did time? Nor did Frankie. Christ knows how many times they were both questioned but neither was ever arrested, or so much as held overnight.’

‘They weren’t in a cerebral kind of business,’ I said. ‘Loan sharking and protection rackets. If they avoided doing time then it was just down to luck.’

Jonny shook his head. ‘Luck had nothing to do with it. You would never have guessed it to look at him, but Tam McGahern was as smart as they come. Tam made it to sergeant in the Desert Rats. Got decorated. Believe it or not there was talk of him being made an officer. Story goes that when he was in the army this head-quack tested Tam’s IQ and it came out astronomical. But the same psychologist kiboshed Tam’s promotion chances by putting on record that he reckoned he was a complete fucking psycho. There again, we all knew that. Tam always enjoyed hurting people that little bit too much and it often got in the way of his judgement. But the truth is he was really sharp and was slowly becoming a bit of a threat. Anyone can be a hoodlum. But some hoodlums graduate out of the streets — instead of just kicking the shite out of everything and hoping it bleeds money, they start to think things through. To plan. To come up with schemes. That’s what was happening with Tam McGahern.’ Jonny drained his Scotch and got up to pour himself another. I shook my head when he nodded towards my glass. He paused thoughtfully before continuing. ‘Did Sneddon tell you that the three of us got together to talk about Tam McGahern?’

‘No. He didn’t,’ I said.

‘I’m not surprised. I don’t want to confuse things, but we did have a sit down to discuss whether we needed to do something about Tam. Something permanent, if you know what I mean. The alternative was to accept that one day Tam might have become powerful enough to constitute a threat to the Kings.’

‘What was decided?’

‘To leave him alone for the meantime. So long as the threat was contained. Tam knew not to step out of line or he’d get squashed.’

‘Maybe one of the other Kings decided to deal with the problem alone.’

‘Well, I didn’t do it. I don’t see Sneddon hiring you to poke about in this if he had arranged it. Even if he contracted a hit from out of town. And Murphy… Hammer Murphy is incapable of doing anything with discretion or subtlety. If he had done either McGahern, we would all know about it.’

I knew what Jonny meant: Hammer Murphy was the King with whom I least liked having dealings. Much of what Jonny said about Tam McGahern could apply to Hammer Murphy. Except the intelligence. Michael Murphy’s nickname suited him; he was the human equivalent of a blunt instrument: dense and it hurt when you collided with him. Jonny was right though. Murphy always made sure he got full credit for all the brutal acts he was behind. And he was behind many. But I was keeping an open mind: whether it had been Tam or Frankie who had got his head pulped in the Rutherglen garage, it did fit with Hammer Murphy’s MO.

‘Anyway,’ Jonny continued, ‘we were all keeping a lid on Tam McGahern’s operation. He didn’t like it, but as long as the three main firms worked together, he couldn’t do anything about it.’

‘I hear Tam had a hanger-on of sorts. A guy called Jimmy Wallace. I don’t think he was involved much on the business end of things but Tam was supposed to have indulged him.’

‘Jimmy Wallace?’ Jonny shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him.’

I sipped my Scotch. It was good Scotch but I would rather have had a rye. I was hearing nothing that I didn’t already know. Jonny seemed to pick up on this.

‘Not much help, huh? Sorry. I would help if I could… even if you are working for the wrong people.’ He paused. ‘There is maybe one thing. Tam McGahern liked his women. This Wilma may have got you nowhere, but McGahern normally liked his girlfriends to be professionals. Experienced, as it were.’

‘I’ve already tried Arthur Parks,’ I said. ‘Nothing.’

‘Arthur Parks is a front man for Sneddon. McGahern would never have gone there. And he was never in one of my places. There was a group of girls working independently somewhere in the West End. What the Yanks would call “call-girls”: everything arranged discreetly for high-paying clients. Classy girls. McGahern provided security for them. He didn’t run them, more that they paid him a cut to supply heavies, et cetera. The rumour was that McGahern was pretty cracked up on one of them. The tart that ran the house.’

I thought about what he was saying. Classy girls. In Glasgow, and talking about women who fucked for cash, it was a relative statement. I thought of Wilma Marshall’s look.

‘You have an address or number?’ I asked.

‘No. Like I said, it was all done very discreetly and we stayed out of it. Hammer Murphy wanted to force protection on them, but he didn’t know where to find them. Added to which, it would have meant a war with McGahern. There were also rumours that these whores were keeping the police sweet. Or that they had high-level contacts. The odd thing is it was almost as if they disappeared from view. Not that they were much in view to start with.’