Craig Russell - Lennox

The next day I went to my local doctor, who removed the stitches from the back of my head. Which was a relief, because they had begun to itch like a son-of-a-bitch. Afterwards I went into my office and it was there that I got the call. It was a young woman. She spoke with an approximation of a middle-class accent, but Glasgow kept reappearing in it, like an unwanted coarse relative trying to squeeze in through the door of a dinner party. She didn’t give her name, even when I asked directly.

‘All you need to know is that I was a close friend of Tam McGahern. I know you’ve been asking questions about him. I have information you need.’

‘Then just tell me.’

‘Not on the ’phone. Meet me down by the river, at the Broomielaw, tonight at ten.’

‘You know something?’ I said. ‘I never understand why people always say that in movies and some mug always goes along with it… “Not on the ’phone. Meet me in person in some secluded and dark place where you can get your head bashed in with a tyre iron.” Now why should I meet you in a quiet, dark place?’

‘Because the people who are mixed up in this are a dangerous bunch. I don’t want to be seen talking to you.’

‘I’ve got a better idea. It’s called hiding in plain sight. I’ll meet you in the main concourse of Central Station. And not ten, nine. I get wrinkles if I stay up late.’

She began to protest but I hung up.

Central Station was just around the corner from my Gordon Street office, but I decided to go back to my digs first and freshen up. I drove back into the city, parked in Argyle Street and walked up to the station to give me a chance to recce everything out properly.

I turned up early. About twenty to nine. I stood under the main station clock, looking up at the information board as if planning my journey. There were still people milling about the station. The Edinburgh train arrived and a wave of travellers pulsed through the cavern of the station building. Then it became quieter again. Ten to nine.

I became aware of a smallish figure next to me. Actually I became aware of the odour before the figure. A man of about fifty. Or twenty. Serious drinking had fudged the issue. The lines on his unwashed face where grime had entrenched itself in the creases looked as if they had been drawn in graphite onto grey skin. He looked up at me and bared the ruins of his teeth.

‘Y’awright, pal?’

‘The best. You?’

‘Oh you know… cannae grumble. Widnae dae much use. Would you have a few pennies to spare?’ The tramp spoke with the kind of gutteral Glasgow patois that had confused the hell out of me when I had first moved to the city. To start with I thought the city had a large indigenous population of Gaelic speakers. It took me weeks to realize it was in fact English.

‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘You’ve lost your train fare home and you would like me to lend you the money, right? And you promise that if I give you my address you’ll send a postal order to me first thing tomorrow?’

‘Naw,’ he grinned wider. I wished that he hadn’t. ‘Naw, I wouldnae say that at all. I’ll tell you exactly what I want the money for. Drink. I could lie, mind. But the truth is I would like you to spare me a few pennies so I can get pished.’

‘I admire your honesty.’

‘Always the best policy, pal. But I’ll tell you this and it’s no lie: whatever you gie me will be carefully invested. Gie me a couple o’ bob, and I can guarantee that of everybody that will ask you for a handoot in the station the night, naebody else will be able to stay drunk for as long as me. Per penny invested, that is.’

‘I also admire your pitch,’ I said.

‘Thanks, pal. I’m a leading expert in the field.’

I laughed and handed him a half crown and he was gone.

The station clock struck nine. I glanced around again. No mysterious blonde femmes fatales. No heavies with hands tucked into their jackets. I waited another ten minutes. Nothing. Five minutes more and I left the station. My date had obviously decided Central Station wasn’t romantic enough. I walked along Gordon Street past a row of smoking taxi drivers and down Hope Street towards Argyle Street, where I had parked the car.

They jumped me while I was unlocking my car door.

There was a large Bedford van parked close behind me, which I thought suspicious because the rest of Argyle Street was practically empty of parked cars. Because it had pricked my attention I had been half-expecting something and heard them running towards me from the tail of the Bedford. Four of them. Two on either side. Big.

The one who came nearest first swung a length of lead pipe at my head. I didn’t have time or room to duck so I jammed forward and into him, weakening the strength of the swing. I brought my knee hard up into his balls. Really hard. And as he doubled over I hooked my fist up and cracked it into his face. I heard him moan and as he went down I grabbed his wrist and snatched the pipe from him. They were all on me now and I swung wildly. I hit two of them. I got one in the face and he screamed as his cheek split open.

I had two temporarily down, one stunned and one uninjured. I couldn’t win this fight, but it wasn’t a fight they were looking for. They were trying to snatch me off the street and they had lost the element of surprise.

Someone kicked me at the top of my thigh, missing the groin they had aimed for. I took three heavy punches to the side of my face but stayed on my feet. I swung the pipe again and made glancing contact with a head. I was tiring. I took another punch and tasted blood. I hit the pavement and the kicks started to rain in. But then stopped.

I heard the Bedford reverse at speed, a grinding of gears and it sped off. I heard the shrill sound of a police whistle and flat feet running towards me. I dragged myself upright and caught sight of the tail of the van as it swung around the corner into West Campbell Street. A young bobby grabbed my arm and steadied me.

‘You all right?’

‘I’m okay.’ I spat a small puddle of viscous crimson onto the pavement. There was a small crowd gathering around me. A green and orange tram had emerged from the black Argyle Street underpass beneath the huge Schweppes sign on Central Station’s flank. As it passed most of the passengers on my side gawped at me.

‘What was all that about?’

‘No idea,’ I said. ‘They jumped me when I was getting into my car. Maybe they wanted to steal it.’

The young copper eyed me sceptically. ‘Who were they?’

‘How the hell should I know? Like I said, I was just getting into the car when they jumped me.’

‘Did you get the number of the van?’

‘No,’ I lied. ‘’Fraid not.’

I have an aversion to police stations. As I walked into the St Andrew’s Street nick I felt the phantom of a farm lad’s fist on my neck. The Station-Sergeant eyed me suspiciously when I asked to speak to Detective-Inspector Ferguson. In my experience, all Station-Sergeants tended to be the same. Most of them were older coppers nearing the end of their careers, or retired to a desk for health reasons. They all wore the same weary ‘seen-it-all’ expression: it seemed to be a prerequisite to getting that little crown above your stripes that you had to be a cynical fucker. I told this particular Happy Harry that I had an appointment.

Jock Ferguson came out five minutes later and led me into his office.

‘I need a favour, Jock. I need to know who the registered owner of this vehicle is.’ I handed him a slip of paper with the number of the Bedford truck on it. I knew I was pushing my luck. Ferguson took the note and looked at it.

‘I hear you were involved in a bit of a public exhibition the other night. I take it this is the truck involved?’