Craig Russell - Lennox

I reckoned the coppers would be coming from the direction of Sauchiehall Street, so I headed the other way. I sprinted to the end of the alley then turned right and tried to walk as normally and inconspicuously as possible. I looked down at myself: I was wearing a dark-brown wool suit with suede Hush Puppies. I like to look smart, even if I’m just meeting with homo Glaswegian pimps. However, my choice of outfit today had been particularly fitting: the suede of my shoes and the easily bruised wool of the suit, added to my grazed knuckles, all spoke very eloquently of a recent and rushed descent down a drainpipe. I examined my sleeve and saw that a strip was missing, presumably snagged on the pipe’s support clamp.

All it would take would be for a patrol car to pass me, the only pedestrian in the area. Then I’d be well and truly shafted. Only the Belgian rabbit-fur felt of my expensive Borsalino fedora seemed to have survived unscathed. I put on the hat and dusted down my suit as much as possible. Casual, Lennox. Stay cool and casual.

But my mind raced. I decided to get into Kelvingrove Park and cut back up north towards Great Western Road. My guess was that they would send out teams of police on foot to search the area. By the time they got organized, I would be out of the park and sufficiently removed from the scene of the crime. But not necessarily in the clear. If it had been hinted to the police that I was a name to be looked at, then they would find my fingerprints all over the basement and upstairs kitchen sash windows as well as half a dozen door handles.

It could, of course, have been purely coincidental that I happened along just after Parks had been helped to go down a collar size; but there is a wonderful word that only the Scots use, mainly in legal contexts: timeous. Timeous means something like ‘within or at the correct time’. My discovery of Parks’s tortured body had been timeous. The arrival of the police had been timeous. All too timeous to be coincidental.

My immediate problem was to get away from the area. But there was no way of knowing just how much of a lead the police had been given.

I was now on Park Quadrant. Park Quadrant delineated the outer ring of the concentric terraced circles of Georgian townhouses. There were houses only on one side of the Quadrant: an arc of Georgian terrace. On the other side of the broad, sweeping street was a railing-edged pavement looking out over Kelvingrove Park. Unfortunately there was a drop on the other side of the railings, which prevented me simply vaulting them and disappearing into the park.

I walked as fast as I could without making myself conspicuous. I had just reached the junction of Park Terrace when a black police Wolseley coasted around the sweep of the Quadrant behind me. I dodged behind the meagre cover of the branches of a tree that overhung the railings from the Park below. I squeezed against the row of railings. Beyond them was the drop down into the park, which spread out dark-green under a granite sky.

It was my only way out. If I hung around any longer the place would be teeming with coppers. But until the police Wolseley had passed, I daren’t make a move.

The Wolseley crept past me. There would have been no way the coppers inside could have missed me if they looked in my direction. But they didn’t. The patrol car drove by, slowly. Just when I thought I was getting lucky, the Wolseley stopped fifty yards further on, on the other side of the street. I prepared to make a run for it.

A tall copper got out of the passenger seat and walked over to the front of the Georgian terrace. He leaned over the railings and looked down and along the basement entries, beneath street level. Again, he didn’t even look in my direction. The patrol car inched slowly along the Quadrant while the constable checked every basement court. I was relieved that they weren’t coming in my direction, but at the same time they were moving so slowly that I couldn’t move on. And that was a problem because very soon there would be more police cars and more flatfoots scouring every nook and cranny.

The copper moved on, still checking basements along the other side of the road. The black police Wolseley prowled beside him at walking pace. I decided to make my move: I climbed swiftly over the railings and eased myself down, my legs dangling above the bushes a dozen or so feet below. Again I spared a thought for my poor ankles, then let go of the railings. I crashed into the undergrowth but not loudly enough for the coppers to hear me. The angry fingers of the bushes scratched at me and I came to a tangled rest. Again no busted ankles, but my back protested with a stab of pain. I struggled through masses of bushes and emerged onto the thankfully empty path. Again I brushed down my suit and bashed the Borsalino back into shape before putting it on my head at an angle that would, hopefully, hide most of my features from passers-by.

I had just finished dusting myself off when I heard voices close by. It would have been perfectly normal to encounter other people in Kelvingrove Park, even on a weekday morning, but an old instinct told me to take cover.

Fortunately the civic authorities had chosen to place a vast commemorative statue directly in front of me. Even more fortunately they hadn’t replaced the railings that would have been melted down during the war to supply munitions factories. I ran around the massive rectangular base of the statue and pressed my back against an elaborate heroic frieze on the entablature: gallant soldiers of the British Empire liberating grateful natives around the world from the burden of self-determination. I looked up at the statue mounted above me. A dyspeptic, geriatric general on horseback looked out across Kelvingrove Park to the university and beyond, probably to the Empire that no one had told him was gone. The head of his steed was turned down towards me disdainfully.

The voices stopped but I heard the sound of boots on gravel. More than one pair. I stayed pressed into the entablature and waited until the footsteps had moved on. When I did look I saw the backs of three coppers. Once they were around the corner I headed off in the opposite direction. I had to get out quickly: it wouldn’t be long before the park was full with even more Highlanders in uniforms, beating bushes with sticks. I never understood why police searches always involved giving the undergrowth a damned good thrashing. Maybe it took them back to their childhoods in Stornoway or Strathpeffer, beating heather, tugging forelocks and dodging shot for the local grouse-shooting toffs.

I half-ran along the path, slowing down at corners in case I encountered anyone else: people remember a running man. And there was no guarantee that the policemen I’d dodged were the only ones in this part of the park.

I reached the north gate of the park and found a policeman on watch at the Eldon Street entrance. I cut through the trees and kept close to the edge of the River Kelvin, eventually passing under the bridge at Gibson Street. I crossed the river at the old Botanic Gardens station bridge. I climbed the railings and dropped down on the other side, attracting the attention of a couple of pedestrians. I pulled my Borsalino down over my eyes and moved swiftly away, up to where Great Western Road crossed the Kelvin Bridge.

I watched my lodgings from across the street: there were no police cars outside and everything seemed normal. Of course that didn’t mean there weren’t half a dozen Hamishes waiting for me when I got in. I crossed swiftly and went straight up to my digs. I stripped off and took a hurried bath. The carbolic stung like hell on the scratches that covered my hands and shins. Scratches that would be pretty good evidence of flight.

I shaved again and put on a fresh shirt, tie and suit. Blue this time. I bundled my other suit in wrapping paper and tied it up with string. My Borsalino could be saved and I hung it up, chose a trilby to match the serge and headed out.