Craig Russell - Lennox

‘What the hell has happened?’

‘I don’t fucking know. Just get Meldrum as fast as you can.’

‘Okay, if it’s as big as it seems to be, then they won’t let you near Meldrum.’

‘Just do it.’ He hung up.

I knew of Greasy George Meldrum. I reckoned there was a picture of him on every dartboard in every police canteen in Glasgow. He was known as Greasy George for two reasons: his overly groomed appearance, over-elaborate vocabulary and oiled hair, and the fact that everything he touched seemed to become slippery. Just as the police had a solid case against one of the Three Kings, it would slip from their grasp, thanks to Greasy George.

I got Meldrum’s home number from the book and dialled it. No answer. I got dressed quickly, unsuccessfully tried to reach him again by ’phone, and jumped into the Atlantic. I decided it was pointless driving up to his Milngavie home and instead decided to head into my office and wait until nearer nine, when I’d probably catch Meldrum at his offices in Wellington Street.

I listened to the Home Service on the car radio on the way in to my office. One story dominated the news. I pulled quickly over to the kerb and listened intently to the whole report. I muttered fuck as all of the pieces suddenly fell into place. Unfortunately the pieces falling into place meant that all hell was breaking loose. I now understood why the Three Kings had been pulled in. I went straight to Meldrum’s office and sat outside until his staff started to arrive. I followed them in.

A pretty receptionist greeted me a little disdainfully, obviously annoyed at someone turning up before she could settle into her day. She was also seriously unimpressed that I didn’t have an appointment. It was only after I told her I was representing the interests of Mr William Sneddon — and probably those of Mr Michael Murphy and Mr Jonathan Cohen — that she suddenly became very much more accommodating.

I sat for an hour waiting in the reception area trying to work out just how accommodating the receptionist might become. Eventually Greasy George arrived. He was tallish, well-built and balding and wore an expensively tailored blue-pinstripe business suit. I intercepted him as he passed through reception.

‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr Lennox,’ he said amiably. ‘But our paths have never crossed. Some of our mutual clients speak very highly of you. Please…’ he held the door open to his office.

‘I tried to get you at home,’ I said, sitting down.

‘I’m afraid I was staying overnight at a friend’s house.’ He still smiled. It was the type of smile you wanted, for no good reason, to punch. ‘My good lady wife and children are away for a few days, so I took the opportunity to visit my friend.’

‘I understand,’ I said. We both knew I did. ‘Have you heard the news?’

‘What news would that be, Mr Lennox?’

‘The armed robbery. It was the main story this morning. I’ve no doubt it will hit later editions of the papers. There was an army convoy on its way from the Royal Ordnance Arsenal at Fazakerly in Liverpool to Redford and Dreghorn Barracks. It was stopped by police officers at a checkpoint. Except they weren’t police officers. It was a highly organized job, but something seems to have gone disastrously wrong. The result is two dead soldiers, a driver badly beaten and in a coma, and a ton of the latest sub-machine guns gone.’

‘I see…’ The smile faded. ‘I’m guessing that this has something to do with those stolen uniforms.’

‘You know about the uniforms?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I do. Messrs Sneddon, Murphy and Cohen have been receiving the attentions of our constabulary a little too persistently over the last while.’

‘Well, that’s why I’m here. Sneddon ’phoned me this morning. The CID have taken them all in for questioning. Sneddon needs you to head over to St Andrew’s Street with a get-out-of-jail-free card.’

‘I’m afraid it will be anything but free.’

I smiled. ‘I would think you’d want to get all three out of there as quick as possible. After all, between them, the Three Kings must pay more than your tailor’s bills.’

‘In which case, we’re both in the same position, as far as I can gather.’

‘True,’ I said. ‘So I suggest we both work, each in his own way, to free up our revenue sources.’

We left together, Meldrum pausing to tell his secretary to cancel all his appointments for the day. I wondered how many of his clients were on the ’phone. It was quite an achievement for him to get such a large percentage of his clients off: he had a growing word-of-scum reputation and everybody knew that if Greasy George Meldrum was your lawyer, you were as guilty as sin.

We parted company on the street outside his office. He shook my hand and handed me one of his expensive embossed cards.

‘Thanks,’ I smiled, ‘but I don’t think I’ll be needing your services.’

‘You never know, Mr Lennox. But that’s not why I gave it to you.’ He unlocked the door of his new Bentley R-type and I could have sworn I smelled polished walnut and leather from twenty yards away. ‘It is I who may need your services in the future.’ He got into his Bentley and drove off. I stared at his card. So far I’d been offered informal partnerships with a professional murderer and the most despised figure in the Scottish legal system. Maybe I should change my image.

I pocketed the card. I’d told him I would never need his services. Truth was that if the police made the link between the Parks and Smails murder scenes, then Greasy George could be exactly who I’d need.

The City of Glasgow Police could not be accused of dynamism. It took Greasy George a full forty-eight hours to get first Sneddon, then the other two Kings out of custody. It also took them that length of time to find Ronnie Smails’s body, by which time his cup of tea, and the trail, would be colder than stone cold.

The local newspapers had been a little more lively. Details of the robbery were emerging. It had taken place just north of the border and the trap had been sprung with military precision. There had been three lorries and an army truck escort, because of the nature of the cargo: brand-new Sterling-Patchett L2A1 sub-machine guns, which were being brought in to replace the older Sten guns. There had been an exchange of gunfire, which had left two Tommies dead on the road. One of the drivers was still in a critical condition and had not regained consciousness. The other was providing the police with descriptions of the attack and the attackers. One of the robbers had been wounded by army fire, but had made his escape.

This had been the caper that Tam McGahern had been building up to. And I had a pretty good idea about exactly what was going to happen next.

I had two house calls to make. Both were on the South Side. But first I had to pick up a couple of things from my place. I took my Webley and stashed it under the front passenger seat of the Atlantic. One Saturday night, a couple of months previously, I had gotten into a debate with a thug in Argyle Street. He had tried to compensate for his lack of guts and skill by pulling a knife on me: a beautiful, pearl-handled Italian switchblade. We ended the encounter with me up one pearl-handled switchblade and him down several less-than-pearly teeth. I had hung onto the knife. Now I slipped it into my jacket pocket.

Then I went out to play.

First I travelled along Paisley Road West and into the future. The address I had for Jackie Gillespie was near Bellahouston Park. A reasonably new rented Glasgow Corporation semi-detached, Gillespie’s house looked clean and bright and optimistic. But the real future was looming over it: a spider’s web of scaffolding encased a stepped rank of massive, almost complete apartment blocks. Moss Heights. This was where the Glaswegian of the future would live: free from the tenement, free from overcrowding and disease.