Craig Russell - Lennox

‘Unless the mark did exactly what Tam wanted.’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘And John Andrews was Sally Blane’s mark?’

‘That had been goin’ on since long before I got involved. And I only ever knew Sally as Lillian Andrews. I only found out later that the girl what got killed was her sister and that Lillian’s real name was Sally.’

‘So Margot really is dead?’

‘Aye. And because of what we was doing. Tam did his usual angry boyfriend act in the street outside a club Margot and her mark had been at. Lillian was with them. Tam had the photos and everything. He started to pull the guy out of the car but the mark panicked and drove off with Margot and Lillian still inside. In the car, I mean. Tam chased the mark through the city and out onto Paisley Road West. The mark lost control and smashed into a railway bridge. Him and Margot was killed right off. Lillian was in the back. She was knocked about a bit but all right. Except her nose and jaw got busted up. She thought she was going to lose her looks, but Tam got some specialist to take care of it.’

‘Who told you all of this?’

‘One of the other girls. Wilma.’

‘Wilma Marshall?’

‘Aye. You know her?’

‘We’ve met.’

Liz rubbed her throat and frowned. ‘Can I get a glass of water?’

‘Okay. But I’ll keep you company.’

We went through to the small kitchen and she filled a glass from the tap. I leaned against the door jamb and smiled at her. I was feeling pretty smug. We exchanged a look and in that second she knew that I knew who she really was. The fear was gone from her eyes: it made way for a cold, dark hate.

‘You’ve got a great job, Lennox,’ she said. I grinned more broadly.

‘I don’t recall introducing myself,’ I said.

‘Yeah. A great job. You must spend half your life looking back over your shoulder.’

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I tend to be a forward-thinking type. I fit in with the new age.’

‘Really? Maybe it’s time you started looking over your shoulder.’ She smiled. A smile that made me think oh fuck.

Before I had time to react, something flashed past my eyes as it was looped over my head and around my neck and drawn tight. A thick band that felt like leather. Suddenly breathing became something no longer to be taken for granted and I was pulled back against the body of my attacker. He twisted something at the back of my neck a couple of times and both my head and my chest felt like they were going to explode: one from want of blood, the other from want of air. I was going to get it the same way as Parks and Smails.

I clawed at the strap and then, uselessly, vaguely over my shoulders. The lack of oxygen started a buzz-saw in my head and I started to panic. Something of my wartime training kicked in and instead of struggling I let my legs go from under me and dropped like a stone. I went down so fast that I shifted my attacker’s centre of gravity. He maintained the pressure on the garrotte but had to stand with his legs apart and hold me like a sheep being sheared.

I reached into my jacket pocket and freed the catch on my switchblade. I put all of my strength into a sweeping upwards arc and aimed, blind, for a point about a foot above my head. I guessed that was where his balls would be. I must have been there or thereabouts, because he screamed in agony and the garrotte around my neck loosened. I still had a grip on my knife and I gave it a vicious twist to mash the potatoes. Another scream and I cheered myself with the thought that he wouldn’t be passing his strangulation skills onto the next generation.

I scrambled to my feet and spun around to face him. He was about five-eight and dark-skinned and had a Middle Eastern look to him.

I pulled the knife from his groin, giving it another malicious twist as I did so. He sank to his knees, his hands clutched to his genitals, blood spilling from between the fingers. He was retching in great big spasms. He represented no further threat to me, but the bastard had tried to kill me. And he had killed Parks and Smails.

I took my time and made sure the kick I planted hit him square in the mouth, dislodging teeth. I was back in a place I’d been too many times in the war. I got the old tingle, the slowing down of time, the total absence of any kind of feeling for the man you were killing. And I knew that was what I was going to do. I grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up so that I could get my knife in behind his windpipe before thrusting it forward and out. Then the fucker would know what it was like to fight for breath.

The thing that I hadn’t accounted for was that, in the war, there tends not to be a woman in the room behind you with access to heavy cooking implements. I had forgotten about Liz. Mainly because she hadn’t done the usual hysterical screaming thing in the background. I was just about to finish my Arab chum off when a train ran into the back of my head.

I went down but wasn’t out. She swung some cast iron at me again and caught me on the temple. This time the lights dimmed so I could enjoy the fireworks that sparkled in my head. I was really dazed but still not out and she knew she’d have to get out quick. I heard her pulling her dusky chum to his feet and rushing him out of the apartment. I pulled myself upright, leaning on the kitchen counter. My head hurt like a bastard, I felt a warm trickle of blood down my neck and the world was still a little tilted on its axis. I looked down to where she’d dropped the cast-iron pan. I counted myself lucky that she hadn’t thought to pick up a knife instead. Glaswegians kill each other in the kitchen more than in any other room. Admittedly they usually do it by cooking, but I still considered myself fortunate to get out in one piece.

I soaked a cloth and held it to my head, but still made a stab at catching up with them. There was a smear of blood along the linoleum floor and out onto the common stair. I ran down the steps, my head throbbing with every footfall and out along the close and onto the street. They were gone, as was the Baby Austin.

I half-staggered towards where I had parked the Atlantic and had to stop halfway to vomit. It burned in my crushed throat. There was nobody on the street, but even if there had been, the sight of a Glaswegian hanging onto a lamppost and making a splash on the pavement was not an out-of-the ordinary occurrence. I felt a little better but every pulse still beat a kettle drum in my head. I’d been clobbered twice now and I knew I wasn’t in a good way. Maybe even a fractured skull. I slumped into the driver’s seat and sat for a moment, letting the spinning world catch up with me a little before I drove off.

When this was over, I was going to collect big time from the Three Kings and add it to the little nest-egg I’d built up. Maybe, when this was all over and if I was still alive, I would get that boat back to Canada. You never really know where rock bottom lies. But this sure felt like it.

I ’phoned Sneddon from a ’phone box. He had arranged a meeting for the following evening. I asked if it could be sooner but he said that each of the Kings would have to work out how to give the cops the slip. I told him what had happened in the flat.

‘The guy who tried to throttle me was the one who killed Parks and Smails,’ I said. I told Sneddon what I’d done to the Arab.

‘Good. Sounds like the bastard will bleed to death. But I want to be sure. I’ll see you at Shawfields tomorrow at eight.’

‘Okay,’ I said and hung up. I hadn’t wanted to tell Sneddon I was in bad shape. Religion and half-baked history meant Sneddon and Murphy hated each other’s guts, but they were actually mirror images of each other. Neither was the type you wanted to show weakness to. I redialled.