Craig Russell: Lennox

That would be the clincher.

‘We can talk upstairs,’ Bobby with the greasy blond hair and the slapped-red face said. ‘In the flat.’

I made the three would-be goons go ahead of me. We went out of the alley, into the street and through a door immediately next to the bar’s main entrance. It opened straight onto a hall so small it only just accommodated the arc of the opening door. A stairway led steeply up to an equally small landing and a door to the left. This was where Tam McGahern had taken it up the ass in the worst way. There were smeary hints of where someone had halfheartedly cleaned up the mess. As we climbed I could hear the noise and smell the smells of the pub. The three Neds were ahead of me and took the opportunity to exchange mumbled words. When we got to the top, Bobby opened the door.

‘This is it.’

‘You girls go first,’ I said.

As I stepped through the door I slammed my elbow into the face of the largest of the three, then swung my sap hard against the temple of the second. The biggest guy recovered enough to take a poke at me. It was a clumsy swing and I dodged it easily, using his momentum to drive him out of the still-open door, slam his face into the wall hard enough to leave a red smear and tip him sideways so that he fell all the way down the stairs. Bobby, the little blond guy, just stared at me. His pal was cupping his nose to try to stem the flow of blood. I swung a kick straight and hard into his groin and he stopped worrying about his nose. When he went down I kicked him in the side of the head and his lights went out. Bobby backed away from me.

‘What the fuck was that for?’ he wailed indignantly, but slipped his hand into the outside pocket of his bum-freezer jacket.

‘That was for whatever it was you were planning in the bar and on the stairs. It’s also to show you that I’m not here to play games.’

I took a step towards him and he pulled a razor from his pocket and slashed at the air in front of himself.

‘Stay back. I’ll fuckin’ cut you.’ His voice was shrill and shaky.

I looked around. There wasn’t much to choose from so I snapped up a wooden chair and swung it full force onto his arm. He dropped the razor and I jabbed the chair at him, hitting him below the eye with the end of one leg. He stumbled back and I threw the chair to one side. I punched him twice on the face where the chair leg had hit him and was already swelling up. He didn’t have the weight to stay on his feet and when he went down I dropped on him, my knee on his sternum, squeezing air from his narrow chest. I snatched up the open razor and held it to the eye that was still open, the blade almost kissing the white. He started to squeal.

‘You ever killed someone, Bobby?’ I hissed at him. ‘I mean really killed someone?’

He shook his head energetically, but in movements small enough that the blade of the razor, gleaming bright and sharp, didn’t cut him.

‘I have,’ I said. ‘Fucking dozens. In the war. Up close too. Like now. You understand?’

He croaked something which I took as agreement.

‘I could do you now, you wee shite. Or I’ll maybe just blind you. Pop your eye. It wouldn’t cost me a thought. You get used to killing, you see. To hurting people. Like a habit.’ I paused. ‘But I’ll tell you something now… I’ll tell you two people I didn’t kill: Tam and Frankie McGahern. And I’m getting really pissed with people saying that I did. You got it?’

‘Got it.’

I kept the blade to his eye for a second to punctuate my point then I stood up and slipped the razor into my pocket.

I took in the flat. We were in the main room which served as a living room and kitchen. The only other room was the bedroom. No bathroom or toilet. I guessed the facilities were out the back and shared with the bar. Romantic.

The greasy windows were half-covered with grime-grey lace. The wooden floor was bare, the furniture old and spartan. A pile of beer crates stood in one corner. When it came to picking a venue for seduction, it was clear Tam McGahern had been no George Sanders.

Bobby made a move to get up from the floor but I pushed him back down with my foot.

‘You’re not going to give me any more trouble, are you, Bobby?’

He shook his head vigorously.

‘Sit down over there.’ I indicated an old and worn club chair. ‘And stay.’

I went over to the door, where Bobby’s colleague was beginning to stir. I hoisted him to his feet, told him to pick up his friend at the bottom of the stairs and to fuck off. He nodded dully and slunk away.

After they had gone I went through to the bedroom. The bed was old and the iron bedhead was rusted, as if it had been reclaimed from a scrapyard, but the linen was reasonably clean. Again the floorboards were bare and tangled balls of dust and grime had gathered in the corners of the room.

Something caught my eye. In one corner a light blue piece of cloth. I picked it up. A woman’s handkerchief. Lace-trimmed but cheap. It was spotted with dark flecks of blood. The flecks were small, some no bigger than pinheads. I dropped the handkerchief: the source of the blood had nothing to do with Tam McGahern’s wounds. Two shotguns at that range was anything but dainty.

I went back into the living room, found the only other chair and placed it in front of Bobby. One eye had completely shut and that side of his face had ballooned into an ugly red swelling. The sleeked-back side panels of hair now hung like broken wings over his ears. He looked like he was about to start crying. I wanted to hit him again. Really wanted. I lit a cigarette instead.

‘Who killed Tam McGahern?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. Honest I don’t. There was nobody here… I mean in the bar or anything, when it happened.’

‘Yes there was. There was the girl.’

‘Except the girl.’

‘What was her name?’

He looked afraid for a moment. He was thinking about lying to me. He decided not to. ‘Wilma. Wilma Marshall.’

‘Is she on the game?’

‘Not really. She worked as a barmaid in one of his other bars. One of his better bars: Wilma had a bit of class about her. Tam was the kind of guy to take whatever it was he wanted.’

‘Where is she now? What’s the name of the bar she works at?’

‘It was the Imperial, but she’s not there now. She only worked there on and off. Since the shooting she’s dropped out of sight.’

‘Who dropped her?’

‘I don’t know.’

I stood up and Bobby held up his hands. ‘Honest… I really don’t know. It wasn’t anybody to do with Tam’s crew. Maybe she decided herself. The only other thing we wondered about was if it was the police. You know… protective custody or something.’

‘Did she say anything to anyone about what happened that night?’

‘Just what you probably already know. She hid through there in the bedroom when she heard the shotguns go off. Afterwards she peeked over the windowsill and saw two guys with smart suits and sawn-offs get into a car. A couple of other folk seen them as well. Same thing… smartly dressed. And really fucking calm. Strolling back to the car like they was in no hurry.’

I gave Bobby a cigarette and lit it for him. His hand shook as he smoked. He didn’t have what it took. Tam and Frankie McGahern had surrounded themselves with nobodies to make them feel bigger in the scheme of things. Some time soon someone a lot meaner than me would come along from one of the Three Kings to vacuum up what was left of the tiny McGahern empire. If Bobby or his pals got in the way, they would be at the bottom of the Clyde within hours.

‘And the police have nothing?’ I asked.

‘Nothing worth anything. Not on Tam, anyway. Word was they thought it was you that done Frankie. Word now is that the coppers are looking for Jimmy Wallace to talk to. They’ve been looking for him since Frankie died.’