Craig Russell - The Deep Dark Sleep

‘Did he fit Strachan’s description?’

‘The description was slightly different each time, but there were enough similarities. It was by pure chance that it came out: no one thought anything of it because “gentlemen” don’t commit crime. And do you know where Strachan learned his party trick? In the army at the end of the First War.’

‘He saw active service?’ I asked. ‘I was told he volunteered as a fifteen-year-old …’

Ferguson snorted. ‘Joseph Strachan was not the volunteering type. He was too young for most of the war but was called up at the arse end of it all. But the last shot hadn’t been fired, so young Strachan showed real initiative by taking some leave without burdening his superiors with organizing it.’

‘So that was when he deserted?’

‘More than deserted … Strachan had this ability: to mimic voices, accents, mannerisms, that kind of thing.’

‘What’s your point … that Music Hall’s loss was armed robbery’s gain?’

There was a short silence and I could imagine Ferguson making an impatient face: he was not used to being interrupted. ‘Anyway, he could pass himself off as anyone. Any class, any nationality: Scottish, English, Welsh. So when he deserted, he didn’t just take a powder and lie low, like most would. Oh no, young Master Strachan also nicked a couple of subalterns’ uniforms so he could pass himself off as an officer on leave. Fooled everybody. Spent six weeks running up mess and brothel bills.’

‘Six weeks? I’m surprised he lasted that long. Passing yourself off as an officer with a put-on accent is one thing, but it’s not just how you talk, it’s what you’ve got to say about yourself.’

‘Aye … I suppose you’ll know all about that, Lennox.’ Ferguson didn’t attempt to keep the tone of contempt out of his voice. ‘You having been an officer and gone to a fancy school yourself … So what are you saying? That Strachan would be bound to give himself away by using the wrong spoon or holding his bone china the wrong way or some crap like that?’

‘I just don’t see how a thug from the Gorbals could be that convincing as a public school-educated officer.’

‘Well you’re wrong. Like I said, that’s why they called him “Gentleman” Joe: he could turn it on at the drop of the hat. You may just see him as a Gorbals monkey, but he was one smart monkey. He didn’t just put on the accent, he knew the moves. He may have left school at thirteen, but everyone knew he was a clever wee bastard. When he wasn’t shoving a gun in a bank teller’s face, he was shoving his nose into a book. He was obsessed with knowing things. And they say that’s why he got away with the officer act. He knew the right things to say at the right time. The rumour is that he also got to know the mutineer Percy Toplis and that was where he got the impersonating officers idea.’

‘You seem to know a lot about Strachan’s life story, Jock.’

‘He was a bit of a legend with the older boys here. I think there was a fair amount of grudging respect, that kind of shite. But all of that went right down the pan when that constable was gunned down. So yes, it’s not difficult to know a lot about Strachan if you’re a Glasgow copper. Added to which I’ve had my ear bent non-stop by Superintendent McNab about him since those bones were dredged up.’

I thought for a moment about McNab’s personal interest in Strachan. I was going to have to make a real effort to work around him, in much the same way as a pilot fish works around a shark.

‘So if he was a First War deserter, how come he didn’t end up in front of a firing squad?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know too much about that, but I gather that he talked his way out of it. He was good at that, from all accounts. And the odds were in his favour: there were over three thousand sentenced to death, but only three hundred or so faced a firing squad.’

I nodded slowly as I processed the information. The British had been almost as keen on shooting their own as shooting the enemy in the First War. Most of those tied to a post and shot had been men with otherwise outstanding war records, whose nerves had been shredded and reshredded by an uncaring command that did not recognize battle fatigue. And many had simply been terrified children who had lied about their age to serve King and Country. One of the finer moments of the British Empire had been when it had shot a ‘coward’ who had just turned sixteen.

‘There were rumours, apparently,’ continued Ferguson, ‘that Strachan maybe dodged a drumhead court-martial and firing squad because he volunteered to do reconnaissance work. You know, going over-the-top on your own at night and crawling around in the mud to find out what you could about the enemy disposition — barbed-wire, machine-gun posts, that kind of thing. Maybe that’s where his daughters got that mad idea that he was a war hero. It was probably dangerous, all right, but you’ve got less chance of getting shot at night on your belly than tied to a post in front of a firing squad. Anyway, have you seen Billy Dunbar yet … the guy I gave you the address for?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well I got the name of the witness we talked about. The van driver. But you’re not going to get much out of him.’

‘Oh, why?’

‘Rommel got to him first. If you want to find him you’ll have to go and play hunt the thimble in the North African desert. A German land mine sent his head in the direction of Tobruk and his arse towards the equator.’

‘Great. Thanks for checking it out anyway. There’s one other thing, Jock …’

‘Oh, really, there’s another thing you need from me? Why am I not bloody surprised?’

‘I’ve got another name needs checking. Could you see if you’ve got anything on someone called Paul Downey? I think he’s an actor. And part-time photographer.’

‘Why the hell not? I’ve got nothing else to do other than pander to your every whim. Is this connected to the Strachan thing?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ I said. ‘It’s a completely different case. Someone’s kid keeping the wrong company, that sort of thing.’

‘And you say he’s an actor?’

I shrugged. ‘That’s what I’ve been told. Or photographer, or both.’

‘Okay, I’ll check it out. But I’m warning you, Lennox, I’ll be looking for a few quid pro quos for this. Next time I ask you for some straight information, I expect to get some information. Straight.’

‘Fair enough,’ I lied convincingly.

‘And Lennox?’

‘Yeah?’

‘You’ve made a good job of keeping your nose clean of late. Don’t go sticking it back in the shite; it brings out the worst in you. You understand what I’m saying?’

‘I understand, Jock,’ I said. And I did.

My last business meeting with Willie Sneddon had been in a brothel and bare-knuckle fight venue he had acquired. He was nothing if not creative in combining enterprises. This place, however, was a completely different ball of wax.

The offices of Paragon Importing and Distribution were down near the Queen’s Dock in a vast commercial palace of redbrick that had been soot-grimed a matt rusty-black. It was the kind of place the Victorians had built as a cathedral to trade, and reminded me of the huge ornate warehouses I had seen in Hamburg at the end of the war.

The office was huge and panelled in a polished exotic hardwood that made you think it would have been cheaper to paper the walls with five-pound notes. Sneddon sat behind a massive inlaid desk that could have been launched into the Clyde as an aircraft carrier. On the desk sat three phones: one black, one ivory, one red. The rest of the desk furniture looked antique and there was a small pile of books in one corner of the desk and a heap of files sitting on the blotter in front of Sneddon.