Craig Russell - The Deep Dark Sleep

‘Were you involved in the case?’

‘No … I was posted away on the other side of the city. But of course it was big, big news. A murdered policeman was seen — still is seen — as an attack on the whole force. Like I said, we were all of us dragged in and briefed and re-briefed about the robbery. I tell you, every policeman in the city was on the lookout for Joe Strachan. There were a couple of blokes got a real kicking because they fitted Strachan’s description.’

‘And they fixed on Strachan right away?’

‘Aye. There had been rumours about the Commercial Bank job and the one before it. But I think there was more to it than that.’

‘Oh?’

‘If you ask me, someone somewhere got a tip about Strachan. I mean, we weren’t looking for anybody else.’

‘But Strachan didn’t have a reputation as a life-taker, did he?’

‘No … he didn’t. No …’ Archie shrugged and left his answer hanging. He turned down the corners of his mouth, which shifted his expression from lugubrious to funereal. ‘I don’t know all the ins and outs of it, of course, only having been a humble beat bobby, but from what I do know, Strachan didn’t have any kind of record at all. No one could pin him with anything. He was a secretive type and made sure nothing incriminating could ever stick to him, so God knows what else he got up to. Maybe Gourlay wasn’t his first murder. More than that, I don’t know. You’d have to talk to someone who was in CID at the time. Or Willie McNab.’

‘Superintendent McNab?’ I laughed. ‘He’d have my balls if he knew I was involved with this case. I gather that he and Gourlay were close friends.’

‘Were they?’ The massive expanse of Archie’s brow creased. ‘I didn’t know that. But if you say so.’

‘Did you ever come across someone called Billy Dunbar?’

‘No, can’t say I have,’ said Archie after a moment’s thought.

‘Here’s the last known address for him.’ I handed Archie the address given to me by Jock Ferguson. ‘That’s a starting point. Could you see if you can track him down?’

‘Is this me started, then?’ Archie raised his eyebrows. ‘When do I get my trenchcoat and six-shooter?’

‘I think you’re confusing Humphrey Bogart with John Wayne. Yes, this is a job. Keep a tally of your time and expenses. Just see if you can trace him. But try not to spook him. I just want to talk to him, okay?’

‘I will move like a panther in the night,’ said Archie.

I took the keys into the office and ran Archie home in the Atlantic. I went back to the Central Hotel to pick up my stuff, pausing in the lobby to use one of the telephone kiosks. It was all walnut, brass and polished glass and didn’t smell of piss in the slightest. I ’phoned Mrs White and told her that I was in the Central Hotel but moving on, probably, that day or the next. She sounded genuinely relieved to hear from me and I asked her if everything was all right, which she said it was, but I could tell from her voice she was tired. I told her I would keep in touch and I hung up.

I rang up to Leonora Bryson’s room, but got no answer. I had better luck when I tried John Macready’s suite. I told her I was moving out and would keep in touch about progress, I also asked what Macready’s movements would be for the next week, until he caught his flight. Her tone was as businesslike as usual and neither of us made mention of what had happened the night before: she because she was not alone in the room, probably; I, because the situation was so bizarre that I was beginning to doubt that it had really happened, or think that I had dreamt it.

After staying in the Central Hotel, I braced myself to come down in the world, and found a reasonably priced hotel down by the Gallowgate. It was more of a boarding house than a hotel and had a sign outside which declared: NO DOGS, NO BLACKS, NO IRISH. I had spotted signs like this in London and the South, but this was the first I had seen in Glasgow. I was greeted, or more confronted, by a small, rotund, balding bundle of hostility who introduced himself as the landlord. He had that speech defect that seemed to be particularly common in Glasgow, a slushy lisp where every fricative is distorted into something that sounds like radio interference. It was rather unfortunate, therefore, that his name was Mr Simpson. Or Schimpschon, as he introduced himself.

I restrained the instinct to dry my face with my handkerchief, or to ask if it was okay if I could keep Nigger , my black Irish Wolfhound, in my room, and followed Simpson up the stairs. When I answered his question about how long I would be staying, which I said would be a week, he stopped on the stair and turned, a suspicious frown creasing his porcine brow.

‘You’re no’ Irischsch, are you?’

‘What? Oh, my accent … no, I’m Canadian. Is that all right? But I did spend a weekend in Belfast once …’

My irony went over his shiny head by a mile.

‘That’sch awright. Schscho long aschsch you’re no’ Irischsch …’

The room was basic but clean, and I shared a bathroom with four other rooms and there was a pay ’phone in the hall. It would do for a week or two, if needs be. I paid three days in advance, which Simpson took thanklessly and left.

With Archie on the trail of Billy Dunbar, I decided to dedicate myself to tracking down Paul Downey, the part-time amateur photographer who had done so well in capturing John Macready’s good side.

I spent the first evening checking out the well-known queer haunts in the city centre: the Oak Cafe, the Royal Bar in West Nile Street and a couple of others. I decided to hold off on a trip down to Glasgow Green for the moment. Wherever I went, I was met with an almost universal suspicion, clearly being taken instantly as a copper out to trap homosexuals. I would have probably been less offended if they had thought I had been there cruising.

I tried to get around the suspicion that I was a cop by offering money for information, but that seemed to make things worse. I couldn’t blame them for clamming up. As I had told Macready, the City of Glasgow Vice Squad — and police forces in Scotland generally — pursued homos with biblical zeal which, in itself, made me question the underlying culture. I never could understand why homosexuality was illegal in the first place: if consenting adults wanted to assault each other with friendly weapons out of the sight of children and horses, then I didn’t see why that should be a police matter.

All the same, I avoided visiting the toilets while I was in the queer bars.

I was aware that somebody followed me out of the Royal. It was dark and the fog had come back, but nothing like as densely as before. Unlocking your car door is a prime time for an ambush, so I walked straight past the Atlantic, picking up my pace and taking a swift turn into the alley that connected West Nile Street with Buchanan Street. As soon as I was around the corner, I pressed into the wall and waited for him to take the turn. This time, just like I had promised myself, I was going to lead the dance.

I saw the figure hesitate for a moment, then turn into the alley. I leapt out and grabbed his coat, pulling it out and down over his shoulders and upper arms, transforming it into an improvised straightjacket. I swung him around, slammed his back into the wall and rammed my forearm up and under his chin, shutting off his windpipe.

I knew even before I got a look at his face that this wasn’t the same guy from the other morning in the smog. It had all been too easy and, anyway, this guy was too small.

A pair of scared-wide eyes stared at me through uneven horn-rimmed spectacles.

‘Please … please, don’t hurt me …’ he pleaded.