Craig Russell - The Long Glasgow Kiss

‘Are you sure you’re competing with Bernard Delfont and not ICI?’

‘What?’ Costello gave me an irritated frown.

‘I wondered if you were thinking about getting into the pharmaceutical business.’ I took the metal syringe box from my pocket, opened it and held it out for Costello to see.

‘Is this supposed to mean something to me?’

‘I was just wondering if you and Sammy were thinking about supplying more than career advice to your musician chums.’

‘You’ve lost me, mister…’ If Costello was lying then he was hiding it well. Although most of his expression was tied up with pain. I got the feeling his cheek was now competing with his wrist for his attention.

‘Who’s Largo?’

‘What?’

‘You thought I was a cop, then you thought I’d been sent by someone called Largo.’

‘Largo? Nothing. I mean nobody. Someone I owe some money to. I thought he’d sent you round here to see if I’d show up.’

‘Does Sammy know Largo? Does he owe him money too?’

‘No…’ Costello kept my gaze. He didn’t look like he was lying, but with a slimy piece like him it was difficult to tell.

‘You didn’t answer me. Who is Largo? I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Just a guy.’

‘Just a guy who sends people to collect his debts, apparently.’

‘Listen, Largo’s got nothing to do with Sammy. They don’t know each other.’ He winced and eased his wrist closer to his chest with his other hand.

‘Give me the key,’ I said, pocketing the syringe box again.

‘What?’

‘Give me the key. Sammy Pollock doesn’t own this flat and you sure as hell don’t. So hand it over.’

After he handed me the key with his good hand I hoisted him up and escorted him out of the flat. The heat hit us as soon as we were on the street.

‘You’ve not heard the last of this.’ Costello glowered at me, clutching his injured wrist. I took a step towards him and he scuttled off in the opposite direction.

Sheila Gainsborough was standing by the car, the sun catching the gold in her hair.

‘Well, did you manage to beat the truth out of him?’

‘Listen, Miss Gainsborough, I think we need to understand one another. Young Mr Costello, whose acquaintance we’ve just made, is a less than desirable type. I know his father, or at least know of him. Jimmy Costello is even less desirable. He’s a gangster and a thug. You’ve come to me with a problem: your brother has gone missing and the first thing we find out is that his flat has been turned over by someone. Then Costello junior arrives with a key to the flat you pay for and seems to come and go as he pleases. I’m sorry if my methods seemed a little direct but, having made young Mr Costello’s acquaintance, I am now a lot more concerned about your brother’s disappearance than I was an hour ago.’

Sheila Gainsborough did her cute frown again. ‘Did Costello explain what he was doing there and why he had a key?’

‘Well, to start with, he doesn’t have one any more.’ I handed her the key and it was swallowed by the alligator. ‘Costello claims they were friends and potential business partners, but he was pretty vague about what type of business. Representing musicians. Does your brother know anything about working as a talent agent?’

‘Sammy? Not a thing.’

‘I doubt if Costello has taken a course on it either.’ I started the car but paused before moving off. ‘Does the name “Largo” mean anything to you?’

‘What, the place in Fife?’

‘No, this isn’t a place. It’s a person. Costello thought I had been sent by someone called Largo.’

Sheila stared ahead for a moment, thinking. The scent of her hung in the small, humid silence. ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘I don’t know anyone called Largo. And I can’t say I’ve ever heard Sammy mention anyone by that name.’

‘Okay,’ I said, and smiled. ‘I’ll take you back into town. I’d recommend you continue with your plans and travel down to London. I’ll have a sniff around. Is there somewhere I can get in touch?’

Snapping open the alligator, she pulled out a visiting card. ‘This is my agent’s number. His name is Humphrey Whithorn. If you need to get in touch, he can always find me. But what are you going to do? You’ve got nothing to go on.’

‘I’ve got the clubs where he worked. I can start there.’ I took the card. The name Sheila Gainsborough sunk silver grey into thick white vellum. Whithorn’s name was at the bottom right, smaller. Like everything else about her the card shouted quality and money. I tried to imagine the name Ishbell Pollock on the card. It didn’t take. ‘In the meantime, it would be good if you could check with your bank to see if Sammy has made any attempts to withdraw more money.’

I drove her back to my office where I asked more questions about Sammy’s lifestyle. After we ran out of straws to clutch at, I promised to do everything I could to find her brother. Stretching out a hand for me to shake, she nodded and stood up. I walked her to the door — not much of a walk in my tiny hot-box office — and promised her that I would keep in touch. Watching her as she made her way back down the stairwell, I noticed how she seemed to glide, rather than walk, her gloved hand hovering above the banister and her high heels light on the stone steps. Sheila Gainsborough had a grace I hadn’t seen in a woman for a long time. It reminded me, for a moment, of someone else and the memory hit me in the gut. Someone else was someone dead.

When Sheila disappeared from view, I turned back into the heat of my office. I sat at my desk for a long time trying to pinpoint the source of the uneasy feeling that was beginning to gnaw at me.

My digs were on Great Western Road. It was a good enough place, the whole upper floor of a typical Glasgow Victorian villa.

It’s not uncommon to come across a place to stay by happen-chance: someone knows someone who knows somebody else who has a room to let. The happenchance that had led to my flat becoming available was a German U-boat fortuitously hitting a Royal Navy Reserve frigate directly midships. The frigate had gone down faster than a Clydebank whore on a payday docker, and took with it a young junior officer called White. No big deal: just one of the millions of brief human candles that had been prematurely snuffed out during the war. This insignificant statistic, however, had been a universe-shattering tragedy for the pretty young wife and two daughters of the junior naval officer. A future that had once shone so brightly now lay rusting at the bottom of the Atlantic with the hulk of the broken frigate.

I had encountered the fractured White family when looking for a place to stay. Mrs White had advertised the place in the Glasgow Herald. With only a Navy widow’s pension to survive on, Fiona White had come up with a drastic but practical solution: she had the upstairs of the house converted into a more or less self-contained flat and put it up for rent, with an insistence that the successful tenant be able to display exceptional references. My references had been the most exceptional you could buy from a forger and Mrs White had accepted me. What I couldn’t quite work out was why she had let me stay, given that I had had a couple of late night visits from the local constabulary over the last couple of years. But, there again, the place wasn’t cheap and I was sedulously prompt with the rent each week. The truth was that I could have easily moved on to a better place, but I had become fond of the little White family. Anyone who knew me wouldn’t have been at all surprised that my first thought when I had met the pretty young widow was that maybe I could console her. And she was the type of woman you really wanted to console. But, as time went on, something unpleasantly chivalrous had crept unbidden into my attitude towards her and I felt somewhat protective of the sad little family downstairs.