Craig Russell - The Long Glasgow Kiss

‘So you do know him.’

‘Sure. He’s sung here a couple of times. He’s nothing to write home about. Okay voice, but he’s no match for his sister.’

‘When did he last sing here?’

‘About three weeks ago.’ Jonny took a cigarette case from his pocket and offered me one. We both lit up. ‘Sammy was filling in for a cancelled act. Last minute thing. He wasn’t a regular booking here. Haven’t seen him since, even as a customer.’

‘Was he a regular?’

‘Reasonably. That’s why we were able to get him to stand in for the act that cried off sick. He wasn’t just available: he was here.’

‘Did you know that he’s involved with Jimmy Costello’s son?’

‘Paul Costello?’ Jonny frowned. ‘No I didn’t. Now that is one greasy little shite. Now that you mention it, he’s been around the club a few times. I wouldn’t have linked him with Sammy though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them together. Not here. Do you think young Costello has something to do with Sammy Gainsborough’s disappearance?’

‘I don’t know, Jonny. He says he didn’t even know that Sammy was missing. Maybe he isn’t. Could be he’s off on a bender somewhere and he’ll wash up in a couple of days or so.’

‘If he is missing, I would take a long hard look at Costello. If he’s anything like his old man he’s a twisted wee bastard trying to squeeze cash from anything he can lay his hands on.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind. How well do you know Costello? I mean Costello senior?’

‘I haven’t had a lot of dealings with him. He runs a bookie and a pub in the East End. Pays tribute to Hammer Murphy and Murphy calls on him for stuff now and again. Borrows extra muscle, that kind of thing. Murphy really does run his patch as a kingdom. Or a fiefdom. Costello does as he’s told, pays what he’s told and is left to do his own thing so long as Murphy’s kept in the know.’

‘That’s pretty much what I thought. And is Costello Junior learning the trade from his old man?’

‘Costello has two sons. Paul and his older brother, Michael. I don’t think Costello has much time for either of them. Paul is a wanker and Michael turned out to be a real disappointment to his old man.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah… imagine the shame of your son turning out honest when you’ve devoted your life to thieving. Must have been a huge blow to Costello to see the fruit of his loins turn out to be law-abiding. Michael even considered the priesthood, apparently, but instead moved to Edinburgh and works as a civil servant.’

‘Shit…’ My tone and expression registered my sympathy for both father and son. ‘A civil servant in Edinburgh. No one deserves that. Do you know of a Frenchman called Barnier?’ I asked.

‘Alain Barnier? Sure. What’s he got to do with anything?’

‘According to Sheila Gainsborough, he’s been hanging around with Sammy Pollock.’

Jonny smiled. ‘Alain Barnier doesn’t hang around with anyone. They hang around with him. He’s a smooth operator.’

‘Who’s he with?’

‘No one.’

‘Come on, Jonny, everyone who’s got a piece of action in this town is aligned with you, Murphy or Sneddon.’

‘Barnier is mainly legit. Sure, I think he’s got a few tasty deals on the side, but nothing that we would be interested in. I do the odd bit of business with him.’

‘What kind of business? What’s his line?’

‘Officially he’s an importer. He imports wine, mainly. And spirits. He also brings in stuff from the Far East. Furniture, ornaments, that kind of shite. He’s lived here for about a couple of years and he supplies some of the fancier restaurants in town. Edinburgh too. But if there’s anything else you need brought in, he probably can arrange it for you.’ Jonny poured us another each and tilted the Heaven Hill bottle’s label in my direction once more. ‘Barnier was my contact for this stuff. Cognac too.’

‘Let me guess, he doesn’t like to put the customs man to any trouble?’

‘He’s very considerate that way. Saves our hard-working public servants a lot of paperwork. But the stuff he brings in has always been at the quality end, you could say. Nothing you’d find at Paddy’s Market. Word is that side of his operation isn’t as good as it was. Rationing coming to an end has been bad for business.’

‘What about cigarettes? Does he smuggle those too? Fancy French brands?’

Jonny shrugged. ‘Doubt it. Suppose it’s possible, though.’

‘Have you ever heard of the Poppy Club, Jonny? It’s maybe got something to do with Barnier. It definitely has something to do with Sammy Pollock.’

‘Poppy Club?’

‘It’s not listed in the ’phone book. Maybe it’s not licensed.’

‘Never heard of it, Lennox.’ By the time he poured the third Bourbon, I was beginning to glow. I reappraised the Pacific Club, but the glow didn’t catch: it still looked depressing.

‘Where would I be able to find Barnier?’ I asked.

‘He’s here if we’ve got a good jazz act on. Fridays. But not every Friday. You’re best trying to catch him down at the river. He has an office of sorts down there. More a shed. Near the bonded area.’

‘Is that where he liberates his goods from bondage?’

Jonny shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know. If he does, it will be through bribery. The odd brown envelope to a watchman, copper or taxman. Barnier is no out-and-out crook, like I said. Just sails close to the wind. Law wise. You two should get on.’

‘I better go,’ I said, draining the glass. ‘Thanks for the whisky.’

Jonny saw me to the door and, after the gloom and Bourbon of the Pacific Club, we stood squinting for a moment in the bright sunlight.

‘Lennox?’ said Jonny, shielding his eyes with his hand.

‘Yep?’

‘This other case. Sammy Pollock. I know you have to follow it up, but don’t let it get in the way of finding out what the fuck is happening with Bobby Kirkcaldy. Sneddon’s getting as antsy as hell. The fight’s in just over two weeks’ time. And, like I say, there’s something about the whole thing stinks as far as I’m concerned.’

‘I’ll see him tonight. Thanks again for the Bourbon.’

Jonny had, of course, been right. Whenever I thought of the Sammy Pollock case, I smelt grief; whenever I thought of the Kirkcaldy case, I smelt money. There was a lot of it riding on Kirkcaldy and I guessed Jonny Cohen and Willie Sneddon would be in a big bonus mood if I got it all sorted out for them. And I had, to a certain extent, done the sniffing about that I’d promised Sheila Gainsborough I’d do. But there was something about the thing with Sammy that was nagging away at me. Anyway, I hadn’t had a chance to practise my French for a long time.

The British Empire, the most avaricious piece of land theft since Genghis Khan saddled up a pony, was a remarkable thing. What made it particularly remarkable was that it had been carried out by the British, probably the most apologetic race on the planet. I always imagined them as some kind of impeccably well-mannered, latter-day Vikings, frightfully embarrassed about all the raping and pillaging. I suppose my interest in the globe-spanning collection of Raj, colonies, dominions, mandates and protectorates lay in my being very much a product of it: I was born in Glasgow but shipped off with my folks when I was still a baby and Canada was still ‘the Dominion’ as far as everyone was concerned. Then, after twenty-one summers, the ‘Mother Country’ of which I had had no direct contact, or even recollection, suddenly and urgently needed my assistance. Four thousand miles away.

And now, sixteen years on, I was living in the Second City of an Empire on which, despite classroom assurances to the contrary, the sun was most definitely now setting. For a century and a half, Glasgow had been the Empire’s industrial heart. But the War had screwed all of that up. Britain had ended the conflict all but bankrupt: if the United States had not come along in 1946 with a close on four billion dollar-loan, then the sceptr’d isle would have gone bankrupt. Now, former enemies were fast becoming new competitors in shipbuilding and heavy industry. Things were changing fast in the world. They were changing faster in Britain. And fastest in Glasgow.