Craig Russell - The Long Glasgow Kiss

Not that you would have guessed it from the activity in the docks as I drove past them. It was ten-thirty in the morning and already hot. I had both the Atlantic’s windows rolled down, and as I drove past the quays the sound of metal being hammered, clashed, seared and cut rang dull but loud in air so muggy and thick with grime you could have strained it. It was as if the temperature was being increased by the activity itself.

To my left a forest of cranes jostled at the water’s edge, swinging ceaselessly, loading and unloading docked ships or supplying vast sheets of heavy-gauge steel to the yards. I drove on past the huge red-brick dockside bonded warehouses, five storeys high behind tall fences. I parked on the street and went to the gatehouse and asked where Alain Barnier had his offices. The gateman was the usual retired cop with the usual I-couldn’t-give-a-fuck attitude, and the best I could get out of him was directions to some other smaller shipping offices where they might have a better idea. It took me half an hour of asking around before getting a pointer to Barnier’s office. By the time I got down there it was after eleven.

As Jonny had said, it was more of a shed than an office, one of a rank of semi-cylindrical Nissen huts, like a row of Sequoia logs half sunk into the earth. The sign above the door said Barnier and Clement Import Agents. I knocked and went in. As soon as I did, I could see that this was no front but a genuine working office: there was the kind of ordered chaos that’s impossible to fake. A counter separated the main body of the hut from the reception area. There was a push bell on the counter and next to it a paper spike piled high with impaled shipping bills; there were three desks behind it, half-a-dozen filing cabinets and a woman.

The woman was about five-one and dressed in a businesslike grey suit that strained a little at the waist and bust. She had a pale round face and black hair coiled in a perm so tight and unyielding it could have withstood an A-bomb test. She had a small thin-lipped slit of a mouth that she had tried to flesh up with red lipstick.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, coming around from behind her desk and to the counter. She stretched the thin lips in a weary, perfunctory smile.

‘I’m looking for Mr Barnier.’

‘Is this about the key lan?’ she asked.

‘The key lan?’ I frowned. ‘What’s a key lan?’

She ignored me. ‘Mr Barnier’s not here at the moment. Did you have an appointment?’

‘No. No appointment. When will he be back?’

‘You’ll need an appointment to see Mr Barnier.’

‘My eyes work just fine without an appointment. When will he be back?’

She had large, round, green eyes set into her round face and she used them to stare at me as if I had been a congenital idiot. ‘An appointment…’ She came close to the kind of syllable by syllable pronunciation favoured by Twinkletoes McBride.

‘The sign says Barnier and Clement. Is Mr Clement here?’

‘ Monsieur Clement,’ she said, correcting my pronunciation, dropping the hard ‘t’ at the end of the name and sounding it out as ‘ Clemmong’ in the way that only the Scots can murder the French language, ‘does not work here. He is based in our French office.’

‘I see…’

There was the usual hinged lid arrangement on the counter and, swinging it open, I stepped through the counter and onto her side. The round green eyes grew rounder.

‘You’re not allowed in here…’

‘I’ll wait,’ I said, and sat down behind one of the desks, pitching my hat onto a pile of papers. ‘Probably best, seeing as you can’t tell me when he’ll be back or where I could find him.’

My dumpy girlfriend with the round eyes and thin lips lifted the hatch on the counter, as if holding it open for me. ‘You can’t wait.’

‘There you go underestimating me again. I can wait. I’ve done it before. Lots of times. In fact, between you and me, I’m rather good at it.’

She picked up the telephone on her desk and dialled a number. She turned her back on me and spoke into the mouthpiece in a hushed but agitated voice. After a moment she turned and held the receiver out to me wordlessly.

I smiled cheerfully at her: we were getting on so well.

‘You are looking for me?’ The voice on the other end of the line spoke perfectly articulated English. The French accent was distinct, but not heavy.

‘Mr Barnier? I wondered if we could have a chat.’

‘A chat about what?’ No suspicion or guardedness. Just impatience.

‘I’m trying to get in contact with someone. You may be able to help me find them.’

‘Who?’

‘I’d rather we discussed this face-to-face. And as soon as possible, if you don’t mind. Where could we meet?’

‘For whom are you looking?’ he asked again, with the acquired perfect grammar of a non-native English speaker.

‘Sammy Pollock. You maybe know him as Sammy Gainsborough.’

There was a pause at his side of the connection. Then, in the same contraction-less, formal English: ‘There is something about this which suggests to me your interest is professional rather than personal, yet you did not identify yourself to Miss Minto as a police officer.’

‘That’s because I’m not. If I had it would have been impersonation. I’m not very good at impersonations. Except Maurice Chevalier, but I’m sure, as a Frenchman yourself, you’d be able to see through that one.’

‘I do not have the time for this. What is your name?’

‘Lennox. You do know Sammy Pollock, don’t you, Mr Barnier?’

‘I do. However, I do not know him well. Insufficiently well, in fact, to know anything about his whereabouts.’

‘I’d still like to talk to you, Mr Barnier.’

‘I am afraid I am too busy for this. I cannot assist you with your enquiries. And these are enquiries, are they not? I take it you are some kind of private detective?’

‘I’m just helping someone out, Mr Barnier. Sammy Pollock has gone missing and I’m trying to ascertain his state of health and whereabouts. I would be obliged if you could spare me a few minutes. There may be something you know that seems insignificant to you but that could help me track Sammy down.’

‘I am sorry. As I said I do not have the time…’

‘I quite understand. I’ll explain to Mr Cohen. It was he who suggested I speak to you.’

I got what I wanted: a small silence at the other end of the line. Barnier was putting things together in his head. Whether they came together in an accurate picture or not, I didn’t really care.

‘Do you know the Merchants’ Carvery in the city centre?’ he said at last, a sigh spun through it.

‘I know it,’ I said. The Merchants’ Carvery was a no-riff-raff kind of bar and restaurant. In a riff-raff kind of city. Barnier obviously had style and the cash to back it up. I couldn’t see someone like that being involved with Sammy Pollock. Even less with scum like Paul Costello. But it had to be checked out.

‘Meet me there at eight p.m.,’ he said. ‘In the bar.’

‘Thank you, Mr Barnier. I’ll be there.’

I drove back towards the town but before I got to the centre turned up the North road towards Aberfoyle. My head hurt, a dull, persistent throbbing in the temples and behind my eyes. Glasgow had pulled a curtain over the sun, a thin, dark-flecked veil of cloud. The temperature stayed hot, however, and the air around me seemed denser, heavier. I knew that the pain in my head was a warning of a storm coming. Getting out of the city didn’t do much to ease the oppressive air that was now playing my sinuses like an accordion. After about fifteen minutes I was up around the Mugdock area where Glasgow yielded to open countryside and scattered, expensive houses. The sun had broken through again, but the pre-storm heaviness continued to hang in the air and the sky to the west was the colour of shipyard steel.