Craig Russell - The Long Glasgow Kiss

‘Run, Jimmy! It’s the watchy!’ I yelled, doing my best Glaswegian impersonation. I raced off towards where I’d cut the hole in the fence. I lobbed my bag over and commando-crawled through the gap I had cut.

I checked behind me: there was no sign of the constable and the elderly watchman would not risk chasing after two Drumchapel desperadoes.

I sprinted along the cobbled road and dived behind the bushes next to the railway alcove. One more check backwards: nothing. I took off the sweater and wiped my face with it, getting as much burnt cork off as possible. I threw my burglar kit into the boot of the car, put on my suit jacket and jumped in behind the driver’s seat. Keeping my lights switched off, I reversed out onto the main road. I drove slowly, with the lights still off until I reached the end of South Street. Only then did I pick up speed and switch the lights on. I drove into the countryside and out of the City of Glasgow Police jurisdiction. Ironically, I took the Greenock Road and passed only one car travelling in the opposite direction. At that time of night it was no surprise that the roads were dead and I wondered if the car I’d passed had been Barnier on his way in from his home in Langbank.

An idea flashed through my head: I would be passing Langbank and it was the one time I knew for sure that Barnier would not be at home. And I did have all of my housebreaking kit with me. I shook the idea from my head. I had no idea if Barnier lived alone or not, added to which I had had quite enough jolly japes for one night. I drove past Langbank and turned south onto a single track road that led through woods and fields. I found myself on the edge of a reservoir, its silky, still water reflecting the velvet clouds. There was a farmhouse at the head of the reservoir and I drove along the water’s edge until I was at the opposite end. Parking the car under some trees, I made a pillow out of the sweater I had worn. Despite the discomfort and the adrenalin still pumping through my system, I was asleep within minutes.

When I woke up I bad-temperedly tried to plunge back into sleep and recapture the dream I’d had: something about me and Fiona White and a new life in Canada. Or had it been me and Sheila Gainsborough? The aches in my neck and the insistent jabbing of the handbrake in my side forbade my return to my dream.

I creakingly unfolded myself. Looking in the mirror in the too bright morning light, I could see the burnt cork still ingrained in the creases and lines of my face: I looked like I was wearing Donald Wolfit’s stage make-up. Rolling up my shirt sleeves, I walked across the road to the reservoir’s edge. I scooped up some water and rubbed vigorously at my face and neck.

Once I was sure I was clear of all traces of my nocturnal adventures, I drove back into town. As I did so, I was pretty smug with myself. It was no small thing to have clobbered a copper, but I was convinced that by now Billy, the elderly night watchman, would have sworn on his mother’s grave that he had seen two burglars and one had been called Jimmy. The bobby I had tapped would only have gotten a fleeting glance of my cork-blackened face; and I was sure he would be only too willing to swear that ‘there must have been two of them’ to take him down.

Obfuscation could be such a satisfying pastime.

But the smug smile was wiped off my face as I passed my digs in Great Western Road. There was an immaculately polished, black Wolseley 6/90 parked outside, gleaming in the morning light. I was particularly impressed by the super sheen the garage had managed to get on the rectangular plate across the car’s radiator: silver letters against a dark blue background, spelling out the word POLICE.

I drove on and around the corner until I reached the newsagents, where I bought a copy of that morning’s paper before driving back, parking just around the corner. I dumped my jacket in the car, took off my tie and rolled my sleeves up. I ambled towards my flat, trying to look as casual as I could. It was probably the innocent act that the coppers had seen a thousand and one times, but I needed to make it look as if I had been at home all night and had just taken a morning stroll to pick up the paper. It all fell down, of course, if the police car had been there for anything more than half an hour.

As I drew near, both rear doors of the police car swung open. Superintendent Willie McNab emerged from one side, Jock Ferguson from the other. I put my best surprised face on, which was probably as convincing as the last time I had used it, when on my birthday my mother had presented me with the sweater I’d seen her knitting for three weeks.

‘Gentlemen… what can I do for you?’

‘You’re an early riser, Lennox,’ said McNab sourly.

‘You know what they say: birds and worms and that sort of thing.’

‘Get in the car, Lennox.’ McNab stood to one side and held the door open. I imagined it would be the first of many doors that would be closing behind me. My mouth was dry and my heart pumped madly, but I kept as much of an outer cool as I could.

‘Can I get my jacket?’ I jerked a thumb in the direction of my lodgings. As I did so, I could see Fiona White’s face at the window of her flat.

‘Go with him…’ McNab said to Ferguson, who shrugged and followed me in.

‘What’s this all about?’ I took the opportunity of having Ferguson on his own as we climbed the stairs.

‘You’ll see…’ he said. And I knew I would.

We didn’t head towards police headquarters in St. Andrew’s Square. Instead, as I sat crushed between McNab and Ferguson in the back seat of the police car, we headed out towards the river and the bonded warehouses.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked, as if I had no idea. We took a turn down onto the cobbled road and past the railway arch where I’d hidden the Atlantic.

We didn’t stop.

Instead, we drove on until we saw a uniformed constable with zebra-striped traffic cuffs over his tunic. He seemed to be standing on an unbroken piece of grass verge, but as we drew nearer he signalled us to turn in. The barely discernible mouth of a largely overgrown, cobbled access road, just wide enough for the Wolseley, opened up for us and we bumped our way down to the shore. The lane widened into an open area as we reached the water. This had obviously been a working quay, but the Luftwaffe had made a good job of making it inoperable for the rest of the century. Vast concrete blocks, like broken teeth, thrust out of the overgrown grass, rusting metal cable projecting, twisted, from their broken ends. At one corner of the site an earthmover sat, its shovel resting heavily on the ground. On what looked like it had originally been the quay’s loading area, four police cars and an ambulance, which must have struggled to negotiate the lane, huddled close to the water. Whatever this was, it didn’t look like it was about my break-in to Barnier’s office.

McNab and Ferguson led me over to where the other vehicles were parked.

‘He was found here this morning by workers clearing the site for more bonded warehouses,’ said Ferguson. ‘We reckon he’s been dead a day at least.’

‘Who? What’s this got to do with me?’ I asked, genuinely confused. I saw that the rear of the ambulance was open and there was a body inside, covered with a grey blanket, lying on the ambulance stretcher.

‘What’s it got to do with you?’ McNab sneered at me. ‘That’s what I want to know. According to our leads, you’ve been looking for this fellah for the last week or so. Now he turns up dead.’

My gut gave a lurch. I did a little time travelling into the future and imagined myself in front of Sheila Gainsborough, trying to find the words to tell her that I’d found her brother all right. Dead.

So John Largo was no spook. No shadowy figure without substance. And he had caught up with Sammy Pollock at last.