Craig Russell - Dead men and broken hearts

‘Really?’ I said gloomily. ‘I’ve been doing a good job of hiding it lately. But thanks for the car. I can’t tell you how big a help you’ve been.’

‘How long do you think you can hide out here?’ he asked. His bulk seemed to fill the cabin, making it feel more like a closet than living quarters.

‘I reckon I’m okay for a while,’ I said. ‘We’ll need to keep checking the papers to see if there’s anything in them. Like you said, only you and the bargee know I’ve rented this place, and unless he sees my name in the paper and connects it to the one on the lease, then there’s no reason he’d contact the cops. I have no record, so the police don’t have any photographs of me.’

We sat and talked. I tried to explain what had happened — about my encounter with Hopkins and how all trace of him and his people had vanished into thin air, about how I had stumbled into something big and dangerous just because two people had the same or similar names — but talking it through made even my head hurt and I decided to stop before Twinkle frowned himself to death or a blood vessel burst in his brain.

He sat for a minute, the frown still creasing his almost-brow. He was silent and completely still, even his eyes focused but not focused on the stove. In McBride’s case, cogitation clearly necessitated the shutting down of all other functions.

Then, suddenly, he reached out and snatched up the car key I had left on the table.

‘What’s up, Twinkle?’

‘Listen, Mr L. You’re a nice man. Maybes too nice. You need answers, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Well, getting answers is my business. I’m sticking with you.’

I didn’t argue. A resolved Twinkletoes McBride wasn’t something you argued with, like you wouldn’t argue with a steam hammer.

The thought of him riding shotgun while I got to the bottom of what the hell was going on troubled me greatly. But, oddly enough, it also comforted me.

We waited until it was beginning to get dark before heading off the barge, across the quay and out onto the street where Twinkletoes’s car sat, gleaming, in a pool of light, as if it had been placed there by the gods themselves.

‘I always park under a lamppost,’ Twinkle explained, ‘in case I don’t get back to it before dark.’ He glowered disapprovingly from under his eyebrows. ‘There are some thoroughly dis-rep-uh-table people around in Glasgow, you know, Mr L.’

‘So I believe,’ I said, ignoring the irony of an ex-gangland torturer commenting on the moral decline of his home city.

‘Aye…’ he shook his head mournfully. ‘Steal the ground from under you. Wee fuckers.’

And there it was. What I was presented with was, exactly like the barge we had just left, one man’s pride and joy.

‘She’s a beaut…’ I said appreciatively, and Twinkle beamed back.

It was a one-year-old burgundy red Vauxhall Cresta, polished and burnished until it shimmered in the lamplight. It clearly seldom made it out of its garage and I thought back to how McBride had handed over his key and driver’s licence. Seeing the car, I appreciated the gesture even more. The truth was I could have done with a downpour of sooty rain to dull the car’s conspicuous lustre. But it was good to be mobile and to have the feeling that there was at least one person on my side.

The interior of the Cresta was filled with the smell of unguent polishes and was as luxurious as Connelly’s Zephyr: piped two-tone claret and white leather, white leather panels on the doors and a white steering wheel and column. Twinkletoes slid in behind the steering wheel and suddenly the proportions of the car shrank. Looking at him, he was the most unlikely person to imagine spending evenings and weekends polishing and tinkering at a motor car, but it strangely fitted with my experience of him.

‘There’s a raincoat in the back,’ he said. ‘To go with what you’s got on.’

I reached over and picked up the raincoat, laying it folded on my lap. The usual grey-green job, shapeless, style-less and totally anonymous. It was perfect and I told McBride so.

‘Where to then?’ he asked me.

‘Bearsden…’ I said. ‘I’ll give you directions.’

We drove by the house several times before parking far enough around the corner not to be seen getting in or out of the car. Mind you, this was Bearsden, the most twitchy-curtained part of Glasgow, and if being noticeable had been an event at the Melbourne Olympics then McBride would have cleaned up the golds. There were no signs of police or any other unusual cars outside the house, so I reckoned it was safe enough for us to make our approach.

We reached the gate of the house and I was about to lead the way in when I became aware of a car slowing to walking pace beside us.

‘Keep walking,’ the driver leaned across and spoke through the open window. ‘Police… in the Ellis house… waiting for you inside. Keep walking and I’ll park around the corner.’ He drove off along the road and turned into the next adjoining street.

‘Let’s do as the man says and keep walking, Twinkle, and try to look casual,’ I mouthed sideways and, without looking towards the Ellis residence, walked on with a sense of purpose in the direction taken by Archie McClelland’s ancient Morris Eight.

Archie had parked even further up his side street than we had ours, and no sooner had Twinkle heaved, wriggled and squeezed into the back seat and I had slid into the front than he took off.

‘You two need to rethink your double-act,’ said Archie, his tone even more doleful than usual. ‘If I could count the number of times you drove past the house, then I’m sure the uniforms inside will have too.’

‘You saw us check the street out?’

Archie turned his spaniel eyes to me as if I had said something profoundly stupid. ‘I was dazzled by the gleam on your car. What’s the story? Did you steal it straight from the showroom?’

‘Naw…’ There was a gratified rumble from McBride in the back. ‘It’s a year old. I keep it clean, but.’

‘Point taken,’ I said to Archie. ‘How do you know there are coppers in there?’

‘Because they gave me the third degree when I went calling a couple of hours ago. I take it your current state of liberty is self-instigated?’

‘Naw…’ rumbled Twinkle again. ‘He ran away…’

‘What were you doing at the Ellis house?’ I asked Archie.

‘Seeing as you’ve got yourself up to your ears in shite, I thought I’d try to get to the bottom of what is going on. Wait a minute… how did you and Twinkletoes get together?’

‘He found me,’ I said. ‘He worked out where I’d be hiding. I owe him, Archie. Whatever happens to me, remember that. I owe Twinkle big time.’

‘Thanks Mr L…’ Another rumble.

‘Well, wherever it is you’re hiding,’ said Archie, ‘don’t tell me. If I don’t know, I can’t tell. Just having you in the car could land me a stretch inside.’

‘I know. It’s appreciated, Archie. It sounds like I owe you too for trying to get me out of this. Did they let you speak to Pamela Ellis?’

‘No. I get the feeling she’s scared witless. And, of course, instead of looking to see who’s putting the screws on her, the police are putting her terrified state down to you being at liberty… that her husband’s murderer is going to come after her for not backing up his insane story, that kind of thing.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Thanks for putting it that way. Makes me feel all warm inside. So that’s why the police are there?’

‘They obviously think that you would be stupid enough to make straight for her as soon as you escaped… Oh, but hold on a minute, that’s exactly what you did…’ Another wryly doleful look.