Craig Russell - Dead men and broken hearts

It was a huge effort for nothing. The chest, as far as I could see, was filled with more tools; larger or heavier ones that would not have fitted into the desk drawers. Ellis’s fastidiousness made my job easier; other than the largest tools such as the heavy bolt cutters with two foot long handles which were left loose, everything was sorted and kept in wooden boxes, which I was able to lift out and examine one by one, laying them on the shed floor. But it was another fruitless search. The only discovery I had made was that Ellis had a staggering array of tools even for the most dedicated do-it-yourselfer. I picked up the bolt cutters, trying not to think how Twinkletoes had used such implements in his colourful past, and placed them back in the chest.

I noticed the carved chest was thick-walled and heavy-lidded, so I assumed the base would be similarly thick. But, putting the bolt cutters back, I was aware that the chest was far shallower than it should be. Using the handles of the cutters as a guide to measure the well of the chest compared to its outer wall, I reckoned there was a good six-inch disparity, over and above the thickness I would have expected from the walls and lid.

A false bottom.

I ran my fingers around the inside edges of the chest’s base, looking for a trigger or catch to release the bottom, but all I could find was a natural looking notch in the wood, a few inches from the edge. I went back to the shelves and ripped the lid off a jar of nails, took one and leaned on it with the head of the steel mallet to bend it into a hook. My bet was that Ellis already had a hook hidden somewhere in the shed, but I didn’t have time to look for it. Going back to the chest, I twisted and wiggled the bent nail into the notch. I got purchase on the base and it lifted clear. I had been right.

This hulking, ugly hunk of wood in the corner of a garden shed turned out to be a treasure chest. There were four packages, all wrapped in the same waxed paper as the map I had found. But these had been hidden away more carefully. And with good reason.

The first contained a heavy cardboard box, just big enough for the automatic pistol and spare magazine it held. The Bearsden Rotary Club, I guessed, hadn’t known about this. The other three packages contained cash. Banknotes. One contained US dollars, the second Bank of England ten-pound notes, the third German marks. Even without counting it, I could tell it was a small fortune. It was the kind of pot-of-gold that gave you ideas and made you jump to conclusions. My first idea was where I could stash the cash to add to my repatriation fund, should the local constabulary decide to be difficult about me liquidating my other assets. And my first conclusion was that this was dirty money. Maybe not from a dirty source, but for a dirty use. Whatever his little Hungarian cycling club were up to, I guessed that Ellis had been the treasurer. The banker. Something he had found out had made him hold back funds, which was why his playmates had hit his business safe.

That, as far as I was concerned, made this money up for grabs. But I came down with a bout of that ailment that had been plaguing me increasingly of late: a bad attack of morality.

I thought of all that Pamela Ellis had been through — the confusion, the grief, the fear. She wouldn’t know about this stash. Nobody except Ellis did, I guessed.

Dirty or not, this money belonged to Pamela Ellis and I was going to make sure she got it. I didn’t want the coppers to get their hands on it and would do everything I could to avoid that happening, but, at the end of the day, I had probably just worked out the motive for Ellis’s murder — someone else’s motive — and it might end up being the only card I had to play.

Stuffing the three packets into the duffle coat’s pockets, I turned my attention to the pistol. It was a Browning-type nine-millimetre automatic, and when I examined it, I saw the name Femaru-Frommer tooled into the barrel flank: a gun I’d neither seen or heard of before. Despite being a pretty standard Browning configuration, it had one highly unusual feature: a curved finger rest that hooked out from the base of the magazine.

I released the box magazine from the well and slipped it and the spare into my inside coat pocket. Then I tucked the pistol into the waistband of my trousers. Given my current predicament, it was probably on the insanely reckless side of inadvisable to wander around Glasgow heavy with an illegal gun, but I suspected that the police were the least of my worries.

There was no way I was going to end up like Ellis without putting up a fight.

It was still a bright, cold night and I found myself wishing for a wisp or two of the smog that had cloaked my city-crossing skulk the night of my escape. I guessed, however, that my getup and set of wheels were as good a disguise as I could have.

Stopping the Cresta out of sight, I tugged my cap’s peak down over my eyes, walked back to where I’d seen a late-night street vendor and bought an evening paper. Still nothing about me. I was beginning to find my lack of mention, however welcome, rather strange.

I took a slow drive along Broomielaw without stopping, checking out for any watching coppers or cars with their engines running, before doing a city block loop and coming back.

Larry Franks was doing his best to look casual, hanging on the corner across from the Paradise Club and smoking. I was on time, so I guessed he couldn’t have been waiting too long. He snapped a cigarette away into the street as he saw my second approach; I pulled up to the kerb.

‘The coppers give you that?’ he asked when he got in, nodding to the bruise on my face. I had hoped it would have faded, but it had simply changed tones: an identifying mark that would be with me for a week or so.

‘No, not the coppers,’ I said, looking in my rear-view mirror before driving off.

‘Nobody’s watching the club,’ he said. ‘And I really don’t think anyone’s tapped the telephone. The coppers aren’t taking the subtle approach. Jonny’s been hauled in three times and they’ve leaned on him pretty hard. But they’re doing the leaning because they’ve got nothing else now. He told me he owes you for that and wanted me to tell you he won’t forget it.’

I didn’t say anything. Having sentenced a man to death was not something I wanted gratitude for.

‘Jonny also knows all about your problem with the police. Like I said on the ’phone, a couple of coppers came in twice, asking for you. Turn here, over the bridge,’ said Franks. ‘I live in Newton Mearns. But you’d have guessed that already.’

I smiled. Newton Mearns was known locally as Tel Aviv on the Clyde. Jonny Cohen lived there as well.

‘These two coppers…’ I said, as we crossed the Jamaica Bridge and into the South Side. ‘Anyone you know?’

‘Never seen either of them before. One had an Englishy-type accent, which you don’t often hear in a Glasgow copper.’

‘But they showed you their warrant cards?’

‘Yeah… or more that they flashed them at me. But these boys couldn’t be anything other than coppers. You know the type.’

And I did. More specifically, I knew two in particular who were exactly the type. With Special Branch warrant cards.

‘So what did you find out on those names?’ I asked.

‘I’ve got more than the names for you,’ said Franks. ‘I’ll go over it all when we get back to my place. I’ve fixed up a bed in the spare room. I guess you’re looking for a place to lie low.’

‘The bed for tonight’s great, Larry, I appreciate it. But after that, I’ve got plans.’ I trusted Franks and I trusted Cohen more, but the barge was going to stay a secret between me and Twinkle. Who, bizarrely, I found myself trusting the most.