The Deep Dark Sleep

Ferguson’s expression darkened. ‘Listen, Lennox, you and I have both seen our share of shite during the war. We both know what it’s like to be in a place where life is cheap. But never, ever talk to me about the murder of a police officer like that again. No one did PC Gourlay. He was murdered in the course of his lawful duty, in cold blood by scum who knew he was unarmed and unable to defend himself. I’m not Willie McNab, but I do have loyalty to my fellow officers.’

‘Okay, Jock … no harm meant.’ I held my hands up. It was a stupid way for me to have put it. The City of Glasgow Police were a tight-knit bunch and touchy about their own. It didn’t matter if your colleague was on the take, on the bottle or on the level: if he was a Glasgow copper you looked after your own first and foremost and expected the same in return.

‘But you do see how it is possible, don’t you, Jock? Strachan maybe wasn’t the killer.’

‘But he was behind the whole thing. Planned it, put the crew together, led the raid. He was in charge. Guilty before and after the fact. When that constable died there was a rope around Strachan’s neck, no matter who pulled the trigger. Anyway, there was a witness. Said it was the tallest of the gang who did the shooting.’

‘There was a witness?’

A couple of other drinkers jostled past Ferguson and he frowned. Our conversation had been half-shouted to be heard and Ferguson overdid a weary expression, but I guessed he was using the interruption to decide if or how he was going to dodge my question.

‘The van driver,’ he said eventually. ‘He said there were five robbers. They all wore stocking masks, but one was tall and all the others were no bigger than five-six, five-seven. In my book that fingers Strachan as the shooter. So maybe there’s no mystery to Gentleman Joe taking the deep, dark sleep: he put a rope around the neck of every man in that gang. Maybe they made him pay the price.’

‘How do you know that it was Strachan at all? I thought that the identities of the Empire Exhbition Gang were all unknown.’

‘Strachan …’ Ferguson paused again, this time while Big Bob placed two plates in front of us, each with a small, round meat pie centred in a pool of viscous grease. ‘Strachan went missing right after the robbery. Dropped out of sight. And Joe Strachan wasn’t one to keep a low profile.’

‘That’s it? God, Jock, we now know that Strachan was at the bottom of the Clyde. That’s the lowest profile I can think of. It could be a pure coincidence that he was topped about the same time as the robbery.’

‘You’re right, we don’t know who the other gang members were. But that in itself points to Joe Strachan. He was a stickler for security. We could never get the bastard because no one talked about a job if they were doing it with Strachan. No one knew in advance what was going to be hit or when or who was in the team. If there’s one thing I can say in his favour, it’s that when it came to planning and executing bighaul robberies, he was the best. No one came close. Even if he hadn’t gone missing he would have been at the top of a list for the Empire Exhibition job. A list of one. Anyway, the Empire Exhibition robbery was only part of it. The Triple Crown.’

‘The Triple Crown?’ I knew the story, but sometimes being an outsider to Glasgow helped: you could plead ignorance and people told you more than they had intended to.

‘That’s what the older boys call it. The ones with enough years under their belts to remember it. Three massive robberies, committed in fast succession, but planned right down to the last second and penny. And there’s a very good chance that they’re linked to a series of other, smaller robberies that took place a few months before. Trial runs, they reckon, to sharpen the team for the big ones.’

‘And the biggest of the big ones was the Empire Exhibition robbery?’

‘Totally different targets but carried out with the same military precision. The first was the National Bank of Scotland in St Vincent Street. Twenty thousand pounds in wages and God knows how much else from the safe deposit boxes. Then a van on its way with wages cash to the Connell shipyard in Scotstoun – the kind of run you’re doing now. The bastards actually wore police uniforms for that one. Thirty-two thousand. Then they hit the real jackpot: the Empire Exhibition. Fifty thousand.’

I blew a long whistle and probably looked more impressed than I should have in front of Ferguson. One hundred and two thousand in total was a massive amount of money, particularly in pre-war Glasgow. It was no surprise that everyone assumed that Gentleman Joe had done a disappearing act. It was, after all, the kind of money that could buy you a new, luxurious life anywhere and have enough left over to buy the silence of others. It was also, I realized, more than enough to post off three thousand a year from small change.

‘And you’re convinced it was the same crew?’