The Deep Dark Sleep

‘Well you’re wrong. Like I said, that’s why they called him “Gentleman” Joe: he could turn it on at the drop of the hat. You may just see him as a Gorbals monkey, but he was one smart monkey. He didn’t just put on the accent, he knew the moves. He may have left school at thirteen, but everyone knew he was a clever wee bastard. When he wasn’t shoving a gun in a bank teller’s face, he was shoving his nose into a book. He was obsessed with knowing things. And they say that’s why he got away with the officer act. He knew the right things to say at the right time. The rumour is that he also got to know the mutineer Percy Toplis and that was where he got the impersonating officers idea.’

‘You seem to know a lot about Strachan’s life story, Jock.’

‘He was a bit of a legend with the older boys here. I think there was a fair amount of grudging respect, that kind of shite. But all of that went right down the pan when that constable was gunned down. So yes, it’s not difficult to know a lot about Strachan if you’re a Glasgow copper. Added to which I’ve had my ear bent non-stop by Superintendent McNab about him since those bones were dredged up.’

I thought for a moment about McNab’s personal interest in Strachan. I was going to have to make a real effort to work around him, in much the same way as a pilot fish works around a shark.

‘So if he was a First War deserter, how come he didn’t end up in front of a firing squad?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know too much about that, but I gather that he talked his way out of it. He was good at that, from all accounts. And the odds were in his favour: there were over three thousand sentenced to death, but only three hundred or so faced a firing squad.’

I nodded slowly as I processed the information. The British had been almost as keen on shooting their own as shooting the enemy in the First War. Most of those tied to a post and shot had been men with otherwise outstanding war records, whose nerves had been shredded and reshredded by an uncaring command that did not recognize battle fatigue. And many had simply been terrified children who had lied about their age to serve King and Country. One of the finer moments of the British Empire had been when it had shot a ‘coward’ who had just turned sixteen.

‘There were rumours, apparently,’ continued Ferguson, ‘that Strachan maybe dodged a drumhead court-martial and firing squad because he volunteered to do reconnaissance work. You know, going over-the-top on your own at night and crawling around in the mud to find out what you could about the enemy disposition – barbed-wire, machine-gun posts, that kind of thing. Maybe that’s where his daughters got that mad idea that he was a war hero. It was probably dangerous, all right, but you’ve got less chance of getting shot at night on your belly than tied to a post in front of a firing squad. Anyway, have you seen Billy Dunbar yet … the guy I gave you the address for?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well I got the name of the witness we talked about. The van driver. But you’re not going to get much out of him.’

‘Oh, why?’

‘Rommel got to him first. If you want to find him you’ll have to go and play hunt the thimble in the North African desert. A German land mine sent his head in the direction of Tobruk and his arse towards the equator.’

‘Great. Thanks for checking it out anyway. There’s one other thing, Jock …’

‘Oh, really, there’s another thing you need from me? Why am I not bloody surprised?’

‘I’ve got another name needs checking. Could you see if you’ve got anything on someone called Paul Downey? I think he’s an actor. And part-time photographer.’

‘Why the hell not? I’ve got nothing else to do other than pander to your every whim. Is this connected to the Strachan thing?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ I said. ‘It’s a completely different case. Someone’s kid keeping the wrong company, that sort of thing.’

‘And you say he’s an actor?’

I shrugged. ‘That’s what I’ve been told. Or photographer, or both.’

‘Okay, I’ll check it out. But I’m warning you, Lennox, I’ll be looking for a few quid pro quos for this. Next time I ask you for some straight information, I expect to get some information. Straight.’

‘Fair enough,’ I lied convincingly.

‘And Lennox?’

‘Yeah?’

‘You’ve made a good job of keeping your nose clean of late. Don’t go sticking it back in the shite; it brings out the worst in you. You understand what I’m saying?’

‘I understand, Jock,’ I said. And I did.

My last business meeting with Willie Sneddon had been in a brothel and bare-knuckle fight venue he had acquired. He was nothing if not creative in combining enterprises. This place, however, was a completely different ball of wax.

The offices of Paragon Importing and Distribution were down near the Queen’s Dock in a vast commercial palace of redbrick that had been soot-grimed a matt rusty-black. It was the kind of place the Victorians had built as a cathedral to trade, and reminded me of the huge ornate warehouses I had seen in Hamburg at the end of the war.