The Deep Dark Sleep

‘No … he didn’t. No …’ Archie shrugged and left his answer hanging. He turned down the corners of his mouth, which shifted his expression from lugubrious to funereal. ‘I don’t know all the ins and outs of it, of course, only having been a humble beat bobby, but from what I do know, Strachan didn’t have any kind of record at all. No one could pin him with anything. He was a secretive type and made sure nothing incriminating could ever stick to him, so God knows what else he got up to. Maybe Gourlay wasn’t his first murder. More than that, I don’t know. You’d have to talk to someone who was in CID at the time. Or Willie McNab.’

‘Superintendent McNab?’ I laughed. ‘He’d have my balls if he knew I was involved with this case. I gather that he and Gourlay were close friends.’

‘Were they?’ The massive expanse of Archie’s brow creased. ‘I didn’t know that. But if you say so.’

‘Did you ever come across someone called Billy Dunbar?’

‘No, can’t say I have,’ said Archie after a moment’s thought.

‘Here’s the last known address for him.’ I handed Archie the address given to me by Jock Ferguson. ‘That’s a starting point. Could you see if you can track him down?’

‘Is this me started, then?’ Archie raised his eyebrows. ‘When do I get my trenchcoat and six-shooter?’

‘I think you’re confusing Humphrey Bogart with John Wayne. Yes, this is a job. Keep a tally of your time and expenses. Just see if you can trace him. But try not to spook him. I just want to talk to him, okay?’

‘I will move like a panther in the night,’ said Archie.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I took the keys into the office and ran Archie home in the Atlantic. I went back to the Central Hotel to pick up my stuff, pausing in the lobby to use one of the telephone kiosks. It was all walnut, brass and polished glass and didn’t smell of piss in the slightest. I ’phoned Mrs White and told her that I was in the Central Hotel but moving on, probably, that day or the next. She sounded genuinely relieved to hear from me and I asked her if everything was all right, which she said it was, but I could tell from her voice she was tired. I told her I would keep in touch and I hung up.

I rang up to Leonora Bryson’s room, but got no answer. I had better luck when I tried John Macready’s suite. I told her I was moving out and would keep in touch about progress, I also asked what Macready’s movements would be for the next week, until he caught his flight. Her tone was as businesslike as usual and neither of us made mention of what had happened the night before: she because she was not alone in the room, probably; I, because the situation was so bizarre that I was beginning to doubt that it had really happened, or think that I had dreamt it.

After staying in the Central Hotel, I braced myself to come down in the world, and found a reasonably priced hotel down by the Gallowgate. It was more of a boarding house than a hotel and had a sign outside which declared: NO DOGS, NO BLACKS, NO IRISH. I had spotted signs like this in London and the South, but this was the first I had seen in Glasgow. I was greeted, or more confronted, by a small, rotund, balding bundle of hostility who introduced himself as the landlord. He had that speech defect that seemed to be particularly common in Glasgow, a slushy lisp where every fricative is distorted into something that sounds like radio interference. It was rather unfortunate, therefore, that his name was Mr Simpson. Or Schimpschon, as he introduced himself.

I restrained the instinct to dry my face with my handkerchief, or to ask if it was okay if I could keep Nigger, my black Irish Wolfhound, in my room, and followed Simpson up the stairs. When I answered his question about how long I would be staying, which I said would be a week, he stopped on the stair and turned, a suspicious frown creasing his porcine brow.

‘You’re no’ Irischsch, are you?’

‘What? Oh, my accent … no, I’m Canadian. Is that all right? But I did spend a weekend in Belfast once …’

My irony went over his shiny head by a mile.

‘That’sch awright. Schscho long aschsch you’re no’ Irischsch …’

The room was basic but clean, and I shared a bathroom with four other rooms and there was a pay ’phone in the hall. It would do for a week or two, if needs be. I paid three days in advance, which Simpson took thanklessly and left.

With Archie on the trail of Billy Dunbar, I decided to dedicate myself to tracking down Paul Downey, the part-time amateur photographer who had done so well in capturing John Macready’s good side.

I spent the first evening checking out the well-known queer haunts in the city centre: the Oak Café, the Royal Bar in West Nile Street and a couple of others. I decided to hold off on a trip down to Glasgow Green for the moment. Wherever I went, I was met with an almost universal suspicion, clearly being taken instantly as a copper out to trap homosexuals. I would have probably been less offended if they had thought I had been there cruising.