The Long Glasgow Kiss

THE LONG GLASGOW KISS

Also by Craig Russell

Lennox

The Jan Fabel Series:

Blood Eagle

Brother Grimm

Eternal

The Carnival Master

The Valkyrie Song

THE LONG GLASGOW KISS

CRAIG RUSSELL

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by

Quercus

21 Bloomsbury Square

London

WC1A 2NS

Copyright © 2010 by Craig Russell

The moral right of Craig Russell to be

identified as the author of this work has been

asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication

may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopy, recording, or any

information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 84724 968 5 (TPB)

ISBN 978 1 84724 969 2 (HB)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

businesses, organizations, places and events are

either the product of the author’s imagination

or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or

locales is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

For Marion

THE LONG GLASGOW KISS

CHAPTER ONE

Some concepts are alien to the Glaswegian mind. Salad. Dentistry. Forgiveness.

Until the night Small Change MacFarlane died, I had no idea just how unforgiving Glasgow could be. My education in vindictiveness was about to be completed.

It was mid-heat wave hot and sticky and I had an even hotter and stickier date with Lorna MacFarlane the night her father was murdered. I had parked my Austin Atlantic up above the city on Glennifer Braes, from where you could see Glasgow stretched out below, dark and sullen in the muggy night; but, to be honest, we didn’t take in much of the view. Looking back, it’s ironic to think that two members of the MacFarlane family had been on the business end of a blunt instrument at roughly the same time.

Lorna was quite a bit above the usual Glasgow standard: she was pretty, with strawberry blonde hair and a knockout figure. Like most lowlifes made good, her bookie father was always striving for a touch of respectability and had sent Lorna to a fancy boarding school in Edinburgh. The aim had probably been to turn her into a proper little lady, but whatever languages were taught there, I had found out in the back of my Atlantic that when it came to French, Lorna was a natural linguist.

If I had to describe my relationship with Lorna at that time, the word shallow would fit best. Mind you, it was an adjective that could have been applied to almost all my relationships with women. Lorna and I were, however, particularly mutually undemanding. She was killing time until she landed the right type of husband material, and me … well, I was just doing what I always did. If events hadn’t taken the turn they had that night, I think we would have drifted apart without acrimony. But that night, up on Glennifer Braes, we had no idea what was ahead of us.

My ignorance was especially blissful. I was completely unaware that a blood debt was about to be extracted, or what a Baro or a bitchapen were. And if someone, on that humid, too-hot summer evening had mentioned the name John Largo to me, I would have assumed they were talking about a character in a Wild West movie. Which would have been apt, in a way: the West didn’t get any wilder than Glasgow.

But John Largo was no cowboy. He was what the French would call an éminence gris. A shadow. A very dangerous shadow with a long reach.

After our back-seat tango, I drove Lorna home to Pollokshields. Glasgow had its own social geography, meaningless to anyone from outside the city but all-important to its minority of middle classes. Glasgow, by and large, was a classless sort of city where the only thing that counted for anything was how much money you had. The Glasgow accent was common across social boundaries; intelligibility or, more correctly, the comparative lack of unintelligibility, was the only indicator of status. The result was that social prestige tended to be determined by geography, or more subtle social indicators such as proximity to a toilet that flushed or whether your grandmother still lived in a slum.