The Long Glasgow Kiss

I took Ferguson and Devereaux to the Horsehead Bar. It was well past closing time and Ferguson made a point of finding interesting something far off and down the street while I gave my coded knock. There were as many as twenty regulars inside the pub. Big Bob was on the bar.

‘We’re not looking for waiters, Lennox,’ he said, grinning inanely and taking in our dinner suits and black ties. ‘What’ll you be having then?’

‘You know Inspector Ferguson, don’t you Bob?’ I asked.

Bob eyed Ferguson and sighed. ‘On the house, obviously.’

I indicated a quiet table in the corner for Ferguson and Devereaux to take their drinks over.

‘For fuck’s sake, Lennox,’ said Bob when they were out of earshot. ‘Who the fuck you going to bring next … the chief constable?’

‘I wouldn’t do that, Bob. I always take him to the Saracen’s Sword … classier joint. Anyway, I thought this was the night-shift canteen for the City of Glasgow Police.’

‘Aye, a dozen or so bluebottles who think their uniform entitles them to limitless free fucking beer. If I start on the management ranks it’ll be handouts as well and I’ll be truly fucked.’

‘Don’t worry, Bob,’ I said. ‘Ferguson is a straight copper.’

‘Aye? They’re the ones you’ve got to watch.’

Ain’t that the truth, I thought, as I took my drink and joined Devereaux and Ferguson in the corner.

‘So,’ said Devereaux. ‘What did you think of the fight?’

‘I really thought our boy would have given that kraut bastard a run for his money,’ said Ferguson. ‘But it was a bit of a walkover in the end.’

‘You?’ Devereaux nodded in my direction. ‘What did you think, Lennox?

I shrugged. ‘You never can tell with these things.’

‘Really?’ said Devereaux. ‘I think someone could tell the way that fight was going to turn out.’

‘A fix?’ Ferguson looked up from his beer. ‘You think it was rigged?’

‘Four, five rounds of dancing around each other, then the door’s left open for a couple of killer punches? You bet it was rigged,’ said Devereaux.

‘But Kirkcaldy’s on his way to the top. Everyone thought he had a good chance of picking up the European belt tonight. Why would he throw a fight?’

Devereaux shrugged. ‘Maybe there’s something we don’t know about him. Maybe he owes money. Maybe he hasn’t got the future everyone thinks he has.’ Devereaux seemed to examine me for a moment. ‘You’re not saying much.’

‘Me? Nothing much to say, Dex. I’m a bit pissed off that the fight was such a disappointment, that’s all.’

After a while we got off the subject of the fight, which I was thankful for. That little nugget of exclusive knowledge about Kirkcaldy’s heart condition kept rolling to the front of my mind. And from the front of my mind to the tip of my tongue was a short trip. Especially when I’d tied on a few.

I wasn’t thankful for long. Devereaux leaned forward and spoke to me in low tones when Ferguson had gone to the toilets.

‘Jock told me that they’re giving you quite a bit of licence with this Costello killing,’ said Devereaux. ‘How much do they know about it being tied in to John Largo?’

‘Nothing. I don’t know for sure that it is.’ It was the worst kind of lie, an obvious one, and Devereaux gave me a look. I sighed. ‘Okay, it could be that Largo killed Costello or had him killed. But I want to get my client’s brother out of this. Like I said, then I’ll give you Largo on a plate. Once I have Sammy, I’ll get him to talk. He’s my … our … best hope of getting Largo.’

‘Okay, Lennox. Anything you say.’

‘What’s that meant to mean?’

‘It means you’re holding out on me.’

‘Am I? What?’

‘Alain Barnier.’

That stopped me in my tracks. Thankfully it was at that point that Jock Ferguson re-emerged from the toilets.

‘We ready?’ he asked.

Devereaux drained his whisky. ‘We’re ready.’

It had been raining while we had been in the Horsehead. The stonework and the cobbles on the street outside were the oil-sleek black of a Glasgow night. I had arranged to give Jock Ferguson a lift home.

‘I’ll drop you off at your hotel first,’ I said to Devereaux.

‘It’s okay,’ he said, squeezing his considerable bulk into the confines of the Atlantic’s back seats. ‘I’ll come along for the ride. See a little more of Glasgow by night.’ It was a fait that could not have been more accompli. I shrugged and dropped in behind the wheel.

Jock Ferguson, normally on the lugubrious side of funereal, was positively chipper on the journey back. The evening and the drink had combined to open a door in his personality. I wondered if that was who Ferguson had really been before the war. And I wished I could find as easy a way back to my prewar self. There again, the bottle was the key most men used.

After we dropped Ferguson outside his anonymous semi, Dex Devereaux swapped seats and took the front passenger seat.

‘Okay Johnny Canuck … Let’s go for a drive,’ he said cheerlessly.