The Long Glasgow Kiss

‘As a matter of fact it is,’ said Kirkcaldy, in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Congenital defect. I’ve had it since birth but didn’t know about it. It’s only over the last six months that I’ve had problems with it. The quack says I’ve to take it easy, take the stress out of my life. Maybe I should start with you, huh, Lennox?’

‘So I’m guessing you made a killing on the fight?’ I asked.

‘Jack here arranged it all for us. It actually started off as Small Change’s idea. No really big bets. Nothing that would get noticed too much, but lots of them, spread out across all the bookies. And each bet placed by a third party who couldn’t be connected to Collins, far less me.’

‘Very sweet,’ I said. ‘But you weren’t the only ones in the know. Two young Flash Harrys tried to broker a big bet against you winning through Tony the Pole.’

‘That’s something I don’t know about,’ said Kirkcaldy as casually as he could manage. If he had been as poor at throwing a feint in the ring, then his prematurely terminated career would have terminated even more prematurely.

‘Who were they?’ I pushed my luck. Seeing as I was at gunpoint in an outbuilding in the middle of nowhere, where a shot would go unheard far less unnoticed, I felt I was just as well pushing it.

‘I told you, I don’t know anything about them or anybody else laying bets.’

I decided to move on before Kirkcaldy’s pants caught fire. ‘I’m sure your little scheme will have raked in a lot of cash. But not that much. Not enough for this kind of grief. And it doesn’t add up to something worth killing Small Change for.’

‘Small Change’s death has got nothing to do with us. Nothing at all. And it’s got nothing to do with the fight scam either.’

‘No … I believe you didn’t kill Small Change, but the fight scam does have something to do with his death. Maybe Small Change came up with the idea of you throwing the fight to start with, but when he did it was simply to get you out of the fight game with a little pension. You must have told him about your heart condition. But the real reason you needed to pull it off was because you needed to pay someone off quick. Someone who was going to give you the same treatment that Small Change got.’

Kirkcaldy didn’t say anything, but exchanged a look with Uncle Bert.

‘You see, Bobby, I’m a studious sort. I spend a lot of time up at the Mitchell Library expanding my mind. One direction I’ve expanded in is the traditions and customs of our travelling cousins. Take the ones up at Vinegarhill. Now, to start with, I thought they were just Irish travellers, but it turns out they’re Minceir, proper Romanies from Ireland … the real Gypsy McCoy, you could say.’

Kirkcaldy said nothing.

‘They’ve had a long and difficult history, gypsies,’ I continued. ‘They’ve been in Britain for centuries, you know. Did you know that we actually sold them to Louisiana to work as slaves for freed blacks who had their own small plantations? Or that we used to hang them just for being gypsies? It’s made them an unforgiving bunch. They’re big on vengeance and blood feud.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Kirkcaldy said, but again I could see behind the expression.

‘I don’t know what you did. That’s the one piece that’s missing for me. You see, like I said, I’ve been reading up on gypsy customs. And I met Sean Furie, whose son is up for Small Change’s murder. Now, to start with, I thought Furie was more Blackrock than Bulgaria, but it would seem he’s the real thing. He and his mob follow gypsy customs and law. Furie himself is a Baro – that’s a kind of clan chieftain. The kingpin gypsy. And as a Baro, Furie will also sit as a judge on the kris, the half-arsed court arrangement they have going. One of the things the kris does is sit in judgement on fellow gypsies or even on gaje as they call non-gypsies.’

‘Very fucking interesting,’ said Bert Soutar. ‘Consider my horizons expanded. Now get over against the wall.’

I decided to stay where I was for the moment. ‘It is interesting. You see, one of the things the kris sits in judgement on is if one of their own is killed by someone else. Murder, say … or a careless accident. Then they can issue a sentence on the accused and the only way he can get out of it is to pay a glaba. Blood money.’ I paused for a moment. Less for dramatic effect and more to check my surroundings again. There were a couple of small, grimy windows over by the rear wall. A clutch of old and rusting garden tools, including a small hand scythe mottled with reddish-brown flecks. A shadow fell across the grime-dimmed window and passed on. There was someone else here. Outside.