The Long Glasgow Kiss

Kirkcaldy smiled and nodded. There was nothing to the smile in the same way there had been nothing to Sheila Gainsborough’s smile. ‘You know this is a lot of nonsense, don’t you?’

I shrugged. ‘It sounds to me like someone is trying to spook you before the big fight. There are a lot of people betting a lot of money, one way or the other, on this fight. And some of those people aren’t above dodgy dealings to protect their investment.’

‘It’s obviously somebody trying to spook me, but it’s not working. I don’t spook easily, and anyone who’s had anything to do with me would know I’d quit the ring before throwing a fight.’

‘Has anyone approached you about it? ’Phone calls, notes under the door, that kind of thing.’

‘No. Nothing. Like you say, just a spook job. Trying to put me off my preparation for the fight.’

I nodded and noted. Maybe it would get back to Sneddon that I had nodded and noted. This was a wild goose chase, just like the thing with Small Change’s appointment book. The only thing that surprised me about it was Kirkcaldy’s willingness to accept it was someone trying to queer him for the fight. Like Jonny Cohen, I got the impression this was about something else. I decided to run the idea past him.

‘Is there anything else – anybody with a grudge, or some dispute you’ve got going – that might explain this?’

He pursed his lips and thought it over for a moment. ‘No … I can honestly say I can’t imagine anyone doing this for personal reasons.’

‘I see,’ I said. It was interesting that he had to think about it before answering. As if he had never before considered the possibility. We talked for another half hour, during which I noted down each of the things that had happened, the dates, the times. Kirkcaldy gave me the information in a going-through-the-motions manner. I asked if I could see the car that had been splashed with red paint: it had been repainted. The noose had been thrown out as had, obviously, the dead bird.

‘What kind of bird was it?’ I asked.

‘What? I don’t know. A bird. A dove or a pigeon, I think. But I do know it was white. Pure white. So probably a dove.’

‘How did it die?’

‘I don’t fucking know.’ He became agitated and the Motherwell in his voice became more pronounced.

‘What will you do?’ he asked wearily.

‘Well, I’ve nothing to go on. You’ve no idea of who might have a personal grievance against you … There’s not a lot I can do other than watch your back for a while.’

‘I can watch my own back,’ he said and cast a meaningful look at Uncle Bert.

‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep an eye on things. Of course I can’t be here all the time, so if anything happens, you can get me on one of these numbers normally.’ I scribbled down my office and home number, as well as the number for the ’phone behind the bar at the Horsehead.

By the time I left Kirkcaldy’s place, the ship-iron sky had turned even darker and the air even more oppressive. It was damp-hot and I could feel the pressure like a band around my head. I had only been driving for a couple of minutes when the weather broke.

If there’s one thing Glasgow can do well – better than anywhere else I know – then it’s rain. There were a couple of bright, ugly flashes in the sky and the rain hit my windscreen before the deafening thunder rolled over me. It didn’t just rain – it was as if there was a pent-up fury driving the thick, heavy bullets of rain that rattled and drummed furiously on the roof of my car and mocked the best but feeble efforts of my wind-screen wipers. As I approached Blanefield and headed into Bearsden, I had to slow the car to an almost crawl, unable to see more than a few feet in front of me.

I had time on my hands before I met the Frenchman so I drove down to Argyle Street. The torrential rain hadn’t stopped but I was lucky enough to get parked a thirty-second dash away from the corner tearooms. I went in, shook the rain off my hat and moaned to the waiter I handed it to about the sudden change in the weather. There were only a couple of other tables occupied and I sat in gloomy silence. When I’d finished my lamb chop and mashed potatoes I drank a coffee and smoked, gloomily contemplating the rain through the window.

A fool’s errand. No matter how long I thought it over, the Bobby Kirkcaldy job remained a fool’s errand. Willie Sneddon was thrashing about in the dark trying to protect his investment. Other than sit outside Kirkcaldy’s house all night, there was very little I could do. And if it came to a twenty-four-hour surveillance job, then it would cost Sneddon dear. He’d be better getting Twinkletoes McBride to park himself outside. Or Singer. This was a muscle job. I was going to have to tell Sneddon so.

After I’d settled my bill at the cashier’s desk and collected my hat, I went back out into the rain. It had eased considerably, and with its easing it had taken some of the stale heat out of the air. But Glasgow was Glasgow again, dressed in rain and shades of grey.