The Long Glasgow Kiss

I reached inside my jacket pocket with my right hand. For a minute, from the expression on his face, I think Skelly really thought I was going to hand him a ten-bob note. I pulled out the flat, spring-handled blackjack and in a continuous, backhand movement, whacked him in the side of the mouth with it. The sound was somewhere between a snap and a crunch and he dropped like a stone. His friend took a step towards me and I held out my hand, making a beckoning gesture with my fingers for him to keep coming. Young clearly decided to decline the invitation and backed off.

I leaned over Skelly. He was coming round. His face was a mess of blood. From the look of it, I had done him a favour: he clearly wasn’t too keen on toothpaste and I reckoned he would have a few less teeth to clean in the future. I patted him down with my free hand until I found what I was looking for, reached into his jacket pocket and took out the small Webley Three-Two.

‘Here’s your tip, Skelly … never, ever pull a gun on me. Even an antique like this. If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll kill you. That’s not just an expression: I’ll stop you breathing. Got it?’

He made an incoherent moaning sound behind his broken teeth. I took it as his assent. I pocketed the Three-Two and turned to the sandy-haired goon.

‘If I see your face again, it’ll end up in a worse condition than his. Have you got that?’

He nodded.

‘Have a nice night, girls,’ I said amiably, then I climbed into the Atlantic and drove off.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I spent the next couple of days paddling hard and getting nowhere. Nowhere with what had happened to Sammy Pollock. Nowhere on what was going on with Bobby Kirkcaldy. I was considering changing the name of my business to Sisyphus Investigations. The one good thing was I was able to leave a message with Big Bob at the Horsehead for young Davey to get in touch. I would maybe have something for him to do after all.

Sheila Gainsborough was back in town. She called me on her return from London and didn’t sound at all pleased that I had so little to report. She insisted on talking face-to-face and asked if I would meet her at Sammy’s apartment. I drove over that afternoon.

When I got there the place was unrecognizable. The disorder was tidied and the air in the apartment was scented with beeswax.

Sheila had gathered her blonde hair up with pins and was dressed for serious housework: a red checked shirt-style blouse, the shirt tails tied in a bow at her navel, exposing a couple of inches of pale midriff above the sky-blue Capri pants. She had none of the sophisticated couture she had worn at our last meeting and her face was naked of make-up, other than a quick sweep of crimson around the lips. And she still looked a million dollars.

‘I had to tidy the place up,’ she said. ‘It makes me feel better. Getting it nice for Sammy to come back to, I mean.’

She asked me if I wanted a coffee and I decided to risk it: coffee in Glasgow was typically some chicory sludge from a bottle, mixed with hot water. But Sheila was anything other than typical Glasgow. She returned with a tray encouragingly laden with a percolator, two cups and a plate of pastries. She poured our coffees and sat down opposite me, her knees angled, ankles together, finishing-school style. I thought again about how good a job they had done on her.

She offered me one of the pastries. It was one of those over-sweet things that had become popular since rationing had ended: a doughnut with cream and jam filling – what we used to call a Burlington Bun back home in Atlantic Canada. I didn’t know what they called them anywhere else.

‘No thanks.’ I smiled. ‘I don’t have a sweet tooth.’ I noticed she put the plate back down without taking a pastry herself. That figure was a piece of work.

‘The last time we spoke I was really worried about Sammy disappearing …’ She bit into her crimson lower lip and I found myself wishing she had been biting into mine. ‘Now I’m frightened, Mr Lennox. He seems to have vanished from the face of the Earth. And you don’t seem to have the slightest clue …’

‘Listen, Miss Gainsborough. I have found something out. I didn’t want to tell you on the ’phone, but do you remember Paul Costello, the guy we came across at Sammy’s apartment?’

She nodded. I could see the trepidation in her eyes.

‘Well,’ I continued, ‘I’m afraid he seems to have gone missing too. Same set-up.’

The trepidation became fear and Sheila’s eyes glossed with tears.

‘I really think you should contact the police,’ I said, placing my coffee cup on its saucer and leaning forward. ‘I know you’re really concerned and, if I’m honest, so am I.’

‘But the police …’ She paused and frowned. ‘Why do you think they’ve both disappeared?’