The Long Glasgow Kiss

Maybe it was because Jock Ferguson’s name had come up in conversation with my tame copper chum Donald Taylor, but, almost on an impulse, I picked up the ’phone and dialled the number for St. Andrew’s Square headquarters. Obviously, Detective Inspector John Ferguson knew nothing of my ‘accommodation’ with one of his junior officers and he sounded surprised to hear from me all right. Surprised and maybe a little distrustful. I have no idea why I bring that out in some people, especially coppers. He did concede he was free at lunchtime and we agreed to meet up at the Horsehead Bar. Ferguson and I hadn’t spoken much in nearly a year.

It was one-thirty by the time I got to the Horsehead and the lunchtime crowd had already smoked the atmosphere into a density you could cut with a knife. If I were to describe the ambience of the Horsehead, I would say it was eclectic. There were clerks, uniformed in regulation pinstripe, shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar with workmen in flat caps and Wellington boots. It has to be said that no one could accuse Glaswegians of not being fashion-conscious, and a few of the workies had rolled their Wellies down from calf- to ankle-length as a concession to the warm weather.

I spotted a man in his late thirties over by the bar. He had his back to me but I recognized his tall, angular frame and the dull grey suit he always seemed to wear, year round. Some policemen need a uniform, even after they’ve transferred to CID. I understand it in a way: the need to take off your job when you got home. I squeezed shoulder first into the bar next to Ferguson. The man who had been standing next to him eyed me with that casual, disinterested hostility that you only seem to find in Glasgow hostelries. I smiled at him then turned to Ferguson.

‘Hello, Jock.’

Ferguson turned dull grey eyes that matched his suit on me. Jock Ferguson had anything but an expressive face: it was practically impossible to work out what was going on in his head. I’d seen more than a few men come out of the war with the same absence on their faces. And I somehow had always known that Jock Ferguson had a similar kind of war to mine.

‘Long time no see,’ he said, without smiling. And without offering me a drink. We were going through the preliminaries. ‘Where have you been keeping yourself?’

‘You know, keeping my head down. Divorce cases, company thefts, that kind of thing.’

‘Still doing work for Glasgow’s disreputable element?’

‘Now and again. Not as much as before. Things aren’t what they used to be, Jock. Gangsters have embraced the free market. I can’t compete with the rates your colleagues charge.’

Something set harder in Ferguson’s face, but he clearly decided to let it go. Before, he would have laughed off a jibe like that because he knew I was referring to coppers other than him. But this was not before.

‘I heard you were asking a few questions about me, Lennox. After that business last year. I could be accused of being paranoid, but that would suggest to me that you think I had something to do with all that shite. Is that what you think?’

I shrugged. ‘I just got to chatting with a couple of your colleagues. Are you telling me that you didn’t have anything to do with it?’

He held my gaze. Neither of us wished to define what it was that had happened. The truth is that he shouldn’t have even known about the events in a dockside warehouse that ended with me having a bullet in my side and someone very special to me lying dead at my feet, her face blown off. Events that would not have taken place if information hadn’t been leaked by a copper.

‘Anything that happened had nothing to do with me. That’s what I’m saying, yes.’

‘Okay. If that’s what you’re saying, then I believe you, Jock.’ It was a lie. We both knew it was a lie but it was a form of words that allowed us to move on. For the moment. ‘So … how are things?’

‘Busy. McNab has dumped this train death on me. And he’s piling on the pressure. This new smart-arse pathologist has got him farting fire. You know McNab, shite killing shite doesn’t interest him unless it’s all straightforward and easy, which it usually is.’

I nodded sympathetically. The idea of working for a wroth McNab was a frightening thought. For a second I felt the weight of his hand on my chest. ‘So how’s the investigation going? Any leads?’

Ferguson snorted. ‘Sweet Fanny Adams. We’ve nothing to go on except the body. And you could carry that around in a couple of buckets. Anyway, you didn’t ask to see me to enquire about my level of job satisfaction. What do you want, Lennox? You’re always after something.’

Before answering, I nodded over to the barman and ordered a couple of whiskies. He wasn’t a barman I knew so I decided not to confuse him by asking for a Canadian Club.

‘You know this big fight that’s coming up? Bobby Kirkcaldy and the German?’

‘Of course. What about it?’

‘Well, Kirkcaldy’s been getting some unwanted attention. Crap dumped on his doorstep, veiled threats, that kind of thing.’

‘Has he contacted us?’