The Long Glasgow Kiss

‘There you go …’ Franks grinned again and handed me a folded note he took from his waistcoat pocket. I noticed something on his forearm and he tugged his shirtsleeve down, casually. ‘But getting into Fort Knox would be easier.’

‘What do you mean?’ I unfolded the note; it had an address in Craithie Court, Partick, written on it.

‘It’s a pussy pound,’ he said, matter-of-factly and without a hint of lasciviousness. ‘A hostel for unmarried women run by Glasgow Corporation. It’s only a couple or so years old. Claire has her digs there. But they’ve got a matron and she’ll have your bollocks if you try to get in. Strictly no gentlemen callers. You’d maybe be better trying to catch her here the next time she’s singing.’

‘When would that be?’ I asked.

‘To be honest, it might not be for a week or more. I’ve got a new combo booked in for the next two Fridays.’

‘No … I need to see her before then.’ I stared at the note for a moment, my mind elsewhere. ‘I’m looking for Sammy Pollock. Or Gainsborough, as he seemed to prefer to be known. Claire’s boyfriend. Have you seen him lately?’

‘That wanker?’ Franks grinned. ‘No. Not for a couple of weeks.’

‘The last time he was seen was here. There was a bit of a disagreement outside the club, about two weeks ago. Did you see or hear any of that?’

‘No …’ Franks pursed his lips pensively. ‘No, can’t say I did. And nobody mentioned it either.’

‘Right, I see.’ I pocketed the note. ‘Thanks. And thanks for the offer of a drink. I’ll take you up on that the next time I’m in.’

‘Sure.’ His smile was still there but had changed. He was reading my mind and I was reading his. It said: I don’t need your sympathy.

I walked out of the stuffiness of the Pacific Club and into the stuffiness of the Glasgow evening. The taxi was still waiting for me. I got into the back and told the driver to take me to Blanefield. I sat in silence for the whole journey, thinking about Larry Franks’s cheery manner. And the number I’d seen tattooed on the inside of his forearm.

When I got out of the taxi, I could have sworn that Davey Wallace was in exactly the same place, in exactly the same position, as when I’d left him in the morning. We sat together in my Atlantic and he ran through twenty minutes of detailed notes. Twenty minutes of detailed nothing. He was a good kid all right and keen enough to make mustard makers the world over question their calling.

‘You free to do the same shift tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘Maybe a bit longer too?’

‘Sure, Mr Lennox. Anytime. And you don’t need to bring me up here. I know where it is and I can get the tram.’

‘Okay. Meet me up here a bit later. Make it six tomorrow. Nothing’s going to happen during the day, I reckon. How about your work? Will you still be okay for the early shift?’

‘No problem, Mr Lennox.’

‘Good,’ I said. Of course it wasn’t a problem. Having to cross the Himalayas wouldn’t have been a big enough problem to keep Davey away. I gave him a fiver. ‘You get off home now.’

‘Thanks, Mr Lennox,’ said Davey with reverent gratitude.

This was not a good use of my time. I sat watching Kirkcaldy’s place for three hours without anything happening. Then Bobby Kirkcaldy arrived, presumably after a day at the gym in Maryhill. He turned more than a thousand pounds’ worth of Sunbeam-Talbot Sports, its soft-top folded down, into the drive. Kirkcaldy was a successful professional boxer, but even at that he seemed to be able to stretch his finances impressively. Maybe he had a paper round.

I leaned back in the driver’s seat, sliding down to get some support for my neck, and tilted my hat over my eyes. No point in being uncomfortable. It still felt clammy and I had the window wound open, but the air outside was clammy and sluggish and there was no breeze to cool me down. I was going to have trouble staying awake. I turned on the radio but all I could get was Frank Sinatra talking his way through another forgettable tune. I decided to keep my brain active by going over where I was with everything.

There was a tie-in with Small Change’s murder all right. Bobby Kirkcaldy was up to his neck in something that didn’t follow Queensberry rules. There was a connection between Small Change and Kirkcaldy through Soutar. Here I was trying to avoid getting any deeper into dodgy dealing and all the time I was being sucked deeper and deeper into Small Change’s murder.