The Long Glasgow Kiss

‘I like it here,’ I said. ‘I told you that. I also like being able to do anything I can for the girls.’ I referred to Fiona White’s daughters.

‘We don’t need charity, Mr Lennox. We don’t need anything from you.’ The thaw had been brief and false. She put the sherry glass down on the table and stood up abruptly. ‘If that’s everything, Mr Lennox, then I’d better get back to the girls.’

‘What is it you resent about me, Mrs White?’ I said. ‘Is it that I’m a Canadian? Is it my line of work? Or is it simply the fact that I’m here?’

That did it. We moved from a chill in the air to a positive Ice Age.

‘And just what is that meant to mean?’

‘I mean that I’m here. That I came back. I survived and your husband didn’t. Sometimes I think you resent me because I represent everyone who did come back from the war.’

She turned and headed for the door. I went over and placed my hand on the door handle. I was going to open the door for her, but she clearly misread my intent and pulled at my hand on the knob. It was a tight grip: warm, slim fingers strong on my wrist. She was close to me now, her body inches from mine. I could smell the sherry on her breath. The scent of lavender on her neck. We both froze for a moment, our eyes locked. She was breathing hard. I wasn’t breathing at all. It was a second that seemed to last forever, then she snatched open the door and stormed down the stairs.

‘Goodnight, Mr Lennox,’ she said, her back to me, her voice unsteady.

‘Mrs White … Fiona …’

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, and without looking round, she slammed the door of her flat behind her.

I went back into my flat and poured myself another whisky. Probably to celebrate my diplomatic skills and to commemorate the last time I had been in a situation so charged with sexual tension. I idly wondered what had happened to Maisie MacKendrie, with whom I’d danced at the Saint John Presbyterian Church Social when we were both fifteen.

But that wasn’t all I reflected on. I sipped at my whisky contemplatively. I had a lot to contemplate.

Dex Devereaux, for example. And how it was mighty big of the City of Glasgow Police to be so cooperative. To the point of subservience.

CHAPTER NINE

Some people relish the unpredictability of life; the never really knowing what’s ahead around the next corner. You wake up in the morning and engage the day, totally and blissfully blind to all of the things that may turn to crap within twenty-four hours. When I woke up, washed and shaved the next morning, I didn’t really get much of a chance to reflect on what was going on that was so big it commanded transatlantic interest. Other developments kind of took over my attention.

I got the news in the same way as any other Glasgow citizen. A headline in the Glasgow Herald.

SUSPECT ARRESTED FOR MURDER OF GLASGOW BOOKMAKER

I had bought a copy on the way into the office and I stopped for a coffee at my usual place on Argyle Street to read it. The article beneath the headline explained that Tommy ‘Gun’ Furie, a small-time boxer, had been arrested for the murder of James MacFarlane, a leading Glasgow turf accountant with suspected links to the Glasgow underworld. Reading on, I discovered that Furie was one of the tinkers camped up at Vinegarhill. I read small-time boxer as bare-knuckle fighter and I thought of the edifying spectacle at Sneddon’s barn hideaway.

Furie, the article said, was an Irish tinker. A pikey, as Sneddon would have described him. Being an Irish gypsy meant that Furie stood a very good chance of getting a fair trial. Much in the same way that I stood a very good chance of Marilyn Monroe throwing over Joe DiMaggio to come to Glasgow and live in squalid sin with me. Glasgow CID had told the reporter that, although Furie was helping them with their enquiries, they would continue to explore all other avenues of investigation. As I read that, the image of Marilyn washing my smalls in a Glasgow tenement steamie leapt to mind.

That seemed to be that.

I wondered how Lorna had reacted to the news – and if the police had had the sense to let her know before she read it in the newspaper. I finished my coffee and walked to my office. Glasgow’s weather had reverted fully to type and a greasy drizzle seeped from the steel-grey sky. When I got into my office, I ’phoned Lorna’s number but it rang out. Putting the receiver down, I decided to call in on her that evening. It had been a few days since I’d seen her, although I’d ’phoned every day. Each call seemed to elicit a cooler and cooler reception. I felt bad that I hadn’t been there more often but everything that had been going on had distracted me. And I still couldn’t give her what she wanted from me.