The Deep Dark Sleep

‘So you want me to post a guard outside the front door without there being a complaint on the books to justify it?’

‘You could think of something, Jock. A prowler seen in the area, that kind of thing.’

‘Lennox, you said this guy was armed. We can’t have people running around Glasgow waving guns about.’

‘True, I can see how that would lower the tone of the place …’

Ferguson gave me a look.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I understand that. But before we start a manhunt, tell me why you’re on your own.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. Not even a beat bobby with you.’

He turned to Fiona White and smiled. ‘Could you excuse us for a moment, please, Mrs White?’ Then turning back to me: ‘Let’s go upstairs. I’ll help you pack …’

My raincoat had taken the worst of the damage: there was a bad tear at the seam of one arm, and a sleeve and the back of the coat were smudged with tarry, black streaks where I’d skidded over the cobbles in the alley. My hat, one of my best Borsalinos, was still lying somewhere in the alley. Despite my suit being unmarked, I wanted to change it, along with my shirt, as you always want to do after you have been in a fight.

Jock Ferguson sat smoking in the lounge while I washed, changed and packed. Standing at the washstand, I looked at myself in the mirror. A faint discolouration haloed the sticking plaster on my cheek, but there was no swelling and I didn’t look too bad. I guessed that I had bled enough to prevent serious bruising.

An odd idiosyncrasy of my personality was that I was a sharp dresser: I always bought the best clothes I could afford. And often clothes I couldn’t. I packed a dozen shirts, not wanting to have to come back to pick up more, and two changes of suit, four silk ties and half a dozen handkerchiefs. I also packed a brand new pair of brown suede shoes with composition soles, which were just the latest dab. I had decided to take a leaf out of my dance partner’s book.

After I had my clothes packed, I called through to Ferguson to check he was okay and I apologized for the delay; he responded with something grunted. What I was really doing was checking where he was, and that he wasn’t about to appear in the bedroom doorway while I took a copy of H.G. Wells’s The Shape of Things to Come from the bookshelf and dropped it into my case. I then got down on my hands and knees and, stretching my arm under the bed, eased up two loose floorboards and reached into the floorspace. Taking the oilskin-wrapped bundle, I gave it another wrapping in an old shirt and dropped it into the case next to the book.

‘Okay, Jock …’ I said when I reappeared in my sitting room, ‘let’s have it. Why are you flying solo?’

For the first time since I’d known him, Jock Ferguson looked ill at ease.

‘I need to ask you one thing, Lennox,’ he said firmly. ‘Have you discussed your interest in the Gentleman Joe Strachan business with anyone else, other than me?’

‘Ah …’ I said. ‘I see you’ve followed the same line of thought that I have. The answer is no, I have another case on and I have been dealing with that since we spoke. I have discussed the Strachan business with no one other than you.’ Of course I had: with Willie Sneddon, but I knew that if Sneddon had wanted to frighten me off, it would have been more direct. I also knew that Sneddon kept his own counsel. In any case, I felt it best not to let Ferguson know that I’d been in touch with a King.

‘That’s what I thought …’ Ferguson said glumly. He sat on the edge of the sofa, leaning forwards, his elbows resting on his knees.

‘And you only spoke to your fellow officers about it, and then I get jumped and warned off. That’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it?’

‘It doesn’t make sense …’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose I can understand you being warned off because there are officers who are so determined to find the rest of the gang … but waving a gun about …’

‘Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, Jock. I really think that it is unlikely to have been a copper at all. There’s always another side to every story. You suggested it yourself – my clients, Isa and Violet. Maybe they told someone that they were planning to hire someone to look into the discovery of dear old dad’s remains. They told me that they had asked around and my name had come up. It could be that someone has simply done some two and two arithmetic.’

‘And …’ asked Ferguson, reading my mind.

‘And Violet does have a husband who looks like he knows all the moves.’

‘Name?’

‘Robert …’ I struggled to remember the married names the twins had given me. I had got used to thinking of them as Isa and Violet Strachan in my head. ‘Robert McKnight. Mean anything?’

‘Not offhand. I’ll check it out. Discreetly. In the meantime I’d keep a low profile if I were you, Lennox.’

‘I’ll do my best. While I’m doing a Greta Garbo, can you have someone keep an eye on Mrs White? And give her a number to call …’