The Deep Dark Sleep

I was a great reader. I spent a lot of my time reading to try to understand how the world worked; mainly because my participation in it had only served to befuddle me. You get a lot of ideas from reading: some good, some bad. And a lot of stupid ones.

I had once read that physicists believe that the act of observing really tiny particles actually changes how they behave. The observer effect, they called it. I decided to apply the principle of observer effect on Glasgow’s criminal classes: ask the right – or the wrong – questions in the right places, and things tend to start happening.

As I had ever since our brief encounter in the smog, I kept my eye out for the guy who had jumped me with the gun. I had no sense of anyone tailing me, but there again, nor had Frank when I’d tracked him back to his flat. If you knew what you were doing, it was easy to stay out of sight. And I had the idea that this guy knew exactly what he was doing.

I lodged a few hundred pounds from the fee Fraser had given me into my business account, but the rest I stashed in the safety deposit box. I was almost as stunned by my sudden fortune as I had been by Leonora Bryson’s sudden amorous, if potentially homicidal, passion. Between one thing and another, I had more than eight thousand pounds locked away; more than enough to buy a house outright. To buy four houses in Glasgow. I now no longer had any reason not to go home to Canada. I could lodge the cash in a bank and wire it to Canada before the British inland revenue had a chance to sneeze.

But I wasn’t ready yet. Something had happened to me during the war and I still didn’t like who I had become. The folks back home would be expecting the return of the Kennebecasis Kid: the idealistic, bright-eyed, enthusiastic youth who had taken a commission for the Empire. What they would get was me: the post-war, cynical Lennox who could be hired to slap frightened queers around. And that was me on a good day.

Jock Ferguson left a message for me at the boarding house to call him and, when I did, he informed me that he had checked out Robert McKnight, Violet’s husband who played chauffeur to the twins.

‘He’s a car salesman,’ Ferguson informed me. ‘No known record.’

‘What kind of car salesman?’ I asked, as if they came in any discernible shades of character. ‘Bomb-site used or gentlemen’s Bentleys?’

‘He works at the Mitchell and Laird Garage, up in Cowcaddens. Legit. They sell new or nearly new Fords, but I don’t know if they’re an authorized dealer or not. And they carry a big stock of second-hand cars, but it seems to be quality stuff.’

‘I see,’ I said, and remembered the Ford Zephyr with the Hire Purchase gleam to it parked outside my office. ‘So he’s clean?’

‘Well … there is an interesting twist. Despite the name, the Mitchell and Laird Garage is actually owned by a trading company whose chairman just happens to be a certain William Sneddon.’

And there it was, the thing I had dreaded most: another of the Three Kings involved in my investigation. That made two, if you counted Michael Murphy’s presence on the list of their father’s associates the twins had supplied.

‘But you know that doesn’t mean anything really these days,’ continued Ferguson. ‘Willie Sneddon is still a crook and we’re still after the bastard, but the truth is he’s cleaned up his act. He has as many legit businesses as crooked ones. The Mitchell and Laird Garage just happens to be one of the legit ones. And that’s where your boy works.’

‘Yeah … my boy who just happens to be married to the daughter of one of Glasgow’s most legendary crime figures. Tell me, Jock, was there ever any connection between Willie Sneddon and Joe Strachan?’

‘None that I’m aware of. Sneddon came on the scene much later. Hammer Murphy though … I believe he was tight with Strachan for a while.’

‘Yes … I heard,’ I said gloomily. ‘Thanks, Jock.’

Archie paid me a visit just before lunchtime, which I took as a hint and I treated him to a pie and pint in the Horseshoe. He downed the pint in seconds, his bushy eyebrows jumping with each swallow, and turned to me with a pained expression on his long face. It took me a couple of seconds to realize he was smiling at me.

‘I’m like those Mounties of yours, boss,’ he said. ‘I always get my man.’

‘Billy Dunbar?’

‘The very same. I’ve run him to ground.’ Archie dug around in his raincoat pockets, pulling out various scraps of paper, a crumpled handkerchief and a couple of bus tickets, all of which he dumped on the cramped space we had in front of us on the bar. Eventually he found what he had been looking for and his eyebrows once more declared their independence from the doleful face.

‘Aye … here it is. This is where he lives now. He’s changed address three times. From what I understand, he’s straight now. Has been since his last stretch. That’s why there have been so many moves: it’s difficult to put a past like his behind you.’