The Deep Dark Sleep

Of course it could, I tried to convince myself, be a pure coincidence. But how many ‘nancy-boys’, as McNab called them, could there be in Govanhill? And like Glasgow Corporation buses, coincidences tended to come along in threes. Maybe Jock Ferguson had been called out to another case, but I couldn’t stop the reel on the scene playing in my head: Jock Ferguson standing over the body and suddenly remembering, probably the instant McNab arrived, that the name of the deceased just happened to be the same as one of the names I asked him to check out for me.

I decided to grab the bull by the horns and drive over to the tenement. On the way over I would have to do a lot of quick thinking on how I was going to explain my interest, but without bringing Hollywood stars or minor royalty into it. I had just put on my hat and coat when I checked myself. Of course, that had not been Paul Downey’s flat; it was Frank, the muscle-bound pool attendant, whose name was on the rent book. Maybe it was he who had been murdered, which meant I had some time before flat-feet plodded along a trail that would lead them to Paul Downey. But, pedestrian as they were, the CID would eventually make the connection, and Jock Ferguson would make another.

For once, I was grateful for the smog. It had come back with a vengeance and I decided to take the Underground to Kinning Park and hoof it the rest of the way. I walked past the end of the road, but the fog was too thick for me to see the far end and whether or not there were police cars parked outside. Walking past the street end, I turned into the next, which ran parallel to Frank’s, and walked almost to its end before cutting through a tenement passageway and into the communal back court.

The communal court was a vast rectangle, fringed by tenements on all sides and punctuated by small, squat wash-houses and clusters of trashcans and heaped rubbish. The demarcation between each tenement’s section of yard was marked by low railings, most of which were broken.

It was the kind of place the Black Death would have been happy to call home.

The court was overlooked by the backs of tenements on both streets, as well as the blocks at either end that connected them into a stretched rectangle. Not that there was much overlooking being done: the fog had dimmed the light from the windows to vague glows in the gloom and the far end of the rectangle was completely obscured. As I crossed the court, stepping through or over the railings I came to, I guessed I was pretty well concealed. The fogged air of the yard carried a rank smell and the cobbles beneath my feet felt slimy and I had to concentrate on not losing my footing. A sudden noise halted me when I was about halfway across and I froze for a moment, then realized it was something scuttling around in the trashcans. I continued my progress across the court: if I had calculated right, I would be directly opposite the tenement I’d followed Frank to. I listened for a moment but could hear no voices anywhere near, so I guessed the back court was empty behind Frank’s, but I didn’t want to take the risk of bumping into a copper taking a leak or having a crafty smoke.

As I drew closer, I could have sworn the air became denser and suffused with the smell of burning.

When I could see the tenements opposite more clearly, I angled my approach to take me towards the tenement next to Frank’s and the acrid tinge to the air intensified. I could just make out, further down and behind Frank’s tenement, a scattering of black-silhouetted objects. And voices. Many voices. I crept closer until I reached the first object: a scorched and blackened armchair that was still warm to the touch, despite having been doused in water.

Finding my way back to the neighbouring tenement close, I crept along the porcelain-tiled passageway towards its opening onto the street. I pressed my back to the tiles as I grew close to the passage’s mouth, easing my head around to check out the street. I pulled back quickly: there was a copper about ten feet from me, guarding the next close which led to Frank’s tenement. It had only been the briefest glance, but I had also been able to make out a large red Bedford fire engine parked out front, its crew talking and smoking. I’d also caught sight of a row of black police Wolseleys parked at the street end.

So that was that. The murder McNab had been called to was that of either Frank or Paul Downey. Fantastic. I wondered how long it would take Jock to make the connection. After that, whichever of the couple had survived could tell the police that I had slapped them both around and threatened to come back with my pals for a real party. And, if they took my fingerprints, they would find a veritable constellation of matching dabs in the flat.