The Deep Dark Sleep

‘By the way, Mr Lennox,’ he said. ‘I think you’re right. I keep telling the girls not to go digging into all of this shite. Like you said, if Joe wanted to get in touch he would have put a note in with the money. I know they’re not happy, but I wanted to thank you for what you’ve done, Mr Lennox. When they think about it, they’ll be happy to know their Da is still alive.’

His eyes lit up with something when he saw my car. ‘Is this yours? The Atlantic?’

‘Yep.’

‘Listen, Mr Lennox, no sales shite. I’d like to do something to thank you for everything you’ve done and all of the trouble you’ve been to. I can do you a really good trade-in … maybes even a straight trade … and get you something nicer.’

‘That’s good of you, Robert, but I’m happy with the Atlantic.’

‘Maybes you are, but with those funny lights and everything … I’m telling you I would do you a favour. Not the usual shite, a real favour. I’d clear it with the boss and I know they’ll be no trouble. Listen, I’ve got just the thing for you: a one-year-old Wolseley Four-Forty-four Saloon, Royal Blue. Hardly anything on the clock. Like new condition.’

‘Like I said, I’m happy with the Atlantic.’

He placed a hand on my arm to halt me. I looked down at the hand but he didn’t move it. ‘Listen, this is a genuine offer. No bull. The Wolseley is going for eight-four-four. Actually eight hundred and forty-four pounds, five shillings and tenpence. I’ll exchange the Atlantic and let you have it for two hundred and fifty quid.’

‘Now why would you do that?’ The deal made no sense, unless there was something wrong with the Wolseley or car salesmen had suddenly developed a passion for making losses. Or consciences.

‘Like I said, to show appreciation. The girls … we all … were shocked when we heard about what happened: that bloke trying to kill you. Call it a bonus. I’ve already cleared the deal with my boss. No catches.’ He handed me a business card with the garage address and number. ‘Why don’t you come down and see it for yourself. I’ll put a reserved sticker on it till you come.’

I looked at the card, then back at McKnight’s face. It was empty of guile, of expression, yet somehow he still managed to look insincere. I wondered which boss it was – the showroom manager or Willie Sneddon – he had cleared the deal with, without anyone seeing the condition of my Atlantic.

‘What would you give me for a Nineteen forty-seven Morris Eight?’ asked Archie. McKnight switched his salesman smile back on.

‘Why don’t you bring it to the showroom and I’ll cut you a deal.’

Archie shrugged. The three of us knew that Archie wouldn’t be offered the kind of deal I’d just been offered. Nobody would. I just couldn’t work out why I had been singled out for such gratitude. In fact, the generosity of others was beginning to trouble me; and the more it troubled me, the more I tried giving myself the same advice I’d given the twins: don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. But the truth was I could buy the Wolseley ten times over, without McKnight’s deal, because I had earned so much money, so quickly from tracking down Paul Downey and his photographs. The easiest money I had ever made.

And that troubled me almost as much as McKnight’s offer.

*

I dropped Archie back at his house. He asked me if I wanted to come in for a cup of tea, but I said I had to get on. The truth was I had to pick up some of the pieces of my personal life, such as it was. I also had to have a discussion with my new best chums in Saint Andrew’s Square.

Archie was about to step out of the car when I stopped him. I took the envelope from my pocket and counted out a hundred in twenties and handed it to him. As usual, his face retained its unchanging, slack-mouthed dolorousness, but his eyebrows looked like they were going on holiday somewhere on the top of his bald pate.

‘What’s this for?’

‘A bonus. You’ve been a great help, Archie. I wouldn’t have found Billy Dunbar without you.’

The muscles in his face twitched as if someone was running an inconstant electrical current through his cheeks. He was, I realized, attempting to smile.

‘Thanks, chief,’ he said.

‘Think nothing of it.’

Before I headed in to the City of Glasgow Police headquarters, I drove past my digs. No Jowett Javelin.

I was surprised how easy it was to get to see Detective Chief Superintendent McNab without an appointment. McNab parked me in a disused office while he tracked down Jock Ferguson. I was even more surprised when McNab had a young, pretty woman police constable – something that I had always considered a contradiction in terms – bring a tray with three cups, a jug of milk and a huge aluminium pot of tea. I was a sucker for a uniform, so I made sure that I had her name and a telephone number I could get her on before McNab returned.