The Reward Game, page 7
part #2 of Keith Calder Series
‘All in good time.’ Keith scanned slowly with the binoculars. ‘That bugger Munro didn’t believe a word we said. He thinks we’re up to something.’
‘Well,’ Molly said, ‘you have been known to get up to things, and you have told him rather a lot of tarradiddles over the years. He didn’t disbelieve us altogether. He’s keeping the cars out near the junctions for another day or two, and that’s quite a response for a small place like this.’
Keith snorted. ‘It may be a small place, but the H.Q. here covers an enormous area. They’ve got plenty of cars at their disposal. And they’ve collected enough poached salmon and unlicensed guns to make it worthwhile.’
‘They won’t collect any more,’ Molly pointed out. ‘They’re only stopping the out-going cars, and everybody in the town knows about them by now. There’s a red car in Church Street. Keith, why did you say that no doubt they were trying to get the body away so as to cover up the evidence of a murder? You don’t really believe that?’
‘Don’t make me laugh while I’m trying to hold the glasses steady. I think it’s the minister’s old Viva.’
‘What do you think then?’ Molly asked plaintively.
‘I’ll tell you when I have to, Chatterbox.’
On principle Molly made a face, but she refrained from argument. To herself she had to admit that there was something in the impeachment. She went back to the earlier subject. ‘The honeymoon couple will bear you out,’ she said. ‘Their name’s Irvine, and they’re staying at the Royal.’
‘Ah. Well, maybe they will and maybe they won’t. Their car was gone by the first time we went through the square.’
Molly made a silent whistle. ‘Keith, you don’t think those two were fakes?’
‘They turned up very conveniently at Briesland House.’
‘She said that they’d been interested in buying it. I – er – I said that we’d already bought it.’
‘Yes, I expect you did.’ Keith put the binoculars down. ‘But how many bridegrooms would let their bride go off following a pair of crooks like that? If either of them was going to go, it would have been the man.’
‘If he saw you with your trousers down, or heard what you said, he wouldn’t have left her within a mile of you.’
‘I don’t think it was that,’ Keith said. ‘You think what you like. But they came to Newton Lauder at the same time as the other two, near enough, just after the body became a body and went missing. And it was the white car that you thought was following us this morning. Did they ask many questions when you spoke to them in the square?’
‘None at all.’
‘I take it that they were the honeymoon couple that you said were in the shop yesterday? Were they any chattier in the shop?’
‘Well, yes,’ Molly admitted. ‘They did seem to want all the local gossip.’
‘And this afternoon all their curiosity had evaporated. That clinches it. Could you see a body being dumped in a car, and find two people locked in a shed, and be asked to give chase, and so on and so forth, without asking a million and a half questions?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Suppose?’ Keith said scornfully. ‘You, my girl, can’t even see somebody scratch without wanting to know why it itches and where it itches and when it itches and what it feels like when it does. And by Christ it’s getting cold and we’re not doing any good here. There’s dozens of side-roads and hundreds of tracks and fire-breaks in the plantations and they could be in any one of them. I need dry breeks. And I’m supposed to be taking it easy. Let’s away home and think!’
*
While Keith showered and found himself dry clothes and a new belt, Molly dealt with a small group of customers who had been waiting, or making periodic visits. By the time Keith came down from the flat, bringing with him his large transistor radio, they had the shop to themselves.
‘Did he have a cold bum then?’ was Molly’s greeting.
‘He did, but he’s all right now,’ said Keith with dignity.
‘Do you really think the honeymooners are in league with the other two?’
‘No, I think they’re not. Now, keep an eye on the square and shout if you see any one of them or either of the cars. And hush a minute while I think.’
Keith paced slowly to the far end of the shop, paused and turned.
‘Control to Panda Three,’ said the radio.
‘Ignore it,’ Keith said. ‘I’m only interested in inward messages.’ He paced slowly back again, paused and stared vacantly at a rubber decoy duck on a shelf. Panda Three was told to proceed to Willow Brae and investigate the reported theft of a bicycle. Keith came to life again. He snapped his fingers. ‘Right. I know what I’d do, in their shoes. And we need help.’
‘The police?’ said Molly.
‘No. It’s no skin off our nose who’s guilty of what crime. But there’s a reward going begging. If we bring in the police, can you see Munro playing fair with me? He could let all his aunts and cousins in on it. We need Sir Peter. I’ll watch the square. You give Peter a ring and ask him to come down and join us.’
‘You’re better on the phone than I am,’ Molly said.
‘But he can resist me.’
‘We haven’t had any lunch yet.’
‘Never mind that just now. Get on the phone.’ Keith looked out at the square, but for all that he saw there he might as well have been blind. By the time the call was finished he had thought the matter through.
‘He’ll be down shortly,’ Molly reported. ‘Keith, you’re not going to get us into something dangerous are you?’
‘We’re only looking for information,’ Keith said slowly. ‘I think that the next thing I’d like to know is who those men were.’
‘And how do you propose to find that out?’
‘In my experience, there’s almost nothing that can’t be found out in three phone-calls.’
Molly snorted with laughter. ‘Rubbish! If you can find out who those men were in three calls –’
‘We’ll buy that car, right?’ Keith was grinning.
Molly lit up. ‘And if you can’t we’ll forget it?’
‘Three out-going calls? You’re on.’ Keith pulled out the phone-book. ‘If Gilchrist thinks he owes me a favour, we may as well cash it in. I’ll try the Fettes Avenue Headquarters in Edinburgh first. That’s where Andy Gulliver said he was this morning.’
Keith phoned Edinburgh. Superintendent Gilchrist had left to return to his own office. He would be back in Glasgow by now.
‘One down,’ said Molly.
‘The first call only tells you where your contact is. Second call, he tells you who you ought to be speaking to. Third call, you find out. Got it!’ He put down the Glasgow directory and dialled, and the call caught Superintendent Gilchrist just as he was about to leave for home. The sharp accent came clearly over the phone, and Keith could picture his trim, military-style figure sitting neatly at his desk.
‘I thought I might hear from you,’ Gilchrist said.
‘What did you put Andrew Gulliver onto me for?’
‘You know by now, or you wouldn’t be calling me.’ Gilchrist sounded amused.
‘Aye,’ Keith said, ‘I thought it would be that. But what’s going on in Glasgow that makes you suspect a spin-off over here?’
‘I was just putting two and two together and making a wild guess,’ Gilchrist admitted. ‘I spoke to Gulliver on impulse. Was I wrong?’
‘No,’ Keith said, ‘you weren’t wrong. In connection with the same thing, we have some hard men around here. Would you be able to identify them from a description? Or could you put me onto somebody?’
There was a pause and Keith could hear Gilchrist, at the other end, tapping his fingers on the desk. Even the rhythm sounded precise and military. ‘I’m a bit out of date on that sort of thing,’ the superintendent said at last. ‘The man you want’s Inspector Cathcart. Hold on and I’ll give you his number.’
Molly was resting her temple against Keith’s and straining to hear the far end of the conversation. ‘Only one to go,’ she whispered.
‘Will he still be in his office?’ Keith asked quickly.
‘You might still catch him.’
‘Do me another favour,’ Keith asked. ‘He might not want to open up for a strange voice on the telephone. Give him a ring, now or when he comes in in the morning. Ask him to call me, reverse charges, and help me out.’
‘All right. I’ll do that. Stay by the phone, he often works late. And keep me posted. Cheerio.’
‘That was cheating,’ Molly said as Keith hung up.
‘Not at all. I didn’t say I wouldn’t have any incoming calls.’
‘Can we afford another car?’
‘If we syndicate it with the bank manager and the inspector of taxes.’
‘And it won’t spoil our chance of getting Briesland House?’
Keith gave her a quick kiss on the tip of her nose. ‘Baby, if we pull this off we can buy Briesland House and carpet it with the best. And if we don’t we couldn’t afford to take on anything like that for a few years yet. Now, you pop upstairs and get us a snack.’
There was a last flurry of business as customers arrived on the way home from work. Keith sold a book and a pair of binoculars, accepted a shotgun for overhaul and booked a coaching session for a fortnight ahead. For the rest of the time he stared thoughtfully out of the window.
Molly came back, with soup and sandwiches and coffee all on a tray, just as the phone rang. The shop was empty and normal closing time was near. At a signal from Keith, Molly locked the door.
The voice at the other end of the line was official and disapproving. It had the half-Belfast twang that underlies the true Glasgow tongue. ‘Superintendent Gilchrist said to call you.’ The tone suggested that such a command from any lesser personage, such as the Almighty, would properly have been ignored.
‘He said that you could help me if anybody could.’ Keith paused, but Inspector Cathcart refused the bait. ‘We’ve got some tough eggs with Glasgow accents operating around here.’
‘Describe them,’ the voice said shortly. Keith thought that he would be dark and sharp-faced, and small for a policeman.
‘One of them’s a tall, thin, evil-looking bastard, bushy brown hair bald in the middle, brown eyes. His accent sounded like the better end of Glasgow, maybe Bearsden or Whitecraigs; and it wasn’t put on, because he used quotations from Shakespeare and Tennyson. He’s armed. The other one’s about the size and shape of a haystack, very strong but well coordinated, maybe an ex-wrestler. His hair’s cropped close, but it looked fair like his eyebrows. Hoarse, whispery voice from somewhere in the Glasgow slums. They go around as a pair.’
‘Have you reported this to your local force?’
‘Yes. They don’t seem very interested.’
‘Well, they should,’ Cathcart said in a flat and disinterested monotone. ‘There’s no mistaking those two. The big man’s Hughie Spence, and he was a wrestler once right enough. Could have made the big-time but for one thing. If you have to go up against him, and my advice would be against it, go for his head. Nothing else will hurt him at all. But that’s why he had to give up the ring, the others all knew that a smash to the head would finish him. He’d be harmless enough but that he’s loyal to the other man, and strong enough to break a man in half without meaning it. He’d be sorry after.
‘The other’s name’s Curran. Known as Archie, though as far as we know that’s not the name his mother gave him. He came from Bearsden originally, but they tell me he’s living in Rothesay now. He’s vicious, but no’ a lot of guts. If things get tough he’ll leave the most of it to Hughie; but he carries a shooter and doesn’t mind using it.’
Keith swallowed a mouthful of soup in a hurry, and felt it burn all the way down. ‘Can he shoot straight with it?’ he asked.
‘He didn’t used to. He did three years out of a seven stretch, when he might’ve got clean away if he could have hit the side of a house. Out of nine rounds fired he only hit a pub sign, and that was a ricochet. Anything over ten feet and you’re fairly safe. Unless he gets lucky, of course. Or unless he’s been taking lessons.’
‘Well, thank you,’ Keith said with feeling.
‘Oh. That the lot, then?’
‘Hold on, hold on. Who are they working for?’
‘Last I heard, they were both working for Frank Hutch. Heard of him?’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ Keith said.
‘Any more?’ Cathcart sounded bored.
‘Two. One’s more difficult because I only have somebody else’s description.’ Keith pieced together the fragments of description of the man in hospital, together with the features of the actor said by the hospital porter to resemble him.
‘Too vague,’ said Cathcart. ‘Could be one of dozens.’
‘I met another one today,’ Keith said. ‘About five-ten, fifteen stone, straight brown hair, blue eyes. He looks about twenty-five, but I think he’s more. Smooth-faced and chubby. Faint London accent. Sticking-out ears and expressionless eyes.’
‘A flashy dresser?’
‘Possibly,’ Keith said. ‘He didn’t look very flashy today, but I think he was dressing a part.’
‘Sounds like a lad called Wallace. He made London too hot to hold him a few months ago and showed his face around here instead. He was talking to people who don’t talk to us. I don’t know who he took up with in the end.’
‘There’s a blonde girl with him. Does that convey anything?’
‘Only envy.’
Keith’s mind was racing around the permutations. ‘Could he have been hired by Danny Bruce?’
Cathcart was silent for a moment. ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘Nothing positive, but I heard that he’d been seen with one or two of Bruce’s cronies.’
‘I know Bruce as a dealer,’ Keith said, ‘but can you tell me anything about his operations outside the law?’
Again Cathcart hesitated. ‘In confidence?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I can’t tell you as much as I’d like to. He lives among the nobs of Rutherglen. He’s got two perfectly legitimate shops, but you’ll know about them. We’ve known for years that he acts as a fence in a very big way – maybe even the biggest in Britain – but he’s quite the most canny man in the trade. He’s not above setting up a little rough stuff, but he’s got a tough nut of a daughter who makes most of the contacts for him. He never ever deals from his home or from either of his legitimate businesses. He uses postes restantes, safe deposit boxes, left luggage rooms for any hot goods, and he meets his clients in an ever-changing series of hotel-rooms, offices you can rent by the day, flats, bed-sits, you name it. He usually has about ten phones, all unlisted. When he goes to some other city to do a deal the goods must travel by post to himself under another name, because he never carries them. And he’s the hardest man to follow that I know. If anyone else seems to be going the same way, Danny Bruce turns round and goes home again.’
‘Well, many thanks,’ Keith said after a moment’s thought. ‘You’ve been a big help and I appreciate it.’
‘Tell Superintendent Gilchrist. Or, if you want to return a favour, hand me Danny Bruce on a plate. Or, better still, Archie Curran. I’d like to get that bastard before he kills again.’ The connection was broken, leaving Keith with a hot ear and a mind awhirl with new data.
‘Never try to make a policeman or a second-hand-car-salesman like you,’ Keith said. ‘Somebody told me that once. I forget who. But he was right. You know, his last comment was interesting.’
‘Who’s Frank Hutch?’ asked Molly.
‘So Curran’s killed already. I wonder what Gilchrist said to Cathcart to make him so forthcoming. Frank Hutch?’
‘Yes, who is he?’
‘You must know who Frank Hutch is.’
‘Maybe I must, but I don’t.’
‘He’s been in the papers almost every time there’s been a big trial in the last few years, in Glasgow anyway. He’s about the biggest gang boss outside of London. Branches in Liverpool, Belfast, Dundee and all over. He seems to have been getting more than his fair share of the action. Graft. Corruption. Robberies. Hijacks.’
‘Oh,’ Molly said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know that we want to know him a lot. Or even a little. Is that what you expected?’
‘More or less, yes.’ Keith came down out of the clouds. ‘You had more than your fair share of the sandwiches while I was on the phone, didn’t you? How did you manage that and still not miss a word?’
‘It’s a knack,’ Molly said. ‘I’ll make some more.’
‘These’ll do, with the coffee. I’m going round the town again. You cash up, keep an ear to the radio and when Peter gets here take him up to the flat.’
Chapter Seven
Sir Peter Hay had a singular fondness for Molly, placing her somewhere between a favourite grand-daughter and a girl-friend. He spared himself the need to decide between patting her bottom and buying her sweets by doing both and Molly, who to Keith’s disapproval had a fondness both for Sir Peter and for sweets, bore with him gladly.
The baronet was a taller man than Keith, but he seemed to be all bones and tangled grey hair. He was a Scot through and through, but his schooling and upbringing had left him ineradicably tainted with the accent of the English landed gentry which he offset by wearing at all times one or other of his many kilts, varying only the modesty or splendour of his accoutrements to suit the occasion. He was the laird of most of the lands for a long way around but, despite his resemblance – cultivated, Keith thought – to a leisured archetype, he deserved the title ‘working man’ better, perhaps, than many who claim it. He was a notoriously hard-working director on the boards of several enterprises, but the revenue that he earned thereby was ploughed straight back into improvements on the estate, to the joy of his tenants and the despair of his bank-manager. He vacillated eternally on the brink of financial disaster, despite the prospect of dying a very rich man to the benefit of the national exchequer.
It was already dusk when Keith returned, and lamps and firelight cheered the living-room of the flat and made the thought of ever deserting it into a remote dream. Sir Peter’s Land Rover was outside the door, and his lanky form was sprawled in the best arm-chair. Molly had made more sandwiches and Sir Peter was chewing on one while, with the other hand, he nursed a glass of the very special whisky that Keith obtained from time to time from an Excise officer at a West Highland distillery who still owed him for a shotgun. When Keith came in Sir Peter raised the glass in salute and enquired after his broken head.
