The Good Provider (51 page)

To a degree he felt responsible for the threat now laid on Craig Nicholson’s life. His zeal had led him into this nasty mess. He had underestimated Malone, had not imagined that the man would escape.

Chief Constable Organ said, ‘What do you say, Hugh?’

‘I’ll talk to the constable first thing in the morning.’

‘It’s for the best, don’t you think?’

‘I hope so, sir.’

Craig sensed that there was something in the wind when Constable John Boyle, looking even glummer than usual, picked him up at the close mouth. John Boyle was a Percy Street officer and had no time for those minions who served in the sub-station at Ottawa Street. He had addressed hardly a civil word to Craig in the weeks since the Nicholsons had moved into No. 154 and it was soon clear to Craig that Constable Boyle had not lingered to accompany him out of friendship.

Craig said, ‘What’s up then, Mr Boyle?’

‘I have business at Ottawa Street. I’ll walk with you.’

‘If you like,’ Craig said.

He fell into step with the elder man, glancing at him curiously.

Craig said, ‘I take it you haven’t been made down?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Sent to join us.’

‘I have a message, that’s all.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Craig, and increased his pace a little as he rounded the corner into Williams Lane.

Ottawa Street was buzzing like a hive of bees. Constables and sergeants, some of whom he had never clapped eyes on before, were coming and going, hither and thither. The telephone on Drummond’s desk was ringing, unanswered. Boyle accompanied him into the station and then, without a word, turned on his heel and walked out again.

‘Archie?’ Craig called, spotting his friend at the door of the Muster Room. ‘What the hell’s goin’ on here?’

‘You’re wanted, Craig. Back room.’

‘Me?’ said Craig. ‘Who wants me?’

‘I do.’ Hugh Affleck beckoned from the space across the counter. ‘Step in here, please, Constable Nicholson.’

There was an air of informality in the room that Craig had not before encountered within the precinct. Cups, a milk can and teapot littered the table and the atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke. Sergeant Drummond, tunic unbuttoned and collar loosened, was seated cross-legged on one of the chairs. His chin and jowls glistened with beard stubble and his eyelids were heavy with fatigue.

‘Sit yourself down, Craig,’ Hector Drummond said.

The superintendent’s clothing was not untidy but he had the same sort of look as Drummond, and Craig guessed the pair of them had been up all night long.

‘You may smoke if you want to,’ Hugh Affleck said.

It was as if they had brought him here to tell him bad news. He experienced a moment of stupid panic, thinking of Kirsty. He had left her, however, only five minutes since, waddling about the kitchen in her robe and slippers. He thought next, for no logical reason, of his mother and of Gordon and, as his panic increased, reached for the tin in his tunic pocket where he kept his cigarettes and matches.

Superintendent Affleck said, ‘It’s Malone. He’s escaped from jail. Killed two warders in the process. We have a suspicion that he may be headed for Greenfield.’

‘Ah!’ said Craig, relieved. ‘Comin’ for me, you mean?’

‘Listen to the lad,’ said Sergeant Drummond. ‘What a conceit.’

‘It would be natural,’ said Craig carefully. ‘I shopped him, after all.’

He lit a cigarette and listened obediently while Hugh Affleck told him what had happened and, making no bones about it, explained what the Chief Constable required of him. Craig felt no great stirring of fear of Daniel Malone and did not think that the Chief Constable had made an outrageous request. Here in the inner sanctum of Ottawa Street Police Station he was secure. Even on the streets of the Greenfield he would be within hailing distance of a fellow copper at all times. Besides, after what he had lived through this past six months Malone seemed tame.

Hugh Affleck said, ‘I don’t want you to be careless, Constable Nicholson. Malone has deliberately burned his boats. He has nothing further to lose. If it’s in his mind to make an example out of you, to try to regain his status and his power, then he will not be dissuaded by mere difficulty.’

Craig said, ‘I’m not scared of him, Mr Affleck.’

Hector Drummond said, ‘I would be, if I were you.’

Craig said, ‘You want me to go on duty, as normal?’

‘Yes,’ said the superintendent. ‘It’s not my idea.’

Craig said, ‘Is Malone carryin’ a weapon?’

‘We believe he has a sword.’

‘A sword?’

‘Taken from one of the prison warders.’

‘But no firearm, no gun?’ said Craig.

‘Not to our knowledge, no.’

‘That’s all right then,’ said Craig.

Sergeant Drummond uncrossed his legs and sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘What do you mean, lad – “that’s all right”?’

‘He can’t shoot me in the back. He’ll have to catch me close before he can—’

‘Good God, Nicholson!’ Hugh Affleck exclaimed. ‘Do you think this is a game of tig? Malone’ll not adhere to the rules of fair play, believe me.’

‘Do I go alone?’

‘Yes, unaccompanied.’

‘Follow my usual routes?’

‘Yes.’

‘My usual length of shift?’

‘No different.’

‘But I’ll have somebody on my tail?’

‘Constables Boyle and Rogers, from Percy Street.’

‘Sound and experienced officers,’ said Sergeant Drummond.

‘What happens tonight, when I go home?’

‘You’ll be accompanied to your door.’

‘I see.’

‘You will be required to do your part, Constable Nicholson, but nobody expects you to put your safety at risk,’ said Hugh Affleck. ‘After all, there’s a distinct possibility that Malone isn’t interested in you, that you’re not his target.’

‘Oh, aye, I’m his target all right,’ said Craig.

‘I trust you’re not proud of that fact.’

‘Not proud, Mr Affleck. No, not proud.’

He had been seasoned by the past months, by the scalded child, the naked boy wincing under the birch, the body in the river. He realised that he was proud, that it was pride in what he had already endured that made him impervious to fear of Malone. He felt a strange little prickle of excitement.

‘An’ after I’m home?’ said Craig. ‘After dark, what then?’

‘Stay indoors,’ said Sergeant Drummond. ‘Keep the door barred and bolted. Even Malone would not be daft enough to attack you in a building stuffed with blue uniforms.’

‘In addition,’ said Hugh Affleck, ‘a constable will be on permanent guard in the close.’

‘Who?’

‘One of the Walkers, most like,’ said the sergeant.

‘How long will you sustain the watch?’

‘For two weeks at least.’

‘It won’t take that long,’ said Craig.

‘What makes you so sure, lad?’

‘He broke from the jail to get at me,’ said Craig. ‘He’s clever but he has no patience. He’ll try something very soon. Do you have any idea, Mr Affleck, where he is right now?’

‘None at all.’

‘I’ll bet he’s in the Greenfield. I’ll bet anythin’ you like he’s here already,’ said Craig. ‘If that’s all the word you have for me, Mr Affleck, I’ll get out on my beat.’

Craig got to his feet, dropped the cigarette and ground the butt under his heel. He brushed a fleck of ash from his chest and tightened his belt.

‘Constable Nicholson,’ said Hugh Affleck.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘No heroics.’

‘Not me, sir,’ Craig said.

EIGHT

Voices on the Green

The Jewish burial ground had been long disused. City historians would, from time to time, sally down the length of Conger Street from Ferry Road and poke about among the headstones and fallen monuments and there were occasional ‘inspections’ by members of Glasgow’s Hebrew community who had a mind to restore the place. But nothing came of good intentions and the plot was much the same as it had been for thirty or forty years, bristling with hog weed and willow herb, its walls shrouded in creeping ivy. In summer weather down-and-outs would congregate there to sun themselves and pass about bottles of raw spirit but that night in late February Daniel Malone had the ground to himself.

As he waited for dawn he dozed, feet propped on a wrought-iron rail, comfortably enough. He had stolen a rug from outside a villa in Markham Terrace, had made off into Bruce Lane with it, and nobody any the wiser. He had been lucky to find in the pocket of Caine’s uniform a shilling and a sixpence, as well as a tin with three Gold Flake in it. He had bought coffee and a veal pie from a stall in Cranstonhill where, to his amusement, he had been mistaken for a blue boy. After supper he had walked boldly down Ferry Road and Conger Street, met hardly a soul, and was bedded in a corner of the burial ground by nine o’clock with the slap of the tide and throb of riverboats’ engines to croon him to sleep.

The mist carried with it a trace of frost and Malone was up before daybreak, stiff as a board but hearty for all that. With the sabre he prised up a piece of flat slate that lay behind a gravestone marked with a distinctive little star in rusted iron. The slate clung to the turf and it took Malone a good five minutes to free it, to dig in the hard earth to a fist-sized piece of sandstone beneath which he had hidden a Fry’s Cocoa tin. Uncapping the tin Malone took out an oilskin tobacco pouch and, squatting on the ground, unfolded it. The roll of banknotes, one hundred and fifty pounds in all, was exactly as he had left it almost three years ago, a little damp but otherwise undamaged.

He rolled up the pouch with the money inside and stuffed it into the pocket of the tunic. He replaced the tin, the rock, the slate, and warmed by activity and the successful outcome of his foresight threw the rug over the wall into the weeds and left the burial ground for Conger Street, hastening to reach his next port of call before daylight.

It was left to Jess Walker to tell Kirsty what had happened, to instruct her to stay indoors and not to answer the door. Father and son Walker had repaired to the station to be signed off night duty and to retire to bed. They would be on guard on their own doorstep again at dusk. In daylight hours, with so much pressure upon manpower, however, it was deemed prudent enough to leave Mrs Nicholson to fend for herself.

‘Where are you going right now?’ Jess Walker said.

‘Shoppin’,’ said Kirsty.

‘Well, I’ll come with you.’

‘I’m only goin’ to Kydd’s.’

‘Far enough, I’d say, under the circumstances.’

‘Why hasn’t Craig come home to tell me himself?’

‘Don’t you take my word for it?’

‘It’s not that,’ said Kirsty. ‘It’s just—’

‘He’ll be busy. They’re all busy. It’s a right stramash with a convict on the loose in the district.’

‘Is he in the district?’

‘Those in the know reckon he’ll come back here to the Greenfield.’

‘But why?’

‘To seek assistance from his pals.’

‘Assistance?’

‘To further his escape. He’ll need clothin’ and money, won’t he? Where else can he get help if it’s not from his underworld pals?’

Kirsty said, ‘That’s not the only reason, Mrs Walker, is it?’

‘Only reason I know of,’ said the woman. ‘Wait right there. I’ll fetch my coat an’ hat an’ basket an’ we’ll go to the shop together.’

‘Did somebody tell you to look after me?’

‘Aye, my husband.’

‘Where’s Craig?’ said Kirsty again.

‘Wait there,’ said Mrs Walker.

During the few minutes that it took Jess Walker to garb herself for the expedition Kirsty loitered by the close mouth of No. 154 Canada Road and let the news sink in. She did not doubt the truth of it. Mrs Walker was not the sort of woman to play a joke or contrive such a hoax. Oddly, Kirsty was not entirely surprised that Daniel Malone had escaped from prison. There was something about that earlier episode that had always seemed unfinished. She stared out at the street, a bland and undistinguished view, a still, grey, cloudy morning. A coal cart rumbled past, the coalie shouting his wares. The sound seemed threatening. She drew back into the shelter of the building as Mrs Walker came striding from her door.

‘Come on then,’ said the woman briskly. ‘Let me have a wee peep outside first.’

‘But – but why?’

‘Nothin’ for you to worry about,’ Jess Walker said.

Nevertheless there was caution in the way Mrs Walker stepped from the shelter of the close on to the pavement, almost, Kirsty thought, as if she expected a volley of bullets to whistle about her head. Kirsty felt – how did she feel? – she felt silly. She could not take it seriously, not yet. She stepped carefully down the steps, more concerned with the baby inside her than with the threats that the empty morning might hold.

Mrs Walker took her arm and they set off down Canada Road together, heading for the grocer’s shop.