The Good Provider (53 page)

By God
, Craig thought,
she’s doing her dinger!
He stopped, let the three come on towards him, though only Biddy even seemed to see him and gave him a surly nod.

Craig said, ‘What’s bitin’ you, Bloomy?’

Bloomy’s mouth closed. She pursed her lips. She had few teeth left and her lips extended outwards in a grotesque pout, exaggerated by hollow cheeks. She wore a huge flowing shawl and a clean blouse and had a cameo brooch pinned at the throat. She scowled at Craig as if he were the cause of all her woes.

‘Naethin’,’ Clash answered.

He was a thin, creased man, ten or fifteen years older than the women but still spry and quick of tongue.

‘What’s in the bag?’ said Craig, pointing.

‘Stuff.’

‘What sort o’ stuff?’

Biddy said, ‘It’s a chamber-pot wi’ flowers, if ye must be knowin’.’

‘Stolen?’ said Craig.

‘Retrieved,’ said Clash.

‘Worth six pennies,’ said Biddy.

She must have been handsome once, Craig thought. She had blue eyes and flaxen hair, though all streaked with grey and tousled and bristling with pins. She too was clean, however. Only the old man was dirty.

‘What’s wrong, then?’ Craig said. ‘Won’t Joseph give you a ticket for it?’

‘Joe’s no’ there,’ said Clash.

‘Ga’n out,’ said Biddy.

‘Gone where?’

‘Gotten his notice up,’ said Clash. ‘He never cam’ back but.’

‘Wait,’ Craig said. ‘What notice?’

‘Ye’ve seen it, surely,’ said Clash. ‘
Back Soon
.’

‘Bloody liar,’ said Biddy. ‘Bin hangin’ round all the mornin’ long. He niver cam’ back.’

‘Perhaps he’s sick,’ said Craig.

‘Gate’s down,’ said Clash.

‘Padlock’s off,’ said Biddy.

‘Are you sure he’s not inside?’

‘Christ, if he is he must be deef.’

‘Or deid,’ said Biddy.

‘Takin’ it up tae Stein’s,’ said Clash. ‘He’ll get oor business this day, so he wull.’

Craig was hardly listening now. He had a strange tight sensation in his midriff. Pawnbroking was a strictly regulated profession and, as far as Craig knew, Joseph McGhee was both honest and efficient in the governing of his business. He could not remember old Joe’s shop ever being closed during stipulated hours, except for a few minutes when the old man hobbled down to the corner shop for milk or tobacco or to buy a newspaper. It was obvious from the testimony of the experts that Joseph had been gone much longer than minutes.

‘Stein’ll no’ gie us sixpence, but,’ said Bloomy, confessing at last the source of her annoyance in a rusty Ayrshire accent.

Clash and Biddy glanced at her as if, in finding voice in a stranger’s presence, she might now go on to reveal all sorts of dark trade secrets. Craig did not notice. He had sneaked a look over his shoulders and saw that Boyle and Rogers had met and were conversing, still with mannered casualness, at the corner of a lane some hundred yards away.

Craig said, ‘Why don’t you go back an’ give Joe one more chance?’

‘Joseph McGhee’s had his bloody chance,’ said Clash.

‘Bugger him,’ said Biddy.

If the gate had been taken down and carried out of sight, if the padlock had been removed, Craig realised that the pawnbroker’s shop was secured only by a single lock on the front door. Common sense told him that he should hop round there immediately to make sure that old Joe was not lying sick or injured within, or that thieves or desperate clients could not easily force an entry in the owner’s absence. Old Joseph was probably back by now, sitting in his chair with the cat on his lap and his pipe pouring out smoke. On the other hand it
was
unusual for the old man to abandon the shop for more than a few minutes. The hair on the nape of Craig’s neck prickled slightly. Something told him that he should tread cautiously, not confide his unsubstantiated suspicions to anyone, least of all to Rogers and John Boyle.

Without a word of farewell the three disreputables trudged off along the broken pavement. Bloomy was silent again, the sack cradled in her arms like a baby. Craig watched them go. He waited in alarm for Boyle and Rogers to stop them, engage them in conversation, find out what he already knew – that there was something fishy going on at Joseph McGhee’s establishment and that, just possibly, Malone was behind it.

Biddy, Clash and Bloomy brushed past the plain-clothed constables without a word and shuffled out of sight into Mill Lane.

Craig turned and, without sign or signal to his guardian angels, set off for Brunswick Street at a normal, unhurried pace to see what was what at old Joe McGhee’s.

Daniel Malone wiped his mouth on his sleeve and pushed away the empty plate.

‘Is that all there is t’ eat?’

‘Aye, that’s it,’ Joseph said. ‘I could always pop out for groceries, if y’ like.’

Malone laughed. ‘Naw, naw, old man. D’ye take me for daft? You’ll sit right there where I can keep an eye on you.’

The cane chair had been moved into the rear portion of the shop, a long room, crammed with unredeemed pledges, in which there was a small barrel stove and not much else by way of domestic amenities. Every inch of space seemed to be given over to the collection of ornaments and utensils that Joseph had collected over the months, each with a sticky label attached to it. Racks of clothes muffled the sounds in the back room, deadened the vibrations of heavy horse-lorries that ground past the front door from time to time.

Malone walked by the racks, inspecting the items that hung there, one looped over another in matted confusion that only the broker could untangle.

‘Does no bugger ever reclaim anythin’?’ said Malone.

‘Hardly ever,’ said Joseph. ‘What are ye lookin’ for, Danny?’

‘Somethin’ to wear.’

‘Frock coat? Got a nice one over there.’

‘Are you pullin’ my leg, old man?’

‘I’m serious,’ Joseph said. ‘If it’s a disguise you’re after what better than a frock coat?’

‘How about a kilt?’ said Malone.

‘Kilt? Aye, there’s several on that table.’

‘What table?’

‘Under the coats. You could pass for a soldier no bother, Danny.’

‘Keep your sarcasm t’ yourself, Joe.’

Nonetheless Malone rummaged under a fall of overcoats, summer- and winter-weight garments for women and men, found the edge of the table and, using strength, swung away the rack and inspected the kilts that were laid out there along with other items of military apparel.

‘Where did ye get these?’

‘Wounded veterans, mostly,’ said Joseph.

‘Deserters from the ranks, more like.’

‘Maybe,’ said Joseph.

‘What do you do wi’ them?’

‘Sell them to an outfitters for cleanin’, repair and resale.’

‘Make a good skin on it?’

‘Enough t’ buy my bread.’

‘Got a wife?’

‘She’s been dead these eleven years.’

Malone held a kilt to his waist and measured its length against his knees. ‘Family?’

‘Daughter. Married. Lives in Aberdeen. Son in merchant service. A stoker,’ Joseph said. ‘Look I could find a sporran t’ match that tartan, Danny, an’ a blouse too.’

‘A fine sight I’d look gallivantin’ about the Greenfield in that lot.’

‘Danny,
did
you do for that warder?’

Malone lifted back the overcoats and stared long and hard at the pawnbroker who had not stirred from the cane chair in half an hour.

‘What if I did?’

‘They’ll be huntin’ you high an’ low.’

‘What if they are?’

‘I can give you some money; no’ much, but—’

‘I’ve got money, pots o’ money.’

‘Is it – is it your intention t’ run for it?’

‘When the time comes,’ Malone said.

‘Is that why ye need a disguise?’

‘I’ve somethin’ to do in Greenfield first.’

‘How will ye get out – when the time does come?’

‘What the hell’re you jawin’ on about, McGhee?’

‘I can do you up t’ look like a toff, Danny.’

‘Wi’ this haircut?’

‘I’ve a wig, lots o’ wigs.’

‘A toff?’ said Malone. ‘I suppose I could.’

‘Shave off the whiskers, hide the crop, dress the part, an’ no copper’ll look twice at you,’ Joseph said.

‘Why are you doin’ this?’

‘Eh?’

‘Helpin’ me?’

‘I don’t want my throat cut,’ Joseph said.

‘I might cut your throat anyway.’

‘I heard you were always decent to your pals.’

‘What’s goin’ on here?’ said Malone.

‘I’ll dress ye up so your own grannie wouldn’t know you,’ said Joseph. ‘Hand-luggage, leather boots, silk cravat, top hat, glasses, false hair, the lot.’

‘And?’

‘Tie me up an’ leave me when ye go.’

‘What if nobody finds you?’ said Malone. ‘You’ll bloody starve t’ death.’

‘Somebody’ll find me.’

Malone said, ‘I’d suit the part of a gentleman, eh?’

‘Down to the ground,’ Joseph agreed.

Malone leaned against the rack of overcoats. They smelled of mothballs and damp, smelled too of the homes from which they had descended. He could see frock coats and silk-faced topcoats, lum hats, the things that Joseph had promised him. It had been his intention to leave no witness but a corpse. Now that he was out of prison, however, a little of the cold fury that had fuelled him had leaked away.

‘I’ll think about it,’ Malone said.

The outer door rattled. Malone sank back into the cover of the racks, pressing the garments about him, enveloped in odorous fabrics.

‘What’s that?’ he hissed.

Joseph made no attempt to rise from the cane chair.

‘Customers,’ he said. ‘Clients.’

‘Are they breakin’ in?’

‘Just anxious.’

‘What’ll they do when they find—’

‘They’ll go away, go elsewhere.’

‘Christ in Heaven, McGhee! If you’re—’

The din ceased.

Calmly Joseph said, ‘See, they’ve gone already.’

Malone crouched and ducked to the partition that hid the storeroom from the front shop. There was a long deal counter protected by an arch of iron gridwork, a door in the counter to the left. Scales, the till, a ticket spike and other tools of the trade made a battlement along the counter-top. Malone hoisted himself cautiously until he could look over it. Daylight patched the dusty floor, made a wedge out of the glass-fronted door itself. He could see shapes against the glass. He crouched lower, eyes above the level of the counter-top. He watched the shapes swim away and saw, through the window, two old women crabbing off towards Partick.

Still seated, still calm, Joseph said, ‘It’ll happen on an’ off all day, Danny. There’s nothin’ we can do about it.’

‘When, at night, do you close your doors?’

‘Nine o’clock.’

‘An’ when does the beat copper make his round?’

‘Seven or half past,’ Joseph replied.

‘Not before?’

‘Seldom.’

It was the question that Joseph McGhee had been dreading all morning long. He knew perfectly well why Malone had returned to Greenfield and why he needed to hide until evening, why he did not seek to make contact with his former cronies.

‘What’s the bloody copper’s name?’ Malone said.

‘Jock Rogers,’ the pawnbroker lied.

‘Not Nicholson?’

‘No, Danny. Nicholson you’ll have to find for yourself.’

To his knowledge Craig had not met the women before and they knew him only as the young copper who patrolled a beat near their houses in the top side of Brunswick Street. He cornered them outside the pork butcher’s in New Scotland Street and told them he would give them sixpence each if they would do something for him. It was quite against regulations to bribe a member of the great public to serve as an accomplice in police matters but it was the only way that Craig could think of to gain their attention.

He had no means of knowing that one of the women had once made a tidy living ‘doing things’ for men of all shapes, sizes and professions and that, in her day, she had entertained more than one bored young constable.

‘Where?’ she said. ‘Up a close?’

‘It’s not bloody that,’ Craig told her and, glancing apprehensively over his shoulder, explained what he wanted them to do.

As requested the women went round to old Joe’s pop-shop – the route being familiar – read the notice, shook the door handle, peered in through the whorled glass then returned to the lane’s end where the daft young copper waited and held out their hands. Craig put six pennies into one feminine mitt, a sixpence into the other. ‘Well?’