The Good Provider (54 page)

‘
Closed
, it says,
back soon
.’

‘Is the door locked?’

‘Aye.’

‘Right. Tell me, do you think there’s anybody inside?’

‘Sure there is.’

‘How can you be certain?’ said Craig.

‘Saw the smoke.’

‘Smoke? Is there a fire?’

‘Pipe smoke. Joseph’s pipe smoke. He’s in the back shop, lyin’ doggo.’

‘Did you see anybody else inside?’

‘Somethin’ in the glass mirror.’

‘What?’

‘Somebody movin’. You told us no’ t’ loiter.’

‘So I did,’ said Craig.

‘It’s an easy tanner,’ said one of the women. ‘Are ye certain ye don’t want t’ go up a close?’

‘No thanks,’ Craig said. ‘Not a word to a soul about this. Keep it secret.’

‘Cross m’ heart,’ one woman said.

‘That’s no’ your heart, Sadie; that’s your—’

‘Thank you, ladies,’ Craig said.

‘Come back an’ see us again, son.’

‘Aye, when you’re no’ so busy.’

He heard them laughing, without malice, as he hurried off down the lane.

At the first corner he almost collided with Constable Rogers.

Rogers hissed, ‘What the hell’re you playin’ at, Nicholson?’

‘Just keepin’ on the move,’ said Craig.

‘I think you’re deliberately keepin’ us on the hop.’

‘Think what you like, Jock,’ Craig said. ‘I’m goin’ to Dinaro’s for my dinner in a quarter of an hour or so.’

‘What about the pubs?’

‘I do them after,’ Craig said.

‘Be careful.’ Rogers wagged a stern finger.

Craig nodded and moved on.

Boyle was far off, lounging at the corner of New Scotland Street to the discomfiture of a gang of youths who had been planning some mischief or other and thought that the copper, whom they recognised at once, had been sent to put paid to it.

Craig adjusted his pace. He felt a strange compulsion to leg it to Ottawa Street, to blurt out his suspicions to Sergeant Drummond or Mr Affleck. They would, without doubt, take him seriously, would bring down a squad and surround the pawnshop, back and front, would send in a couple of burly Highlanders, experts in raids of this nature. But if he was wrong, if he had mistaken the signs, then he would be a laughing-stock, a joke – and if he was right he would only have a marginal share in the glory of Malone’s capture.

Craig dabbed his brow under the brim of his helmet. He was sweating slightly.

Boyle had faded away from the New Scotland Street corner. The man would be trying to get ahead of him, to out-guess him. At any time he could give the pair the slip, be off on his own. Before they could report back to Percy Street or to Hector Drummond, he, Craig Nicholson, could make the nab, could take the dangerous fugitive single-handed. His name would be in the newspapers. He would be famous again, properly famous this time.

It was not logical to make decisions in such a manner. Nonetheless Craig did not turn his steps towards Ottawa Street. He slowed his pace, let Rogers come in sight behind him and, leading both watchers, strolled along the back of Brunswick Street, scrupulously avoiding the proximity of Joseph’s shop, and headed for the café.

Craig gave a little nod to himself.

If Danny Malone was hidden inside the pop-shop then he had nothing to fear until nightfall; and when Danny emerged from his hiding-place at or after dusk, when Danny came out to search for him, Danny would be in for a shock.

She had fallen asleep upon the bed. When she awakened the pain had started up again and it was raining. A wind had sprung up and raindrops pattered against the glass and the sky seemed greyer than she had ever seen it before.

She sat up.

It must be near nightfall. She had slept for hours. She did not feel refreshed. She felt sick. She put her hands to her breasts. She could feel them throbbing, or so she thought, to match the throbbing in her loins. When she swung her legs from the bed she was seized by pain again and, without hesitation, dragged herself to the kitchen and took her coat and hat from the peg on the door.

It did not occur to her to cross the landing and summon help from the Pipers, though she could hear the strains of a chanter and the
rub-a-dub-dub
of drumsticks on a practice board from behind their door. She had forgotten that the Walkers would be on guard at the close entrances, did not notice that they had not yet come out for their evening stint. She got herself downstairs and into the fresh air. She stood uncertainly at the pavement’s edge, looking this way and that.

Canada Road was busy. The growl of traffic from Dumbarton Road sounded heavy and threatening. Rain peeled out of invisible cloud and gas-lamps hissed on their poles. She fumbled in her purse, searching again for the address of the midwife. Somehow the concentrated effort seemed to push the pain away for a minute or two, allow nausea to recede. She was better, felt better. She sucked air into her lungs and blew it out. Her breath made a cloud, raindrops flickeringly visible in it.

Graham Boyle loped past her, head down, without a word. He vanished into the close of No. 154.

Kirsty whirled. ‘Graham, tell—’

The boy had gone.

She looked up. Drops splashed against her cheeks. There were lights in all the windows, even bedrooms. She felt as if the tenement would fall on her. She put her hand on the lamp-post to steady herself. She did not feel sick any more but she did not feel at all herself. She wanted Craig. She felt angry that he was not with her, would not be home for hours. How many hours? She could not tell. He was out chasing a bad man with ‘our lot’. She could not hold that against him, could not demand an unfair share of his attention. Baby-making might be a man’s business but bearing through to labour was a woman’s job.

She remembered that she had not found the slip of paper with the midwife’s address on it. She remembered that she had been warned not to leave the sanctuary of her house. She frowned. She experienced a startled fear of the pedestrains that thronged Canada Road, girls and boys, men and women all coming and going like ants about a nest. Hurry-scurry, pell-mell. She sucked in another deep breath. She was out now. Nobody had even noticed. She was in the high end of Canada Road within sight and earshot of a hundred good folk. Surely she would be safe enough among them if Daniel Malone threatened her.

She pushed herself away from the lamp-post and took a few tentative steps. When she walked it did not hurt so much. She had a vague fevered notion that she might find the midwife’s house even without an address to guide her; yet she turned away from Greenfield west and headed instead along familiar roads that would take her to St Anne’s, to Walbrook Street and Mrs Frew.

When she realised where she was going Kirsty paused and sighed. She felt sudden relief that she had escaped from No. 154, from the strain of waiting for Craig, for wanting what she could not have from him, his time and attention. Common sense, revived by the cold wet air, was guiding her towards the one place where she would be sure to find comfort, consolation, perhaps even love.

Hands pressed to her side, she quickened her step.

Behind her, unseen, a man slipped from the shadows, a large man, clearly a gentleman, in frock coat, tile hat and patent leather boots.

In his left hand he carried an American travelling-bag of nut-brown hide; in his right, hidden in the folds of his sleeve, a carving-knife with a slender ten-inch blade.

The pawnbroker began his arduous journey only seconds after Malone left the shop. Old Joseph did not suppose that Malone would return. He had no reason to return. With luck he would never see the evil devil again, except perhaps if he was summoned to appear in a witness-box and give testimony against him. He would do that cheerfully, would help send the bastard to the gallows if he possibly could. For tonight, however, Danny Malone was on the streets and he, Joseph McGhee, was alone once more in his darkened shop.

The ropes were made of mock silk, ties stripped from dressing-robes that Malone had found on the racks. He had knotted them expertly and very tightly and had bound not only Joseph’s wrists but his arms to the chair-back. Ankles and knees were strapped to the chair’s legs with luggage belts and a ball of crepe paper had been stuffed into his mouth and fastened there with a lady’s scarf. Joseph did not dare utter more than a gurgle in case he swallowed the sodden paper ball and choked to death on it. That possibility worried him more than the loss of blood to his fingers and toes, a constriction that would do permanent damage if he had to endure it all night long. Even so, if Danny Malone had told him a lie, had said that he was simply ‘on the run’ and intended to bolt across the border in disguise then he, Joseph, might have sat it out. Danny, however, had told him the truth – and the truth sent a cold shiver down Joseph’s back.

‘How do I look?’

‘You look fine, Danny, just like a toff.’

‘Think they’ll know me?’

‘Your own mother wouldn’t know you.’

‘It’ll have to do for a while. All I need is to get to Canada Road without bein’ recognised.’

‘Canada Road?’

‘Where he lives.’

‘Who?’

‘Nicholson; the bastard who sent me up.’

‘I – I heard he was in the police now.’

‘Aye, he’s a bloody copper.’

‘Won’t it be difficult to find—’

‘I know where he lives. Besides, if I can’t get him, I’ll take his wife. She’ll do instead.’

‘Danny, she’s got nothin’—’

‘Shut your mouth, McGhee.’

‘I only said—’

‘Want your throat slit?’

‘Is that – Danny, is that my carvin’-knife?’

‘Aye. Do ye want a taste o’ it?’

‘I think I’d rather not, thanks.’

‘Then shut your bloody mouth an’ keep it shut.’

It was at that point, with rage simmering in Malone again, that Joseph decided on his own particular plan. He had lied to Malone about the copper; Nicholson would be around to check the Pledge Book without fail. Danny had locked the front door behind him – what had he done with the key? – but had not been patient enough to put up the gate and bar.

Aye, Danny was not half so clever as he thought himself to be. Either that or he had lost some of his brains in Barlinnie. If he had been really smart he would have put up the gate and taken down the notice and would have made sure that the chair itself was roped to something heavy, that he, Joseph, could not, by a racking contortion, inch it forward towards the counter.

By God, but it was tiring; a long, long journey across the back shop towards the counter and the grille.

He arched his back, using muscles that had been inactive for years, thrust out his chest like a pouter pigeon, and did a little dance with his feet. He gained an inch at a time, and rested. He performed the movement again. He rested.

There was the usual clamour outside, voices, cart wheels, the clatter of hoofs. Some of the factories and the foundry day-shift disgorged at six o’clock. Others would not pour out until seven; sounds he had heard for thirty years and had never really listened to before. He listened tonight, though, straining his ears for the rattle of the door-handle, his eyes inquisitive for sight of some figure outlined against the faint yellowish light that seeped in from the street.

New-wakened from a long day’s nap in her nest in a crib behind the racks, Tiggy gave a tiny mew. He could see her squatting on the counter-top, splinters of light in her green eyes.

He had rested enough. He surged his body forward, lifting and dragging the chair. He surged once more. He must make the counter before Nicholson arrived at the door. He could not entirely count on Nicholson’s intelligence, on the constable’s curiosity. In fact, now that he thought of it, if there was a hue and cry out for Malone Nicholson might not be on duty at all.

He stopped. He gagged on the paper ball. He got it with his tongue and managed to push it forward in his mouth to free his breathing. In lulls in the growl of traffic he could hear the clock ticking away the minutes. He closed his eyes for a moment. It had been a very wearing day. He resisted the temptation to rest. He did not have far to go, really, ten or twelve feet at most.

Joseph was still some three feet short of the counter when somebody rattled the door-handle and, seconds later, called out his name.

‘
McGhee, are you in there
?’

It was not a man’s voice, not the constable.

‘
I’ve a bloody nice vase here but you’re no’ gettin’ it ’less ye open up right now
.’

At that point the pawnbroker’s patience snapped. He ached in every muscle and had lost faith in the exactness of his original plan. Somebody was at the door now and he felt impelled to take a chance that they would hear him. He craned forward, rocked, pulled the rear legs of the chair clear of the floor and, as intended, brought his forehead crashing down on to the big metal keys of the till.

The cash-drawer shot out and struck him on the mouth and the till bell
spanged
loudly. Caught by surprise poor Tiggy leapt from the counter and whisked away into hiding with a wail like a banshee.